Elisabeth Frischauf

AT FIRST AVENUE AND 97TH STREET

summer comes to an end.

Bright, cold night.
Another body falls.
Slumps against dull white brick wall
beneath Orion’s dagger, high in Autumn’s sky.

Racial mishmash, brown fleck eyes, sunken
stare startled—the moon, a blue one on its rise.
Shrunken, patched Brooks Brother’s suit—
label inviolate white sticks out stark
next to a hand frozen in surprise.
Tabby licks a lone leftover chicken bone, still
in its container. Apple Watch, broken. Star
of David yanked from a chain around the neck
and stuffed into the only nostril—other sliced away—
knife fight. Long ago. Tooth stumps sport
bits of meat; one lone incisor, like a sentinel
standing at attention beams beyond the outraged
mouth. Lots of cheap rum had fun down there.

Ambulance flashes by. Parks in a pool of light down the block.
Body silent on the street; detective on his beat,
Who, what, why? Shakes his head.

Manhattan’s East River slapslaps slow.
Unusual quiet on this street.

Looks about 35, detective says.
A passing EMT on his way to work,
stops, shrugs, being helpful says—
Yeah, he’s a regular at our ER.
Goes by Bonco. Homeless. A gent.
Always with a ready smile.
Always got me, that one gold tooth.

Blood pool, hardened, viscous gel below the abdomen.
Leaked down the legs. Formed a cushion
round his nobbled knees. So much blood
for such a thin man.

Cushions his shrunken butt—
so much unexpected cushioning
for his passing.

That's the stabber’s choice, lower abdomen, senior detective
explains to second-in-command.
Seen a series lately. He’s the third so far;
this one’s the most bizarre.

Rounds the body inside the yellow tape corral.
May be some DNA on the star.
Hands his second the items to be bagged.
They don’t spend a lot of time.

5’6” male—appears older than stated age—
the language on the the label that will flap
around his feet in the morgue.


Elisabeth's YouTube reading of "At First Avenue and 97th Street"


Elisabeth confesses: "I created a character from a patient I attended at Metropolitan Hospital, located at the title’s address The writing challenge, a crime scene in brief, inspired me to construct the back story. Our society tolerates so many homeless folk, stories unknown, disregarded, vulnerable to murder and other death."

ELISABETH FRISCHAUF, physician, storyteller, and visual artist, writes poems for today’s world: technology, environmental concerns, memory, relationships in a variety of forms and has two published full-length memoir books in verse. Frischauf lives on a small plot of land north of New York City. Both places inspire her.

Tom Docherty

A DIFFERENT CASH DISPENSER

He sat in the bus shelter waiting
As usual it wasn’t on time
He’d gone through his facebook and tik tok
And everyone seemed to be fine

He glanced around aimless and bored
Just thinking of something to do
People were using the cash machine
He wished he could take some out too

A car stopped outside the bank
Two guys wearing masks rushed inside
They both carried sawn off shotguns
Plain and open with no thought to hide

A loud report rang from the bank
And soon the two thieves reappeared
They clutched several sacks. Was it cash?
The sound of a police siren neared

Their car started moving quite fast
A hand scattered cash from a window
Bank notes just covered the road
The teenager needed no intro

He leapt from the shelter with speed
The money was blowing away
He gathered as much as he could
And legged it without a delay


Tom's YouTube reading of "A Different Cash Dispenser"


Tom confesses: "As I walked down my local High Street, I noticed a young lad standing in the opening of a bus shelter across the road from a cash machine. He looked obviously bored and was enviously watching people withdrawing money. I had the thought of the only was he was ever likely to get his hands on some cash."

On retirement TOM DOCHERTY gained a Creative Writing degree, writing poetry, prose, and scripts ever since. He has achieved hard and online publications In his spare time he makes walking sticks and shepherd’s crooks. He lives in rural Clydesdale and likes to walk the hills and mountains of Scotland and Austria.

Kevin Scheepers

FUMATA BIANCA - SURRENDER

Didn't earn much. But he was earnest.
In his efforts. To negotiate with a simpleton.
Still an extinguished gentleman. When it came to piercing the epidermis.
Liquid cocaine. Slithered into a known vein.
While the cold blade. Slid through like an old flame.
Bullet. Fueled by propane. Not fooled by the codename.
Profound fables. Spun. At the roundtable discussions.
Pie dividends. Had fatal repercussions.
Local dissidents. With shocked countenance.
Smiled widely. Watching the sanguine wound leak.
Cherubs with rosy cheeks. Cherish the cherry-picked.
Morning light garish. So downed the sherry. Very quick.
Tricked. Into a nightmarish. State of parish politics.
Panic made him sick. Don't perish. Before abolishment.
Heart made of bricks. Head full of holes.
Fumata nera. There shall be no king.


Kevin's YouTube reading of "Fumata Bianca - Surrender"


Kevin confesses: "This poem was inspired by the gang culture and violence prevalent in my local community, the insidious dynamics it entails, and how it ultimately ends badly for all involved."

KEVIN SCHEEPERS is a 28-year-old man from Pretoria, South Africa. He completed an MSc in Biotechnology in 2023, but always maintained a personal interest in the written arts, particularly poetry. His work has previously been published in Audience Askew and is soon to be published in Harrow House Journal and Academy of the Heart and Mind.

Anonymous

THE HIGH COST OF SAVINGS

The Department of Government Efficiency
calls it streamlining,
cutting fat from the bone—
but the marrow ran the systems.

Now the portal stalls,
error messages
pile up like heavy winter snow.

Cut the fraud team,
fire the inspectors who root out fraud, waste, and abuse,
cancel phone appointments,
close offices, change rules—
then gasp as the flood waters rise.

All in the name of savings—
but send the bill
to those who wait for sustenance payments,
who lose their homes
because a keystroke
no one was left to type
never happened.

The president flies
to his own resorts—
security swarming, motorcades humming—
calls it official,
charges it to the people.
Green fees as policy.
Hundreds of millions
sunk into his own sand traps.

Let’s call a watchdog a dog,
rename it the Office of Government Inefficiency—
barks and bites,
sniffing around,
pissing on the real work.

DOGI tears the fat from the bone,
cracks it open to suck out the marrow,
until nothing is left
but billionaire tax cuts
paid for by supporting fools
sinking in the sand traps.


YouTube reading of "The High Cost of Savings"


Anonymous confesses: "As a civil servant who has survived a few decades of shifts from one administration to another, no other has been as recklessly destructive as this one. And DOGE was on the front lines. In their supposed efforts to root out fraud, waste and abuse, they fired the Inspector Generals and entire departments dedicated to enhancing efficiencies. Past administrations have done questionable things. This one has been downright criminal."

The author is a federal worker who has been a civil servant for more than 30 years and who wishes to remain ANONYMOUS due to the way the current administration is treating federal workers who criticize or speak out about their actions.