J.H. Johns

THE PEOPLE - THE UNNAMED EX-CON

He said
all the right things
which,
however,
would be hard to verify;

schools attended;
languages spoken;
degrees earned—

all "impressive"
but
hard to substantiate;

a gifted life;
a life of things achieved,
all of which happened
in places far away;

names of countries;
towns;
cities;
schools—

everything that meshed
so flawlessly—

actually,
it was so perfect
that it was imperfect—

too perfect
to be real...


Paul Churchill Mann's YouTube reading of "The People - The Unnamed Ex-Con"


J.H. confesses: This piece is one of dozens that chronicle "The People-" that I have encountered at the Cleveland Clinic Holiday Inn. Almost all of the encounters- at their core -are- content-wise- episodic. This one was not. It was out-of-synch with why this person should be at the hotel."

J.H. Johns “grew up and came of age” while living in East Tennessee and Middle Georgia. Specifically, the two places “responsible” for the writer that he has become are Knoxville, TN and Milledgeville, GA. Since then, he has moved on to Chicago for a brief stint and New York City for a significantly longer stay. Currently, he is “holed up” in a small town where, when he is not writing, he tends to his “nature preserve” and his “back forty.” His goal is to surround his house with all sorts of vegetation so as to obscure it from the gaze of the “locals.”  He is assisted in this task by his coonhound buddy and companion, Roma. J. H. Johns was a Pushcart nominee in 2018.

New Collection by Kate LaDew

Recent contributor Kate LaDew sends word Westbrae Literary Group has published her collection what it feels like to be run over.

Congratulations, Kate.

F.I. Goldhaber

A MATTER OF PRIVILEGE

A few hundred activists --
kidnaped, tormented, abused,
humiliated -- arouse
international outrage,
prosecution threats, sanctions,
investigations, banning
a handful of officials.

But for tens of thousands of
displaced, beaten, raped, tortured,
murdered Palestinians
the world stays silent: turning
deaf ears, blind eyes away from
the countless crimes committed
against natives for decades.

"Western" powers take offense
when Israeli soldiers treat
their citizens as poorly
as Indigenous owners
of the land they occupy
in violation of so-
called international law.

But, every single one of
them ignores, and most support,
ongoing ethnic cleansing
and genocide of peoples
who lived on the land, nurtured
it, built homes, raised families,
grew crops for millennia.

The most egregious offense
which the now-prohibited
politicians are guilty
of is forcing those who are
complicit to confront the
truly repugnant face of
all settlers, occupiers.


F.I.'s YouTube reading of "A Matter of Privilege"


F.I. confesses: As an anti-Zionist Jew, the hypocritical outrage shown by countries who arm Israeli slaughter of Palestinians because IOF soldiers treated their citizens poorly -- but not nearly as despicably as they treat the Indigenous people of the land they illegally occupy -- has been a disgusting display of empire and privilege.

F.I. Goldhaber's words capture people, places, and politics with a photographer's eye and a poet's soul. As a reporter, editor, and business writer, they produced news stories, feature articles, editorial columns, and reviews for newspapers, corporations, governments, and non-profits in five states. Now paper, plastic, electronic, and audio magazines, books, newspapers, calendars, broadsides, and street signs display their poetry, fiction, and essays. Almost 260 of their poems appear in more than 90 publications including What Color is Your Privilege?, their political poetry collection published by Left Fork press. http://www.goldhaber.net/

David Bond

MURDER ONE

The loneliness she felt, watching him leave,
knowing he would be with another woman,

didn't bother her. She remembered how
her body ached after he beat her the night

before. Left in their palace in the country,
she found she could pretend to be happy

while she calmly planned exactly how
and when he was going to die.

Her act was easy to understand when you
live like this. The story floated in the press—

that his death was the result of pure greed—
avoided the terror she felt. His temper could

blow out windows, with guttural sounds that
were almost inanimate in their eerie horrifics.

When the police arrived, the murder scene
had been dusted, as if the wind had found

an excuse to move the downstairs maid
through the room. She was pensive

as she watched them remove his body,
as if she thought destiny had some hope

that he would live forever. The dream felt
for her hand when they led her away.

Time was an enemy to no one that night.
Her innocence, in retrospect, fell dangling

at the side of her ruin. A sinner accused
of killing a saint, her martyrdom went

viral only when it was understood:
her triumph could never be so slight.


David's YouTube reading of "Murder One"


David confesses: I started work on "Murder One" in the 1990s. There were a lot of stories in the press involving wealthy families who had situations that were not all they seemed to be on the surface that ended up with a death and a suspected or confirmed murder. This poem wasn't inspired by a particular situation, but as is often the case with my poems, I just had this line come to me and followed it where it took me.

David Bond is a clinical social worker practicing Individual, Marital and Family Therapy in Montgomery, Alabama. He has had poems published several times in The Sun. He has also had poems published in The St. Andrews Review, Ala-Arts, and Dylan Review, among others.