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.

Chad Parenteau

CUTTING ROOM FLOOR

Someday, maybe
in a country
that lets people
criticize other
countries openly,
there will be
a film featuring
the next Jesse
Eisenberg-type
as a wretched
tech bro with our
Social Security
numbers in a
flash drive mixing
in his pocket
full of Gold Cards
pre-paid in full
for future Trump
voters. We'll get
to witness his
Zack Snyder-style
slo-mo beating
to millions cheering.
But now, future
cheerers, disciples
ready to renounce
their lord on one
half-click of the rack,
with a lack of
irony that burns
film, they scream
Have they killed
Big Balls? Please
tell us Big Balls
is alive! What
in God’s name
happened to Big Balls?


Chad's YouTube reading of "Cutting Room Floor"


Chad confesses: This is my anti-ode for former DOGE employee Edward "Big Balls" Coristine, who was beaten for the sins of his overlords in 2025. This was very cathartic for me, if only momentarily. Save us from dudebros who may never understand the horrible ramifications of their actions.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston’s long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His work has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Crossroads, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The Rye Whiskey Review, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review, and The Ugly Monster. He has also been published in anthologies such as French Connections, Sounds of Wind, Reimagine America, and The Vagabond Lunar Collection. His newest collections are All's Well Isn't You and Cant Republic: Erasures and Blackouts. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine and co-organizer of the annual Boston Poetry Marathon. He lives and works in Boston.

Craig Kirchner

WOUND US ALL

It’s there. It’s still there,
just under, seething, ready to explode,
to rise up, shed the ugly evil laminate
that has slimed over its soul like pond scum.
It wants to rid itself of the rot,
the spineless that represent it,
the inhumanity of the demons pulling the strings,
applying an agent ice that will traumatize for generations.

It’s there. It’s still there,
just below the surface of crassness,
waiting for the wind to blow away the ignorance of cult,
for time to heal the cancer of mindlessness of neighbors.
It will crack the veneer and surface
like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now,
rising from the Nung River covered in mud
and camouflage to get on with his mission.

It’s there, it’s still there,
hoping to win an existential fight with non-violence,
needing sanitizing, a purifying to begin soon,
the crowds to be big enough to win by overwhelming.
It will attempt to cleanse itself, and in so doing
realize you can’t wash away the leprosy of wicked,
it takes decades like chemical burns, to replace
the loss of credibility, allies, respect for one another.

It’s there. It’s still there.
It has a - wound one, you wound us all - attitude,
standing like sphinx in a sandstorm,
waiting for the killing to stop, the pharaohs to go to hell.
Millions will protest to celebrate that it is still there,
that marching, singing, voting, for a divine intervention
of cleansing that can bring us together
out of the muck and grift that is America.


Craig's YouTube reading of "Wound us all"


Craig confesses: "America was a republic with elected officials who cared about the oath they took to uphold the Constitution. That changed. We have a malignant narcissist bombing Iranian school children, a gestapo executing citizens in the streets, and a complicit Congress. America is still there; we need to find it."

Craig Kirchner lives in Florida because that is where his granddaughters are. He loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. Craig houses 500 books in his office and the same number of poems on a laptop; these words help keep him straight. He can be found at Bluesky.