Daily Archives: June 21, 2017

For them all by Rang-Zeb Rango Hussain

I am not a silent poet

For the Refugees who have lost their all,
For the Homeless who are abandoned,
For the Forsaken who have no one,
For the Voiceless who go unheard,
For the Loveless who grieve for trust,
For the Dead who perished in poverty’s fire,
For the Orphans who dream no more,
For the Betrayed who died far from home,
For Humanity in a time of mass poison.

for them all

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Around by Gale Acuff

I am not a silent poet

Why do I want to see the world before
I die? It’s not like I’ll be able to
enjoy it later, when I’m stuck in one
place and can never leave, unless my soul
can split my body and wander where it
pleases, and even then, how will it be
able to touch the things it’s missed in life?
I can’t go anywhere without getting
in trouble anyway. At 44
I had to go to China–China–for
a year to teach English; I left Texas
independent. I returned–to Baton
Rouge, Louisiana, taught for one term.
Two weeks into that I knew I had to
go back to China, where I spent three years.
My mother lives in California–from
Shanghai I flew to visit her, then off
to Georgia, a few weeks with my brother.
I almost take a job in Alabama
but turn it down to come to Palestine.

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Mafioso Pizza by Joe Balaz

I am not a silent poet

Soon aftah I wen move
into da new neighborhood

I walked around wun corner to see
wun catchy sign above wun storefront window—

Mafioso Pizza.

 Next to da name of da joint

wuz wun depiction
of wun 1930s Chicago style gangster.

Da character wuz wearing
wun fedora and wun suit

and he wuz smiling
while he wuz holding wun tommy gun.

Da caption on da bottom of da sign
read “There’s no crime in killing your hunger.”

One of my friends did tell me

dat dis West Side area wuz moa rougher
den wheah I used to live.

At least da owner of da pizzeria
had wun sense of humor.

Den again
it’s not as crazy as da East Side of town.

Cleveland’s police
and some suspect bad guys

recently took it
to wun new kine height ovah deah.

Law enforcement
responded to wun high speed car chase


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Seep and Drip by Joe Balaz

I am not a silent poet

His body engines stay roaring

and he’s ready foa take flight

cause all his cells have been altered

and da damage is in sight—

Da reluctant passenger

going crash slowly

into wun invisible fireball.


and cancerous consequences

going be talking in present tenses

wen all da doctors do dere tests

and find wun tragedy in da results.

Dis unfortunate situation

could be coming down da road

cause people going find out

wat has been happening.

Da average person on da street

might be one of many

who has been drinking

traces of aviation juice

witout knowing it.

Undahground at Red Hill

da military got wun massive storage system

dat wuz built just above

wun important aquifer.

Da large tanks wuz leaking jet fuel foa years

and now da public going get wun huge surprise.

At da hearing

wun spokesmen foa da Navy

wants to sweep everyting

undah wun bamboo…

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Anti-gay pogrom in Chechnya by Stefanie Bennett

I am not a silent poet

And I will love you because
the world never did.
And I will cloak you in syllables
to  keep inquiring eyes at bay.
And I will cover our footprints
so daringly
that no-one will ask,
ever again,
for a sequel to love and loveliness.
And you will love me because
the world never did.
Because the gentleness of fortitude
is a hard act to follow.
And we will scrape up
our worldly ruins
to begin building this
hectare of the heart
cupped between the planet’s breast.
Know that the quiet doctrines will be
as fragile
as your face.
The direction…
clear as a single birdcall
across the idioms
of free space.
In a land where
no wall stands we will
meet and set our lives to the order
of metaphysical things.
We will love because
the world never did; and
give back
what was never taken

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The Chill: Boko Haram by Stefanie Bennett

I am not a silent poet

Analytically, outside
the city limits
‘The Age
Of Reason’
is deterred.  *
Thus… here’s
to the cat
that sat
in a school-house
none sought
to assemble.
(*Chibok, Nigeria)
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel & a libretto. She has
been nominated for The Pushcart & Best of the Net & acted as a publishing editor;
tutored at The Institute of Modern Languages [James Cook University] & worked with
Arts Action for Peace. Of mixed ancestry (Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee) she was
born in Queensland, Australia. ‘The Vanishing’, Stefanie’s current poetry title –2015-
is available from its publisher Walleah Press & Amazon.

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Mid-Summer • and Winter

Parallel Oonahverse

I don’t think I have ever been more sad or angry over events as this past couple of weeks. I’ve tried to stay rational and calm. I’ve written a couple of poems to let off some steam not to raise awareness — awareness isn’t really a problem but steam is. And it’s HOT and people aren’t being looked after by the people who are supposed to SERVE communities. It seems as if hatred stalks the streets and indifference has hands in some very deep pockets.
Only words
They do not serve who rule
both are in I’m not a Silent Poet.
One feels helpless.

In the meantime Bewildering Stories’ Editors once again chose to include my work in their Quarterly Review
Not for the Weak and Do Not Hurry, Do Not Rest 
It’s a poem that reminds me of my oldest brother(right) Thomas Arthur Kyle who died, aged 82 this…

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Racism, like any Root Vegetable, is Grown in the Dirt by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I am not a silent poet

In grade school

my best friend Freddy

was from Nicaragua

and even though he was two years older

then us

and set back in grades

the bullies used to try beat him up

all the time

as the other kids circled around

shouting: kill the brown kid!

the groups of girls forever curious

but thinking of their fathers

and Freddy was older and faster and stronger

and would often get the better of

the bullies

so that the parents would demand

the removal of the foreign kid

who came from violence

and did not know


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Beat a Child, You Have a Drum by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I am not a silent poet

The last thing I want

is to be stored away in some university library

after it all –

dusty and neglected

forgotten on some top shelf of nowhere

afraid of heights

ever since my parents threw me down

the stairs

when I was eight months old

trying to make the crying stop I would imagine

after many weeks of sleeplessness,

first time parents explaining away the many bruises

I must live with


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