By Ali Ashhar

Daffodils and tulips in the garden

bloom with the essence of pride

yielded with sprinkles of sacrifice and blood

stemmed from the courage

of withstanding the storms and harsh weathers

cherished and nurtured

by the breeze of fraternity around.

By Madeline McConico

I remember when dad had his hands

around my mother’s neck. Her back

pressed into the kitchen sink. The sound

of water running.

Wishing more than anything that if I

opened my mouth wide enough, and

breathed deeply, that I might be able to

pull air into both of our lungs—

By Stephen Mead

Keep headlights off in case of snipers

while hopefully the engine's hum blends with the summer cicada drone.

Those groves under moon could be the gothic beauty of vineyards still

mixed with bushes of sumac and other vegetable fields

of any Romania which could even be in Vermont now

that authoritarianism has gone global

where all-so-right religions claim that to be against Fascism

is traitorous every here where they said

the dystopian could not possibly ever happen.

By James A. Quadra

Sunrise breaks through the morning dew

Bright gentle warmth replaces

the cold dark nights of our past

Wings flutter

A stream ripples

And a soft breeze whispers

A song of endless possibilities.

By Cruz Villarreal

Windshield wipers, back and forth,
back and forth,
a metronome of tidiness,
back and forth, back and forth.

Mechanical order—
makes it easy to see
despite the rain.

Autopilot behind the wheel, behind more wheels.

I look out the window to a common sight.

By Zack Davies

Summer. The tarmac bakes,

captive, dry and black.

Gnarled posts hang chains

beside the gangway track.

Who owns this land?

John Hawkins, reads the sign.

Here down to the low-tide sand,

John Hawkins, it is thine.

By Cruz Villarreal

Frosted windows, Christmas carols, and children all nestled snug in their beds, while visions of sugarplums danced in their heads—but me, I never celebrated Christmas as a child. I’m not sure I really celebrate it now. I have no colorful tree or neatly wrapped gifts nestled beneath green boughs. However, I am keenly aware of its significance, cordial on the subject, and enamored with a season that centers on giving. Yet, confused over the controversy it seems to generate between those that lay sole claim to its meaning, and those like me who meld it into something of their own choosing, but there was a time, when it didn’t matter at all.   

Then migrant life brought me to Michigan, and I entered school. Besides learning my ABCs and tying my tattered shoes, I was introduced to Christmas and the gift giving Santa. The introduction was more of an immersion into a world of school holidays, but the holiday that stood out the most was Christmas.    

Lyrics By Paul R. Abramson

chorus (spoken word)

not sure if i made it clear
i don’t suffer fools gladly
forgive this intrusion, if ya can
an’ try hard - not to fight me

verse (spoken word)

yeah, sang that song each morning
right after the lord’s prayer
land of the free, home of the brave
can’t believe i was so unaware

the blistering whip, and the noose
people hanging from trees
how much worse can it get?
from a country claims to be free

By Madeline McConico

1. It starts off small. Like, racism is bad. Noticing your mom has darker skin. Grateful you don’t. It starts with washing your face. Scrubbing, scrubbing, as you think of your dad saying, shug, you’ve got to keep your face clean because you’ve got brown skin. It starts with locking the door in the morning, using soap so your eyes sting, rubbing the filth away.

2. It sounds like her deep breathing. Sarah, the pastor’s daughter sits next to you and breathes so you have to notice. She asks you how you deal with it. The racism, the prejudice. There are these boys in my hall, and they keep calling me white girl. I hate it, she told you. You don’t understand why she feels you are an expert in her pain. You feel an aching warmth in your stomach. Your head hurts. You tell Sarah to pray about it. It’s still small. Racism. But now it’s small and it breathes. Makes it harder for you to—

By Bud Sturguess

I captained 83 feet of the Clotilda

I drew 13 stars on the Stainless Banner

I put a chain on Emmett's body

(I call him Emmett – I know him well enough)

I did all these things

when I grew silent

300 pounds of rust

bathed in the glow

of the 6 o'clock news

By Osaze Osayande

Brett Story's film, The Prison in 12 Landscapes, confronts one with the consequences of our present-day Prison Industrial Complex without ever taking the viewer within the walls of a prison. The film effectively challenges conceptual ideologies of where the grasp of the carceral system ends and highlights how prisons have discretely influenced a plethora of aspects of our society. The film challenges the viewer to imagine what our world would look like, independent of the carceral system's influence. In the St. Louis County landscape, viewers watch how the PIC upholds the power of racial capitalism and discriminatory policing, impacting the daily lives of Black Americans far outside of prisons- a theme this zine further explores.

By Stephen Mead

Who cut that hole in this fence of chain link,

gave such a hopeful opening

with any thorny barbs clipped off

so as to not poke, pierce, snag?

That space has the shape of a benevolent womb

and certainly an infant's or small toddler's passage

can be imagined, hands of protective carrying

meeting  a separate pair on the other side.

Here. Go now. Keep safe-----

By Bud Sturguess

A young boy coughs

and sputters something in Spanish

I don't know what he said

Maybe a border word

I only know my words, buzz words

Words to Tweet

By Lew Jones

And the time flew & danced in merriment like new June leaves

New Summer, new river, glimmering starlight in the flowing aqua

Glowing fragrant lilting rosemary dew –colors soon explode into view

I looked for the night I waited for the stars- to hold life in a royal embrace

By Robert Beveridge                                             

A threadbare forest in miniature.

He lines matchsticks up on the tabletop,

counts them out, compares

with the rest of his pack of Mavericks.

Seven of each, maybe a quarter more

if you count the butt he had to stuff

back in the pack because he couldn't

find a trash can.

By Russell Willis

Turns out, I knew it all along.

It was there, and not so deep within.

There, not lurking but waiting.

Waiting to be discovered…no…rediscovered;

knowing that it was true (or false) because,

turns out, I have a conscience.

I knew it even when I tried to ignore it,

pretending it was not, insisting it was not,

shouting that it was not, AND NEITHER ARE YOU!

By S.G. Parker

(Medium Swing)

Birdland. A hot summer night. ‘Move.

Along.’ The white cop tells him. ‘Me?

For what?’ The man is well-dressed. Black.

He points. ‘See that sign up there? Miles

Davis. I’m playing inside—’ BAM!

Split head. ‘You’re under arrest!’ SLAM!

By Cruz Villarreal

Undismissed guilt, put away the hangman’s noose, my mother was dying and there was nothing I could do.

How does a man find redemption for the sins of the boy? He doesn’t. So, I live with regrets. They linger like the smell of rotting debris; no matter how many times I try to disguise the scent, it remains. Regrets over being powerless, regrets over ignorance, and regrets over poverty. I should have stayed home and done more. I ran away because I was tired of our way of life.

I left home at 18. I visit but never stay. Leaving was an attempt to escape misery, something the poor are rarely able to do.

By John Grey

(There was a time, back in the 50’s and early 60’s, when record albums by black artists, especially jazz ones, didn’t feature the performers on the cover. Often, in their place, would be some sultry-looking white woman.)

It's not sex

but a rare jazz record

tucked under the arm

comes close.

Besides,

what girl do I know

could live up to

the pretty white woman

on the cover.

By Stephen Mead

During shelling bodies rain, flood,

become dikes.

The siege seems epidemic.

Is it still the same war?

Water gurgles voices, bears meaning, drizzles up

as fog & the fog

forms blocks.