by Ellie Musgrave

It is possible to love things about life
even in what feels like a slowly
suffocating cavern of darkness,
even when it might seem like
there are more bad things than good.

It is possible to love a swell of greenery
of my favorite part of the park,
at the perfect pre-sunset time
when the low light seems to catch
the delicate spines of leaves aflame –
this love most abundant among the
places I choose to call home.

It is possible to love a righteously good song
that uplifts even in its kitsch,
sending glorious synth triads and
wickedly good guitar arpeggios,
riffs unlike any before it –
this love, too, is possible, even when
it seems to have left the earth.

It is possible to love
and touch the hearts and souls
of others, even from afar; it is
possible to find love where you
least expect it; it is possible to love
and enjoy a languid or fierce romp
with a lover even in states of
what may feel like crippling grief:
getting stoned and laughing about
Mario Tennis on Nintendo 64, or
reading each other poems after
or before too much wine. It is all love,
it is all possible. It is all yours.

It is possible to love what once was
without letting its loss permeate
the joy of what it had been,
and the joy of getting to
experience it again in
memory. I will never again
play the piano on which I
learned to play, but it does
not detract from the time I
spent playing, learning, loving.

It is possible to love and have love left over,
love for yourself, love for other things
not receiving the glory of your
devotion, today. It is possible to
love all things at once – even that
which you might never stop to pay
attention to; you might never say out
loud, “I love the neon signs on
Flatbush in the rain,” or “I love the
long shadows on Scholes at sunset,”
especially if you’re not
looking at it right then and there –
you can carry that love around
in your subconscious and let it
surprise you when it shows up. “Oh,
I love Laura Dern,” after not having
seen her on your TV or phone
or computer for a while.

It is possible and probable that
humans will never know our boundaries
for love – it is possible that
there is so much to love that no
one person will ever get to it all.

It is possible. All is, in fact, full of love.

by Ellen Bilofsky

I wish I knew how to write a poem.
But why would anyone care?
I wish I knew how to capture an image
That would burn a hole in the air.
I wish I knew how to climb out of this hole.
Now that would be something to share.
I wish I knew how to look forward not back;
One scares me, one soaks me in sorrow.
Somewhere inside I have something to say.
Perhaps I’ll find out what it is tomorrow.

Vines

Make no mistake about it,
When a vine gets a foothold, it’s there for good:
Creeping, sneaking, twisting, spreading.
I planted the morning glory for its rich purple blooms,
Not knowing how it would climb up the cucumbers and take over all,
Sprouting in the squash and smothering the dill.

No matter how times I ran
You followed.
Sometimes crying, sometimes soothing,
Sometimes cleaning up my vomit,
Sometimes with a song.
Using my doubts as pathways to “okay.”
Tentacles of vines of love, of time,
To be peeled off, one by one, as others attached.
How could I foreswear the time we hitched up the coast?
Or our calico cat that fell from the window ledge?

Tearing and ripping and running and tripping.

Sometimes you can’t eradicate a vine.
Sometimes you just have to make up your mind to walk away.

by Elizabeth Haak

The quandary of COVID-19 galls me.
Where are the hotspots now?
From day to day, red dots on the map
shift from place to place so fast
even the experts can’t keep track.
“The data are always two or three weeks old,” said one
“And we have a hard time understanding
the reality is already different.”
When we hit milestone numbers–
(More than one million people have died)
My heart plummets on freefall down an abyss.
Will I ever come up to breathe air without a mask?
Will I ever stoop down to let a child whisper a secret in my ear?
When will I let go of my perplexity:
which anti-virus spray shall I use on what?
did I scrub my hands for 20 seconds?
or just squirt soap and rinse?
The sight of the Covid 19 image
With its diadem of spiky thorns sickens me.
The conundrum of the pandemic escapes the wise.
Only fools have all the answers.

by Deborah Clearman, Workshop Leader

It started with a lockdown
a takedown, a hunker-in.
A line leaping upwise
emptied out the streets
cleared out the skies
rippled birdsong into silence.
Hearts pounded harder, souls dug deeper.
In the eye of the storm eyes glazed over,
screen shot, secrets cracked.

It brought on the pacing,
counting laps, climbing stairs,
counting flights, counting days,
making lists, leaving plans.
Behind the mask the panic, the boredom.
Days turned to weeks, long slog, no destination.
Breathe in, breathe out, listen to the clock tick.
Order in, take out, break the humdrum with a Zoom chat.
This is how it started.

Protest

Helicopters, sirens
No cheer at night
No neighbor waves
When we all should be cheering
Lockdown to end
Together in the fight
Nine Minnesota minutes
No end in sight
Original sin
Stains our soul
A knee on a neck
A knee to bow down
My country is broken
My city in flames
Blue against black
Rage against white
The curse of my skin
Original sin
Where will it end?
Hit the streets! Eat the rich!
I’ll take the first bite
One foot steps forward
Two steps back
Scrawled on a wall
Breathe
Hope

Inbox

I click through the list:
packing our bags
delete
giving up now
delete
screaming
delete
he NEVER saw this one coming
it’s finished OVER
delete
stunning prediction
delete
breaking news
delete
EMERGENCY NOTIFICATION
LOSING IT
delete delete delete.

How can I not be losing it?
numbers are going up
it’s all going to fade away
crowds are burning masks
gathering in the temples
atifa antifa Proud Boys militias
police chief says prepare for violence
winter is coming on.

It’s gotten much worse
delete
this is serious
delete
okay don’t freak out
delete
flashing across my screen
a hundred times a day
politicians shrieking alarms.

This is what is going down
in the halls of power
I turn the radio off
I fold the newspaper up
waiting out this moment.
This is the way democracy dies
this is the way democracy dies
delete delete delete.

by Danie Brawand

Heaven: Queers, unicorns,
Marsha P. Johnson, cats,
sex workers.

Hell: Judgement, shame,
dogma, cat litter.

On dull-drum days, I look for rhythm.
The raindrop’s kiss hits the cheek of a man
passing by. He wipes it
as a child does his mother’s lipstick,
except the bashfulness is replaced
by a furrowed brow in a distant place.
He isn’t here with his hand
or the gentle touch of his mother.

I love to watch the riders wait for the train.
Their modern dance configured
with pacing the platform, circling hands
in conversation, bright lights of phones
setting the stage.

I am not a contemporary man. I want
less for individuality and specificity
than I do for romance.
I’m not a romantic, either – less interested
in the light of heaven, more curious
about the shadow’s relationship to it.

If holy were a name I could call
I would press it upon grief.
Would shower it on the ones that choose
to feel it. I would tend to my curling toes
pulling at nothing but a bit of calm
beneath the fear of speaking.

Holy is the untouched forest
and the wrapper gliding down the street.
Holy is “other”
Holy is together
Holy is no.
Holy is I’ll try it this time
Holy is cleverness and doubt
Holy is no heaven,
no hell.

Passing By

Leaves paint edges of streets,
a soft scatter or voluptuous mound.
Branches laid bare don’t shiver at snow,
hold place as anchor to catch sky’s pirouette.

A mother grips the armchair,
hand clutching, she smells the soot
and looks for her son
beneath the flashes of fire
raging beyond the television.

I remove the armor of honor
and display shifts. A sullen face,
a grin, a heaviness in eyes.

We are the practiced chaos most days –
the sweeping flakes and shifting leaves,
the droplets sliding across a rearview mirror,
acrobats of evolution. Pretending we are
measured, imagining stillness
to avoid knowing the leaves will fray
and become fickle as paper
edged with flame.

I do not care to envy the trunk,
to pretend steady as if it were
more civil. I do not imagine myself anchor,
do not wish to claim mountain is better
without wind and fire,
do not pretend decay isn’t rich
as loose soil held
in the pocket of garden.

Worry will tug at our roots.
A longing for elsewhere,
which is to say – a longing
to stay the same.
But I see just as the ocean,
it will certainly sway.

A Name for Sorrow

I tried to give sorrow a name.
Perhaps it’s a different one for each of us.
Some call it Lou…
they grasp at it
in the empty field of numbness
staring out as it holds steady
in dark night sky. Out of reach,
elusive and still, a visible hope.

A friend named it Constantine:
a weighted blanket
curling over her shoulders,
soft and constant,
slow and heavy.

My father calls it Other,
stares it down with tight-shouldered disdain,
unaware he’s looking into a mirror
at furrowed brow and suspicious heart.

My mother calls it Chipper,
tosses it in her mind
until it’s fragmented.
She’s constantly cleaning
to keep sawdust
from reaching her heart.

My brother calls it Devil.
Sees flame and spits ash
when I bring it close.
He scrubs his hands
with holy water compulsion,
they’re too dry to remember touch.

My people call it Nectar,
transfer it to one-another
knowing it’s part of flower’s bloom.

As an adolescent, I called mine Darling,
kept it tucked beneath my heart.
Little finch with a broken wing,
a tenderness to protect.

I am learning to call it Trust.
Emptiness
makes space for more.

The leafless branch,
a dried up shore,
impermanence seen spacious,
less like Window,
more like Door

by danica pantic

I am well trained to fear. My entire family’s legacy is basically built on fears that they’ve wished to control or squash. They built dreams out of those fears – their greatest accomplishments came out of reacting to a tragedy, which we all knew was coming yet did nothing to prepare ourselves for. Hope was not necessarily encouraged in a culture that had a history of layers of colonial powers laying themselves upon each other over what we now know as the Balkans. That kind of environment trains people to become reactionaries.

I struggle with how to explain any of that to outsiders. The political history is so immensely complicated, most “scholars” shy away from delving into it because it takes too much work to untangle 600 years, 4 empires, 6 religions, 9 ethnicities, and the thousands of political ideologies that swept the region to explain all the violence and chaos that continues to today. The more I learn about both my country’s history, as well as my family’s, the more I see how the two echo – the country’s big turns in fortune and philosophy usually got reflected in my predecessors’ lives. I am I am the last chapter of my family, and I came onto the scene just in time to see Yugoslavia dissolve.

I began this piece by saying that all of my kin have been motivated by fear, and I have no way to prove that. I do have a history, however, of multiple generations in my family who have crafted entire identities out of fighting for one cause or another that was supposedly saving the country from itself, or outside forces. I have photos of my great grandparents in revolutionary militias, and I grew up watching my father and grandfather fight ideologically (in word and action) about the future of the country. On its face, you may argue that they were fighting for their dreams, but in reality each generation would always actively try to undo the previous one’s efforts out of fear that the old guys had just about ruined us all.

by Crystal Valerie Rea

It’s not easy being a star.
The one
everyone wants to be shiny,
to light the way,
sit-up on high,
up here, alone.
The judgment, if you falter,
slant a little crooked…
A little more to the left –
ahem, cough, cough.
The one
set aside
for being the smiley one.
No room for your story ever to be sad.
The need to be pristine.
Judged when a crack
or the slightest imperfection
may arise.
“No,
you don’t say anything.
What could you possibly have to say?
Your job is to be our light.”
It’s not easy being a selected star.
Sometimes when the bulb runs dim,
you get recast as trash.

by Christina Joy

LIKE HER 1.

Noise—bright.
Loud—soft.
Delightful—you are,
Hard, edgy.
Known to be out there.
Known to be foolish in the way you unapologetically blast who you are.
You have my attention
Unintentionally I give it to you.
You demand it.
Never asking gently.
You are strong and draped in beauty.
If you were a face,
it would beam bright like Moses on the mountain after talking to God.
You are rich, textured, luscious.
You are tulips, children, and sunshine.
You are McDonald’s and cheese.
Lemons and pineapples.
You are school buses and tractors.
Lions and cobras.
You are fierce, yet gentle.
You carry communities and dress individuals.
You are here for the young and the old.
You are golden, mustard, neon and pale.
You are
Buzzing,
Purring,
Dreaming,
Swirling,
Leaping,
You highlight and you tame
Yellow is your name.

LIKE HER 2.

Delicate.
She is simply delicate,
the way she rises and falls from a ground that either denounces or fosters her growth.
Beautiful,
She’s so beautiful,
the way she seeks after sunshine like her life depends on it.
Rarely solo,
She enjoys company.
Laughing at rain,
and dancing at noonday.
Her loveliness makes other things lovely
When she’s outside, she doesn’t strut by.
She waits for you to come to her.
She is of the pursued.
She is found even when you weren’t looking for her.
She draws you in but she’s not seductive about it; she’s radiant and captivating.
She is the substance of romance and friendship.
I want to be like her.
Personally, I prefer to see her outside where she belongs.
My mom prefers her indoors,
Sculpted into a fragrant masterpiece sitting on our table.
Sometimes her presence even makes the food taste better
She brightens the home and captures the eyes of many,
Not just for her beauty, but her very essence–her uniqueness.
In a vase, she doesn’t compete for attention.
She loves to champion every flower.
Each one of her friends are very different,
But just as
breathtaking
as she is.
Hence, onlookers usually complement the “flowers,”
not just the “one”.
Together, they are perfect.
I want to be like her
Side by side with others,
basking in the rain and sun,
persistent to try and grow in every kind of terrain,
and adding color to places that otherwise were slightly more dull.
I think if she were an instrument, she would be a piano.
Chords and melodies flowing from the pedals of her being.
She exists to serve.
She lives for every smile she sees as people walk past her. It warms her like the sun.
She provides a landing strip for every buzzing bee that seeks her pollen.
She loves to be a bearer of life,
and takes pride in how she was once just a seed.
She’s a mentor to those still growing,
A friend for those who already have.
She doesn’t fear when she wrinkles and her petals start to leave her.
She’s lived her life to the fullest.
She knows that others will pick up right where she left off,
Uniquely and delicately.
I really … want to be like her.

by Celena Gonzalez

Where do we go?
When do we go?
We know why
Because why not

They say sleep is
The cousin of death
What if it just is?

As infants we wake constantly,
Crying
So too
The Nursing Homes rattle
Awake
With no
Memory

by Carol Foresta

To Workers
Black, Brown, Asian, white
whose sinewy arms
drive harvesters
tractors, trucks
trains, transporting
grains, cheese, milk,
soy, coffee, fruit
feeding families

To Farmers
whose calloused hands
nurture plants
bending boughs
buffeted by winds
tending tornado
flooded fields
fattening cows
slaughtering
squealing pigs
crushing chickens’
feathers flying
barely breathing
turning our needs
for more always more
into reasons for
exploiting our
bottomless hunger

To Migrants
suffering unmasked
still undeterred
picking, plucking, sorting
grapes untainted
under smoky skies
dyed orange an
apocalyptic vision of
hell framing formerly
defined rows of vines
promising paradise
to thirsty tasters

To Builders
creating constructing
houses into homes
bridges into
tribal connectors
stitching various
ethnicities
into crazy quilts
molding cement
tunnels into pathways
linking states,
paving roads,
stringing wires
mixing concrete
packing sand
fighting fires

To Women
worn thin with
rounded shoulders
humbled by effort
faces lined
muscles aching
stressing, straining
barely sustaining
shoulders carrying
history’s weight
stirring story soup
sharing, savoring
immortalizing telling
rescuing revealing deep
scars barely healing
insatiable hunger

To Teachers,
seeking students
questioning minds asking
do Black Lives really Matter?
while knees on necks
bullets in backs facts reveal
unforgotten unforgiven sins
seeds planted in slavery ground
watered by tears of innocence
growing resistance into resilience
creating unstoppable tidal
waves in limitless oceans
tasting revolution
sparks fueling protests
demanding, witnessing, feeding
aspirations, hopes, fears knowing
without justice there will be no peace!