KILLING FIELDS
by Francis Alix

This is not fertile ground
as we know it,
though the grass, ripe with greenness,

and blossoms unfurling on the bush
show us the possibility.
Blood is the fertilizer

keeping this meadow renewed,
land stuck between war and peace
with brutal consequences

for farmer and child
who walk on their homeland won
with piled bodies and truces.

Land mines poised for friend or foe
remain to execute their raison d'etre
forgotten from years of peace, normalcy.

Enemies shrug their shoulders
about their war waste
as if they were only pennies

dropped at the checkout counter,
and accept the reason for birth
is death.

BIG DADDY JOE
by Gary Every

When the Civil War ended there were lots
of newly freed Negroes
who were seeking a better life;
a home of your own,
a nest for a wife,
a sanctuary to raise children.
Some of the first middle class jobs
were on the railroad;
serving as Pullman porters,
graciously serving rich curious travelers.
Railroads, the iron chain which bound the nation from ocean to ocean;
after the nation nearly came apart
from internal strife and war.

Legends spread of the most famous of the porters. Big Daddy Joe was so tall and strong
that he could change upper and lower bunks
at the same time;
flipping each bed with one well muscled arm. Once he lifted a cow catcher,
raising the front end of a locomotive engine
so a mother could whisk her baby
from the tracks
before the wheels could cut her in half.
Once,
out on the vast stretches of the endless plains;
the Indians attacked,
fierce painted chiefs led bands
of Arapaho, Kiowa, and Cheyenne warriors,
charging towards the train.
Big Daddy Joe climbed on top of a passenger car, and began to barter blankets and food
in return for safe trespass.

Imagine,
one of America's first working class heroes
paying for a home to raise his children
(a house he never sees)
by traveling across the nation,
performing good deeds
all across the continent
and his most famous act in battle
was the outbreak of peace.

WATCHING A RIVER FLOW
by Charles Ries

The Third Street river is flowing cool
and slow. It's high and tight on Friday night.

Bum walks by imitating the hype
and clean...but smelling like a bar floor.
He's listening...to something on the
D Battery he's pressed to the side of his head.
It's not a tune--he's not humming.
It's not a prophetic vision--he's not glowing.

Bag lady dances near the dumpster looking like
a helium balloon. She's the gravitational center
of a plastic bag she wears for warmth. A planet stuffed full of bathroom tissue and old newspapers.

She's humming...something too.
In her mind she hears a hit parade.

Damp and 50 degrees doesn't prevent Ms. Candy Cane from showing off 80% of her six foot frame
with only 8% body fat. Her boyfriend looks nervous
holding this long, lanky love stick. Worried she might float away like tissue in a soft breeze.

Bums and bunnies drift past me like minstrels in a
marching band. The river is leading me downstream.