Morning after the latest atrocity
In mourning for Renee Nicole Good
The police are murdering people in their cars.
And it’s still a beautiful day.
The cops are kicking over memorials.
And I still feel the wind on my face.
The chants are getting louder,
I can almost hear them across the continent.
I squeeze my baby even closer.
When the bough breaks, the illusion drops.
The masked men show their teeth, their leer,
the hate in their eyes.
You thought this couldn’t happen in America.
It can happen anywhere.
And still, it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
My neighbors put packages on porches
as gifts for strangers.
Mr. Rogers taught me to be kind to everyone.
Even the scowling man with the racist flag
who looks at me sideways?
A local Nazi overdosed after
the Internet saw his face.
But I didn’t feel happy about it.
I’m not sure if there’s a peaceful way
to end things. When this country’s veins
are so thick with violence.
Still, it’s a beautiful day in my neighborhood.
And millions of protesters are on the march.
Because a woman was murdered
by federal thugs last night.
It’s a clear, crisp morning
with the sun shining bright.
My dog sniffs and pees, and his joy is mine.
Meanwhile, terrorists in uniform raid our streets.
And the birds chirp as always in the trees.
Amateur soldiers chug the poison of power,
getting off on the sick and twisted force
of oppression in their weapons.
A cat slinks around bushes
while ICE agents sow fear in combat gear.
There was a murder in cold blood yesterday,
a murder in broad daylight,
and the murderer is still able to enjoy
this beautiful day today
when she no longer can—
because a woman died yesterday
who was a wife, a poet, a mother,
whose six-year-old son
won’t have her cheek to kiss tonight,
and when he cries to know why
he will have to grow up without her,
well, then, the official lies begin
to swirl, they smoke, they shroud
the murderer in bile, the liars lie to themselves,
the television-newspaper-government lies
choke on their own bullets,
three to the head, in close range,
as she tried to escape, her spouse
screaming, blood on the seat,
and the circle of armed soldiers
yelling, pointing their guns,
on a beautiful cloudless day.
© Nancy Lynée Woo
Nancy Lynée Woo is a poet, teaching artist, and community organizer in Long Beach, California. She is the author of I’d Rather Be Lightning (Gasher Press). IG: @fancifulnance
******
The Shocking, but Inevitable Death of Good
From his golden descent, he spewed forth hate—
Purveyor of simplicity most foul,
He sold society a false mandate.
Proud kids stood by for him, all cheek-to-jowl.
The fourth estate caved for the bottom line.
The sanctity of Congress was befouled.
A decade past we should have seen the signs.
Now, to masked thugs with guns, we all fall prey,
While from the muck, King Midas shapes his shrine.
Jackboots invade our cities every day,
And parents dare not send their children out,
While no one can muster the joy to play.
How long must we sit silent in time-out?
Our necks, compressed as their despotic knee
Suppresses the sounds of our mingled shout.
Cries of defiance or of the banshee—
Lamenting losses so beyond belief
While oligarchs coast through life carefree.
A people reel back, filled with disbelief,
As unlearned goons take lives they cannot lead—
Protestors gather in collective grief.
Words of peace unmanned police.
Mother, may he take your life with his fear?
Her gentle words—a whipcrack in the air.
Her gentle soul did not have a prayer,
But her senseless death shall be our spear.
“I’m not mad at you,” she declared to him,
Better woman than I shall ever be.
A future enforced by them shines but dim,
Yet like her, we must protest peacefully.
She blew a whistle at their guns, so brave.
But they come not to serve, but to enslave.
A match was struck upon a snowy street,
Anger at injustice begins to swell.
The bullets he fired become bombshells,
Everywhere, good people rise to their feet.
United, we resist the dark regime.
Whether opportunist or devotee,
So the shadows part to unveil their scheme,
Tyranny cannot force us to bended knee.
Like burning stars, we radiate with light
To rid our shores of their unstately blight.
And so the match she lit ignites the torch,
A beacon to all those who would be free.
Their time in power nothing but the scorch
Left after our return to liberty.
© Hattie Quinn
Hattie Quinn writes short fiction, narrative essays, and poetry. She's a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. A multipotentialite, she currently works in broadcast media.
******
Haiku for Renée Good
Renée Good did not
come home yesterday. ICE killed
her. Join the protest.
© Stephanie Barbé Hammer
Stephanie Barbé Hammer is an award winning poet, novelist and essayist who has been published in the Chiron Review, The RavensPerch, and Spillway among other places. Her most recent poetry collection is CITY SLICKER (Bamboo Dart Press). She lives in Santa Barbara with her husband, community organizer Larry Behrendt.
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