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November 29, 2021 Poems

Welcome to our Poetry Platform.  We are sharing some of our writers’ new poems every Monday.  Thank you for reading and thank you for supporting them in their creative endeavor and Center for New Americans in our welcoming endeavor!



Walk away, don’t run

Stand tall

Be irritated not vengeful

Trust the Spirit’s voice inside

Interrupt and speak, disarm

Bring them down to earth with truth


Know your own strength

Fight for yourself as if for others

Use the existing system’s resources

Like laws, Quakers, white people you can trust

Use current technology

Sell the shadow to support the sustenance.

Ask for help and repay

Speak the truth


Move about freely and purposefully

Walk your talk and keep your feet on the ground.

Speak in the Now for fairness, justice, equity, humility

Believe and speak Truth



CHANGE / Suzann Heron

I know change, change lives in me

Makes itself known when the time is right


Sometimes it creeps up,

without much notice

Other times, the change looks me straight in the eye

and I can’t step around it


Change lingers in the back of my mind and  the crevices of my body

When I wake in the morning,

there’s a little notion,

or, a vague scene tugging at my mind.


Change lives in my heart as a sensation, something to come

I wait,

knowing the steps of change will



Preparation is needed for this time

A time of readying

Fortifying and nurturing myself

Doing all the regular self-care things

enough rest, proper food and water, exercise and outdoors


Spending time in the forest,

helps a lot, for preparation

and support

Making prayers of letting go

and leaning in

for what is to come




rain smudged dawn

came to wake me

your side of the bed


a shambles

why wake

when droplets, cold,


heartless, wash away

what meaning there was

morning now


folded up

and still they are gone

both of them


reluctantly, I release a small breath

pull air in, strength from blue

until something shines


at the window, as if

it mattered, rain seeping through

or not—my soul, bent glass


where did you fly off to

winter is here

don’t make me rise



1969 / Richard H. Fox

—for Thaddeus Clay Jones & Joseph Francis Chuichiolo


King Ravine, its trail our struggle—a lush view from the summit.

Trees appear to sweep up-mountain in waves, a climber’s mirage.

TJ, Joey, & me release our legs. Be one with Mount Adams.


Snared in crevices between the summit’s rocks—wrappers,

shredded maps, balled paper, butts, empty matchbooks,

a used condom. What the fuck? says TJ, Someone’s balls turned blue!


Joey laughs, Let’s get to work. That shit’s not picking itself up.

I pull a garbage bag from my knapsack. Snap it open.

Our maxim: “Pack out more than you pack in.”


We collect trash north to south, west to east. Hands grow

layers of grit: rock powder mixed with trash wash,

blood drops on skin sliced by sharp edges.


A sudden walking stick appears, spikes a bread plastic,

hovers over the garbage bag. I slide off stabbed trash, follow

blackthorn shaft to canvas glove to arm of towering woman.


Creased forehead, ruddy cheeks, Vaseline lips. Tufts of white hair peek

under a faded Tilley hat. She wears a worn Army jacket,

straight-leg jeans. Peter Limmer hand-molded boots.


Good afternoon, boys. Believe I can fly, seeing you police them assholes’ crap.

She works with us, spike faster than cold fingers.

Task complete, I tie the bag to my knapsack frame.


Joey opens vanilla wafers, passes them around. We sip canteens.

How old are you boys? Sixteen? We nod. I’m eighty-six. Still hungry.

When I was young, I bested Kilimanjaro, Fuji, Denali, Everest-South Camp.


These ancient peeks suit me now. Both of us closer to sea level. Y’know—

this range formed when dinosaurs ruled the Earth. Who’ll have the last laugh?

She pulls a pint of Old Crow from her rucksack. We toast the victor.




Affordable housing was nowhere to be had

Yet getting around this was neither backward nor bad.

Her solution unusual, of that there’s no doubt,

Just don’t mention a shoe or she’ll throw you right out.


Her downfall? Not being scrupulous in bed.

Flattering words would go straight to her head.

At first she felt blessed by the consequent baby;

But one after another, she sighed – well – maybe –


These dervishing children dampened her style;

Their whining and wheedling, she thought was just vile;

Their play was incessant, raucous and loud.

Yet with food running out–she still was not cowed.


They came by command to sit and sip soup,

Since eating made them an obedient troop.

Then in a flash ’round the table she sped

Whacking each one as to safety they fled.


You’d think her behavior would make them quite nervous;

But they had no phone to call social service.

For more of this story, you may search and may poke.

If you think it’s not real, you haven’t been woke.