March 31, 2026
Invasion
By J. Thomas Brown
On a morning walk in early spring,
a cherry tree spread its petals to the sun
Black cables stretched above
pulsing light of offs and ons,
singing zeroes and ones
Inside the fiber optic sheath
stories from foreign places, spoken
in a language I do not know,
invaded every household
lined along the road:
Keening mothers in Aleppo searching the morgues
Lament of a boy in Baghdad legless in his blood
Dirges of murdered prayers in burning mosques and churches
Silent stare of children locked in cages
Pan away from sinking boats
Pan away from the blat of bumpstock guns
Closeup to a politician
Lying through septic pores in ultra-definition
Broken in a flash, a data burst,
on a bright spring day above the cherry tree
in a country I do not know
J. Thomas Brown lives in Richmond, Virginia, and has served as an editor and webmaster for the Virginia Writers Project and coordinated poetry readings at Richmond Public Library. His short stories and poems have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. He is the author of Mooncalf and A Seed Too Deep poetry collections and three novels. A Seed Too Deep, an exploration of disenfranchisement in society, is available as a free Indie Virginia ebook: http://library.biblioboard.com/content/df0311c6-1116-40f1-850a-6e19bdb90d67
March 13, 2026
Dear Ancestors
By Barbara E. Rumore
I am redundant as I write to you. I want to tell you a little bit about the world I live in.
We STILL continue the struggle. We MUST continue the fight. We CAN’T give up the march forward.
I think of you often, and I am sad to say things have not changed that much since you left this plane of existence. I not only think of you, but I often feel your energy and your anguish.
It distresses me to let you know that the struggle continues, and at times, this struggle is more difficult because we’ve been here, done that time and time again. We have marched for, spilled blood for, and died for many of the rights you fought and died for. Yes, we’ve made strides, but some of those victories have been turned back by the legal system, the Supreme Court—the very Court that ensured our rights as Americans.
Voting rights have been decimated and in some states ELIMINATED. Police still brutalize people of color because of their color. We are accosted because we are LIVING WHILE BLACK.
I am given the “look,” code for you don’t belong here.
I still hear NIGGER and “why don’t you get outta here; go back where you came from.” These threats always screeched full of venom and shouted from slowly moving vehicles that speed away, tires screaming with “the finger” violently waving out the window.
Military segregation has been eliminated. Sexual abuse of women in the military has taken its place.
In general, the display of racism has progressed from overt to covert to overt again.
MAGA is code for Make America WHITE Again.
The nation voted for a black man as president. He served 2 terms and implemented a system whereby those without healthcare were finally able to attain healthcare. Legislators who hated him and this achievement eight years later are still trying to destroy it.
My life is easier than yours, ancestors. I can look white folk in the eyes and not get slapped. I can lead and tell white folk what to do and not be questioned. I can speak my mind and argue with white folk and not get killed.
I have white friends whom I will defend without question or hesitation.
Ancestors, the question that plagued you, which I never thought about, now plagues me.
Will those white friends defend me without question or hesitation?
Barbara E. Rumore retired from public health nursing administration and moved to Vieques, Puerto Rico, where she lived for 13 years. A native of Oil City, Pennsylvania, she settled in Franklin upon her return to northwestern Pennsylvania. Her avocation for fitness became a career teaching fitness, which shifted to work as a swim instructor. The world around her, poetry, and life experiences are her inspiration. She is a member of Poets Against Racism & Hate USA and The Bridge Literary Arts Center. She has had poems published in The Bridge Literary Arts Journal. Watching her parents volunteer has been her guide for volunteering throughout her life.
February 18, 2026
I Am Human
By Scott Sprunger
You have seen me,
Though you pretend not to,
You smile at your companion,
You sparkle in your new clothes,
You show no guilt
At skipping the tip,
Because after all,
You don’t believe we are important.
We sweat over burning coals,
Expensive steaks sizzling,
Torturing our empty stomachs,
We can’t afford even the fat you trim
And leave on your plate.
We clear your tables,
And we wonder at how you must live
Privately when publicly
You are such a mess.
You congratulate yourselves
When authorities arrive
Hauling those with papers
To stations to be sent abroad.
Yet, though you’ve rid the world
Of our existence
You have no one to cook
Your food, clear your stations,
Or stoop low enough because you refuse
To lower yourself to our level.
See us,
Feel us,
Respect us.
We are human.
Scott Sprunger is a street poet located in northeast Indiana. He’s known for Poetry on the Spot. Armed with a vintage typewriter, Scott has a patron pick a topic and then writes about that topic on the spot. Scott believes that poetry is trapped in everyone, that they just need some help getting it out. Street fairs, festivals, and other events are his avenue for bringing poetry to the people. “I am Human” was written for a man at a festival in Bloomington, Indiana.
February 4, 2026
Escape to Ripley, Ohio, February 1838
By David Lee Garrison
She serves whisky to her master
and the slave trader,
then hovers outside the parlor
as they deal her life
like a deck of cards.
Jordan River is a river to cross,
I know the other world is not like this.
A white farmer warns her
that the ice on the Ohio is thawing,
but he gives her a fence rail
and leads her to the bank.
She tucks her baby
into a shawl tied round her neck
and runs toward the hill
shaped like a giant locomotive.
Oh run, Mary, run,
I know the other world is not like this.
Three times she falls
through the ice, three times
she clings to the rail
and pulls herself out of the water,
collapsing finally on the shore.
The bounty hunter, who could
sell her for a hundred dollars,
points to the light on the hill
where the Quaker lives.
“Any woman,” he declares,
“who crossed the river this night
has won her freedom.”
Let God’s children sing and shout,
I know the other world is not like this.
David Lee Garrison is a Wright State University Professor Emeritus. His poetry has been read by Garrison Keillor on The Writer’s Almanac, featured by Ted Kooser in his blog, American Life in Poetry, and read by “Game of Thrones” star Tara Fitzgerald on the BBC. He won the Paul Laurence Dunbar Prize in 2009 and was named Ohio Poet of the Year in 2014. His most recent book is Light in the River.
January 6, 2026
In the Immigration Lawyer’s Office
By Diane Kendig
“After the Mother’s Day protests,
I went for my annual gynecology exam.
The nurse looked at my cedula with my name,
same as my mother, who educated herself
on women’s health while she made a living
picking trash and working among
the campesino women, teaching them health.
“The nurse said, ‘Well, let’s just see.’ She inserted
the speculum and said, ‘You don’t have a uterus,’
and she began to dig at me. She called the doctor over.
‘Doctor, this woman doesn’t have a uterus.’
I, who have birthed two children.
The doctor came, took the speculum,
and she, too, dug at me, twisting it.
‘Stop,’ I said, ‘you are hurting me. Stop.’
‘No,’ they both shouted. ‘You need this exam.’
Finally, they stopped. I went home in much pain
And I bled. And bled.”
Diane Kendig’s latest books are Woman with a Fan and Prison Terms, and she co-edited the tribute anthology In the Company of Russell Atkins. Kendig led a prison writing workshop for 18 years and now curates Cuyahoga County Public Library’s weblog “Read + Write” and writes on the streets for “Free Poetry Cleveland.”