Jaguarundi, Santa Ana Refuge in the Age of Trump by Myron Scott

I crouch, a darkness in the dark
……trees. The trees have claws like mine.
……They do not cut me; my deft feet, my
……hairs like sensors protect me.

I climb the dark trees in the blue light
……at dusk and before dawn. Most days
……I hunt by day, from the shadows,
……to eat, to live; not just to kill.

Most days the two-legs come quietly, just
……looking for green jay and yellow
……kiskadee. They never see me, I’m
……quick and quiet; but I see them.

But today they came many and loud.
……They tied red cloths to my trees. They
……dug holes in the ridge that holds
……the waters. I left early, to hunt.

Tonight, my trees are gone, dead on the
……ground. I know the two-legs killed them.
……Now a wall rises too high for
……me to scale. And I, too, am gone.


I have lived in the southwestern borderlands for 55 years.
I am an environmental lawyer and substitute public school teacher (“special needs”).
I am not a professional poet, but the threat posed by Trump’s border wall compelled me to offer this.

Five Poems from ‘Severance’, by Gary Beck

School Days

The elevator was out again,
so I couldn’t get downstairs in time
and the school bus never waits.
The bus driver hates picking up
homeless kids at the welfare hotel.
I tried to tell him the first day
that I really wanted to go to school
even though the teacher ignored me
and the nasty kids teased me
about my shabby clothes.
But anyplace is better
than staying in the cold room all day,
with Mom nodding out on the bed,
her boyfriend looking at me with hard eyes,
and the big rats moving around
like they pay rent.
Once a month the social worker comes
and asks all kinds of questions.
When I asked: ‘What I do to deserve this?’
all she said was: ‘Things’ll get better, someday.’


Urban Nightmare

In the city of broken dreams,
on avenues of empty shops,
the gaping spaces do not beg
for customers to return,
departed employees, owners
subtracted from the economy
without hope of restoration,
victims of the loss of jobs, homes,
when their prosperity
submerged into poverty.



Winter winds blow across the park.
Employees, students, shoppers
decide to eat indoors.
The trash bins are empty.
The homeless have departed
in search of sustenance,
a never ending quest
to stave off hunger.
The outcasts of society
flock to city parks
in good weather,
desperate for tranquility
found momentarily
in a green enclave,
a brief oasis
before moving on
in the desert of cities.


Manifest Destiny

Our remaining factories
are often run by robots,
as the lords of profit
always try to make
more and more
and increasingly explore
how to substitute
mechanicals for people,
the obvious goal
advanced androids,
so pestiferous humans
can be replaced.



Officials of our city,
elected and appointed,
have no compassion
for homeless youth.
Thousands of youngsters daily
are subtracted from the future
already too poorly equipped
to compete for tomorrows.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars
are spent each day
to incarcerate innocent children
in welfare hotels, welfare motels,
drugs, violence, prostitution,
rampant in learning academies,
where the older
teach the younger
criminal ways
in the absence of
positive role models.

As poverty advances
in the war against well-being
and more and more Americans
are callously detached
from a nurturing system
we once called civilization,
abandonment is the threnody
discarding so many
without emergency efforts
to salvage the children.

And all the while
elected and appointed officials
have homes of comfort,
as the children of despair
nod out in school,
exhausted from turmoil nights
when unregulated chaos
ransacks the halls of horror
where children are confined.


Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 12 published chapbooks and 2 accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors and Perturbations (Winter Goose Publishing) Rude Awakenings and The Remission of Order will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response (Nazar Look). Resonance(Dreaming Big Publications). Virtual Living (Thurston Howl Publications). Blossoms of Decay (Wordcatcher Publishing). Blunt Force and Expectations will be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press), Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing), Call to Valor(Gnome on Pigs Productions) and Sudden Conflicts (Lillicat Publishers). State of Rage will be published by Rainy Day Reads Publishing, Crumbling Ramparts by Gnome on Pigs Productions. His short story collections include, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications) and. Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing). His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

FOR THE RECORD & Doctors Without Borders, by Stefanie Bennett

You’ll understand
That enough
Is enough
When the stars
Climb down
From the labarum’s *
Of change
It bare
Like a hole
In the heart
Of darkness…
[* Syrian flags, labarums, also
conflict via their star numbers]
Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee]
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry,
a novel & a libretto & worked with [no nukes] Arts Action
For Peace. She supports Doctors Without Borders.

Money Dead, by Stephen Jarrell Williams

A coming crime
against the masses

money dead
worldwide decree

rolling our silver coins
into melting pots

under-bed dollars
up in smoke

bank accounts

government tats
on the back of our hands

mark of control
on our wrinkled foreheads




Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write and draw late into the night. His work can be found here and there and in-between.

Miscommunication, by Maya Horton

You think she thinks you’re stupid
and that she’s always mocking you.

So, take the time to point out her flaws,
correct her errors. Bring her down a peg.

That stupid bitch has got it coming,
thinking herself so much better than you.

Just look at all the mistakes she makes!
Remind her how often she screws up.

It’s not as if she was abused for years.
It’s not as if each moment of her life

has been lived as an outsider, facing
hatred, rejection. It’s not as if

she admired you, looked up to you,
thought you wonderful, longed for your praise.

Not like she’s afraid to express herself
and so communicates in awkward jokes.

It’s not as if your coldness cuts
deeper than any other knife she’s known.

Not like she’s crying in a corner,
believing herself unworthy, unwanted.

Nah. She definitely thinks you’re stupid,
and is always mocking you, that cow.

Free Woman, by Ingrid Bruck

After Langston Hughes
Let America be America again,
Where sheiks turn the firehouse into a temple
Where wearing a turban won’t get you shot
And a man slapped to the floor doesn’t get his ribs kicked
Let America be America again
A science museum turned into a classroom where Chinese artisans craft
Where visiting the zoo isn’t for the bear eating the preacher
And that preacher ain’t no geek in the corner wearing a dunce cap
Let America be America again,
Where children sleek as rabbits climb the jungle gym
Hang upside down on monkey bars,
Walk balanced on top of a fence rail
Slight and slim, they run its length unafraid of falling 
As I once did on a fallen oak over a stream
Let America be America again,
Where a girl jeered by boys as a slut
Claims her place in the world as a woman,
Owns her own body and sex
Goes alone in the woods to pick mayflowers,
spring gems hidden in seams of brown leaves
Picks silver words in sunlight from wild white pigeons,
And after a firefly flashes, uncovers the tremble of dark
Ingrid Bruck lives in Amish country in Pennsylvania, a landscape that inhabits her poetry, she protests all abuse of women. Her poetry appears at 

Saboteur Awards and ‘I am not a silent poet’ – Reuben Woolley

Here’s the link to the Saboteur Awards. You have to vote in at least three categories. A vote for I am not a silent poet in the Wildcard Category from all our readers and members of the associated Facebook group pagewould be more than welcome. Let’s see if we can win this year!

Just to sum up:
I am not a silent poet has received 157,173 hits in just over three years.
It has published over 3,000 poems.
The associated Facebook group page has 5,914 members, but you don’t need to be a member to visit it or to comment on any of the poems and links.

It has given a voice to poets of protest against abuse all over the world. I’m not sure I could name a country where it has not been read.

If you feel we deserve it, vote for us.

Life’s just not dope, by Claire Cariad Morgana

Too tired, too anxious, too old, too young to cope
Too fed up with telling people that life’s just not dope.

Too ashamed and embarrassed to confess and admit
To those who love you the most that life is totally shit

What is ever the point in telling them how you feel
When their lives are clearly perfect and yours is freakily unreal

Sleeping on the streets, begging for a cup of tea?
That dreadful existence belongs in the last century!

No place to wash, no place to rest your sleepy head
It’s no wonder that most of us end up bloody dead

So tell me please, when you have nothing, where on earth do you begin
To try to gain a future life with a skin you can live in.

Tell me please, I need your help, please give me and my friends some hope
How we all can have a bright and healthy life that is totally dope.

I, woman, by Pamela Ireland Duffy

I’m speaking
I, woman
before the mirror
of truth
no disguise
no make-up
no emperor’s wife’s
new clothes
emperor – ha!
no more emperors
no more sun kings
this is an age
of moon goddesses
and you
ridiculous little man
without me
you were never even born
silence, spermatozoid
I’m singing
I, woman
naked and proud
singing the moon
in triumph
at the origin of the world.

On March 1st 2017, the Polish MEP Janusz Korwin-Mikke, said in the European Parliament that women are weaker, smaller, and less intelligent than men.
‘The Origin of the World’ by Gustave Courbet 1866, is in the Musée d’Orsay.

Lenin’s statue  is dead, by Ananya S Guha

Lenin’s statue
is dead
it no longer lives
in a world where
even statues are
The triumph of death.
Elections don’t end
in winning, there
must be antidotes to
see the skull of a statue
in preparedness of
a funereal choice.
Lenin’s statue is dead
the funeral is over
but the curfew to mock
the dead is still on.
Still on.
Lenin’s statue is proven
dead. Only the blood
does not cut stones.
(After the dismantling of Lenin’s statue in Tripura India on 6.3.017, as a result of  the electoral defeat of the Left Front government there).

Snarl by Cath Campbell

She sits before a roaring spitting fire,
witters on about her bumbling vision,
while outside the Westminster bubble
twenty souls buy the everlasting bus,
go from living rough enough, to dying
against church doors, car park walls,
hidden alleyways and shopping malls.
Cruel uninvited guest, white death calls,
but moon howls, and the grey wolf snarls.

It’s My Right, by Michael Forester

In San Ysidro, Huberty
Took 21 in MacDonalds.
Most hadn’t got to puberty
Which really pissed off Ronald.
And I thought: “The world is dangerous!”
Cos the killing had begun
So I exercised my A2 rights
And bought myself a gun.

In Oklahoma Pat Sherill
Killed 14 post guys dead.
Then turned his gun the other way
And shot himself in the head.
I thought: “This world’s so dangerous!
And I don’t get too much fun.”
So I exercised my A2 rights
And bought another gun.

It was back in 1991
Ol’ Georgie crashed his truck.
Then he turned his gun on 23
Don’t some folks get bad luck?
And I thought, “This world’s real dangerous.”
Cos the killing wasn’t done.
So I exercised my A2 rights
And bought me 3 more guns.

In Sandy Hook he took a look
And gunned down 20 babies
And the politicians yelled out loud.
Said “Gun Control? Yeah, maybe.”
Now I knew the world was dangerous,
So not to be outdone
I exercised my A2 rights
And bought me 5 more guns.

In Pulse he took out 49
But they don’t count. No Way!
Cos they was in a nightclub
And all them boys was gay.
So I thought the Gays and Liberals
Might rig the vote machines.
And I exercised my A2 rights
And bought AR15s.

In Sutherland it was 26
But one of ‘em don’t count.
It was just an unborn baby –
I demanded they re-count.
And I thought that them Pro-Lifers
Could start to get much tougher.
So I bought another A15
In a really pretty colour.

In Parkland 17 went down,
That’s adults and the kids,
While the Deputy just stood outside,
And he might as well have hid.
So I knew the law would not protect.
Cos Trump, he loads and locks
So I exercised my A2 rights,
Bought 20 new bump stocks.

We’ll load them up with all the toys
And get us loads of fun.
We’ll pack the Hummer to the brim
And march on Washington.
There’s 265 million guns out there
And if they try to take ‘em off us,
We’ll set ‘em up at Lincoln’s feet
And shoot ’em out of office.
So now we have a civil war
And at last it’s touched my life.
Last night they bombed us in our house
And the bastards got my wife.
So we’ll mourn her for at least a day
And read out her last rites.
But it really doesn’t matter.
I’ve still got my A2 rights.

After My twelve year old Asked Me to Tell Him What I Thought About the School Shooting in Parkland, Florida—in Four Words PLEASE—he added, to avoid hearing a dissertation on the subject and because he had homework to do before class, by Marissa Glover

Gun control would help,
so would mental health—
it’s a mad world.

America is not Australia:
Australia is an island;
Mara crosses our borders.

Criminals break the law;
evil finds a way—
a knife killed thirty.

Children should be sacred;
one is too many—
I support #NeverAgain.

Our nation is sick—
we’re addicted to anger;
blame’s easier than change.

We all need Jesus.
Even you and me.
We cannot save ourselves.

Stay safe, son. Please.


Marissa Glover teaches and writes in Florida and shares her thoughts more than necessary, which she considers a form of charitable giving. If it counted as a tax deduction, she’d be rich. Her work is found or forthcoming in After the PauseAmaryllisClear PoetrySolstice Sounds, and other journals. Read more at and follow her on Twitter.

God’s Forgiveness, by Ananya S Guha

Nine children died like
cattle bulldozed in Bihar
India, nine children
a drunken’s victims
drunk with death
carrying death
carrying blood in his hands
the faces of children harden
into death
as knives pierce souls
the death in our hands
the stain in our hands remind
that death is watching how many
to kill, children who with laughing
faces do not know that by the looming
seas death masquerades as man,
animal and beast at prey.
Nine families die instant deaths
nine fathers, nine mothers
the magic of numbers go on
the mask of death hoodwinks us
into belief  that the money as
compensation will bring their lives
back to masked faces
death on faces
in this land death stalks the holy
the unholy pray, in errant, visceral  voices
asking god’s forgiveness.

Guns don’t kill people, by Scott Redmond

Guns don’t kill people, people do.
Guns don’t kill people, rappers do.
Guns don’t kill people, bullets do.
Guns don’t kill people,  bleeding, hypoxia caused by pneumothorax, catastrophic injury to the heart and larger blood vessels, and damage to the brain or central nervous system do. As a rule, all gunshot wounds are considered medical emergencies that require immediate treatment.
And those gunshots are caused by guns. But guns don’t kill people.

Guns don’t kill people, long term high cholesterol diets do.
Guns don’t kill people, traffic accidents do.
Guns don’t kill people, knives do.
Guns don’t kill people, workplace accidents do.
Guns don’t kill people, falling pianos do.
Guns don’t kill people, hippopotamus attacks do.
And I don’t hear anyone trying to ban hippopotamuses, do you?

Guns don’t kill people, but teachers should be expected to.

‘What if a really heavy gun just fell on someone’s head?’
‘They would not die…’
‘But what if it was so heavy that…’

The gun is the tool, the mind is the weapon.
Guns don’t kill people, minds do.
Kill all those with minds before they can kill people.

Arm the teachers so that they can’t harm the teachers.

Guns don’t kill people,
These guns don’t kill people, ladies!
Spud guns don’t kill people,
Water guns don’t kill people,
Unless those people are witches.

Guns don’t kill people, there is no correlation between guns and death.
I think someone planted that gun on those murderer’s fingerprints.

Guns don’t kill people, in fact they put food on the tables of the families of those in the gun trade.
Guns save lives.
If you impose restrictions on guns, you are literally killing children.
Guns don’t kill people, you do.

Only a good guy with a gun can stop a bad guy with a gun,
But the gun is not killing him.
Guns don’t kill people, good guys do.
Only a good guy with a gun can stop a bad guy with a gun,
Only a better guy with a gun can stop a bad guy with a gun.

Guns don’t kill people, rocket launchers do.
But what is a rocket launcher but a really big gun?

Guns don’t kill people, if they did don’t you think someone would have banned them?
Guns don’t kill people, falling vending machines do.

Guns don’t kill people,
Guns don’t kill people,
Guns don’t kill people,
Guns don’t kill people,
Guns don’t kill people
Nuns don’t kill people
Guns don’t kill people,
Guns don’t kill people,
Guns don’t kill people,
Guns don’t kill people,
Except when they do.

Species of Reply/Einstein Wasn’t Wrong, by Peter A Kelly

To witness the wordspill I could hardly wait.
Would he accept that Denial’s Not Appropriate?
And for a moment he acknowledges the reality
seeming to experience nanoseconds of clarity
confirming a partial apparent acceptance
of solid scientific evidence that the
first modern Briton was black, black.
But then makes sure his interpretation
of the incontrovertible revelation pleases
those affected by jingoistic diseases

(finding these words)

I belong here, this is twenty eighteen
Nothing to fear from a Mesolithic fossil
(Nothing against him but nothing in common)
Struggling a bit with the DNA findings though,
Cheddar Man sounds more light than dark to me
However, for the sake of discussion let’s say
this minor blip occurred way back, back
in a time so distant
that it’s almost irrelevant
Well, during ten thousand years
of British history this glitch was erased
from our proud ancestry
but if it had not

(he concludes)

a nightmarish tragedy
which doesn’t bear thinking about
Imagine me and my people, still proudly
patriotic but dark of colour, having to yell at
paler people (nothing against them but nothing
in common) that they should go back, back
to where they came from, to where they
belong, not upon this sceptred isle,
this green and pleasant land

Waiting, by Carolyn Batcheler

Sat clock watching
Sat people watching
Avoiding sneezes
Avoiding gaze and gesture

Waiting for the call
Waiting for the sign to change
Who’s next, how much longer
Wasted time, wasted life

Shall I go and ask?
Miss my turn
What shall I say?
Will they believe?

Child screams and vomits
Parent panics, gets in early
Then it’s me
Three minute consultation

Never got to say
Never really listened to
Piece of paper in my hand
For the pills I did not want

Political Headache by Geraldine Ward

I am having a political headache.

Don’t know who to choose?

That script they all talk from

Public speaking Neanderthal

Having their final forays in the shadows before extinction

Their rhetoric is tantamount to iron fisted Trumped up patter

With sales pitch grins like trout pouts on chipmunks.

Politicians on both sides like lukewarm tea.

Not up-to breakfast never mind Earl Grey.

They say the same blarney like leprechauns dancing to a tune

No-one’s heard. I am seeing cartwheels,

A Cabinet Conga, nothing is worse than this political headache.

Please pass me the pain-killers; I am really not getting it.