The first domino in the long line of canceled events and shut doors of the Coronavirus emergency in these parts was Poets in Resistance II on Friday, March 13 at the Tree of Life Unitarian Universalist
Congregation in McHenry, Illinois.
It was supposed to be a big
event and I had been working
feverishly for two months to pull it together. But that week cases of the deadly virus seemed to be erupting everywhere including Chicago and the looming crisis was taking over the news headlines. The Center for Disease Control (CDC) made a
recommendation—just that and with no
enforcement provisions that gatherings of 50 or more should be postponed or canceled. That Thursday,
with great sorrow and reluctance I pulled the plug on the event
It was supposed
to be a postponement—maybe for a month or so at most. But who knows now at what distant date we may be able to do
it. Rather than wait for that eventuality it occurred to me that we
could have a virtual Poets in
Resistance right here featuring some poems that participants sent me. So
here goes!
 |
Sue Rekenthaler.
|
Sue Rekenthaler is a long time member of Tree of
Life, a vegetable farmer in Richmond, Illinois, a long time social justice activist, and poet.
She was a leader in the state
anti-death penalty movement when her husband
Gary Gauger was wrongfully convicted
of murder in a celebrated miscarriage of justice. As an active member of the congregation’s Social Justice Team and chair or co-chair on multiple occasions, she has been especially active in immigration and criminal justice issues. She
is a jail visitor for the Interfaith Community for Detained
Immigrants (ICDI) and was Court
Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) for children caught up family
court.
The World in One
Room
I am Orphan. I am from Thailand. I am not a terrorist. My
god, I am the manager of a Pizza hut.
My god, I am a
mother.
My god, I teach
figure skating to children. What
terrorist teaches figure skating?
I am
Emmanuel. I am from Haiti. I am not a terrorist. My dream was to come to America. My dream did
not include sitting in detention.
My god, I speak
5 languages.
My god, I taught
English to children. I am asking for asylum.
My god, I am
only 23 years old.
My god, I work
in the jail kitchen. What terrorist would want to work in the jail kitchen.
I am Cedric. I
am from Republic of Congo. I am not a terrorist. My god, I saw my father killed
in front of me in a tribal war.
My god, my
mother was raped in that tribal war. I am here for safety.
I want to help
others. What terrorist wants to help others?
I am Jesus. I am
from Mexico. I am not a terrorist. I
worked to support my family. My god, my father and brother were both murdered
in Mexico.
My god, Chicago
is my true home.
My god, I am a
changed man. What country does not give a second chance to a changed man?
—Sue
Rekenthaler
 |
Joe Calvillo.
|
Joe Calvillo asked to be described
in the program simply as a “Local
Poet and Wonderer “I do not curse anymore—I don’t curse any less”
Rage
An orange plague
has emerged from a reality-TV dump
And it spews
lies that poison hearts and blinds sight
Do not sit in
silence – rage, rage against the blight.
The creature’s
tiny fingers tweet away into the night
Curses,
diatribes and jive nonsense to amuse the crowing stump
While the air
saturates with hate until it congeals into rains of fright,
Do not sit
still, afraid; silent – Rage, Rage against the mob’s false might
Truth is being
slayed before your eyes; the poor, the weak are gathered into cell clumps
Lady Liberty has
been taken down - raped at the hands of the trumps
The orange
creature feasts at the head of white supremacy – then, tweeter dumps
The big lie is
true; democracy is being dismantled; twisted into pretzels of trite
Do not close
your eyes; do not close your eyes; the devil’s mind spawns many a loyal wight.
Rail, rail my
brethren – Do not forsake your voice to the threatening sight
We must stand
together, or the country will fail and fall in slump
As all sense
deadens while treacherous lesions grow into a cancerous lump
Stand, stand;
stand the test of time – stand and fight
Stand and meet
this trial against the very founders who met to write
A ledger of
guides to keep the republic safe; sacred and away from any trump
Away from the
filthy money and power mongers – Rage, Rage for freedom’s right.
—Joe Calvillo
 |
Jan Bosman.
|
Jan Bosman is a retired public school teacher, avid reader, published Atrocious Poet, and blessed and sometimes speechless observer of daily
affairs.
Musts Versus
Maybes
“Expectation is
the root of all heartache.” William Shakespeare
Why do I harbor
expectations for others
when I know my
heart is safer
without
prejudice?
Why would I move
through time,
grasping at
“shoulds,”
lying awake,
waiting for calls
that ought to
come, or
assuming men
will do the right thing?
“And it shall
come to pass afterward
that your old
men shall dream dreams.
Your young men
shall see visions.” Joel 2:28
Maybe there is
an upside to hope:
for
“wouldn’t-it-be-nice-ifs”,
for a night,
dreaming of world peace,
for a morning,
leaning toward compassion,
for a day,
wishing for more than a whisper of love.
Or, what if I
commit my life
to working for
justice and mercy
until the river
calls my name.
—Jan
Bosman
1/7/2020
 |
Egan Click
|
Egan Click says he is “Quality Control for Produce.
Former Poet in Residence at The Raue Performing Arts Center. Almost 30.
Bachelors in Fiction Writing from Columbia College of Chicago.
Help Me Render
the Path
I think I spoke
too soon.
Whispers.
The moment of
recluse broke the soup spoon.
stew.
The peas split
to a few.
the final number
for the miles under
the scrolls of
texts saved for the archive.
bet on the brave
The eyes wide
shut.
we see it in the
souls.
we missed the
souls.
we minced the souls.
we hide on top.
the stance we
take only for the public gaze.
all the more
reason.
the shy away.
all the circles
are political.
all the faces
stern.
waiting for the
mirror to fade and the mask to oblige.
it’s hard to
keep up with identity.
all the stakes.
all the fences.
all the posts
left to count.
to look back
too.
and remember
that change finds a fine line.
that human
behavior finds a convenient lane.
peel away like
layers of radicchio.
welcome to the
manicured procurement.
we treat each
other like a utility.
subsidized
humility.
honor from the
slalom.
multiple
accounts for our private amounts.
our multiplicity
tried to cope with our emotions.
fiends lurking
through exposure.
see the sunlight
in the open and the way the wind carried the cold low.
self love in a
forum.
happy accidents
in the reveal.
our dual
energies crossed paths.
we hold our
esteem to the hands of our peers.
we count the
variance.
and do it again
when we have the free time.
—Egan Click
 |
Terry Loncaric.
|
Terry
Loncaric
is the author of Crashing in Velvet, an original
collection of poetry, published by Finishing
Line Press. She has hosted many
poetry events and has read her poems in cafes,
coffee houses, and at Printer’s Row. Her poems have appeared
on storefronts and in magazines, anthologies, and newspapers.
She has lectured on feature writing
at Columbia College and Roosevelt
University. She is the founder
and host of Poetry Power at Hoffman Estates High School.
The America I
Know
Guatemalan
refugees
spill into the
stifling heat
of the streets
to give their
children
the gift of
freedom.
If deported,
they face
execution or
imprisonment
This is not the
America I know.
I see my
Croatian grandfather
making cherry
wine
in the basement
of his small home,
learning the
lessons of survival.
During the long
walk home
from the Gary
steel mills,
he wore brass
knuckles,
in case someone
tried to rob him.
I see the
morning landscapers
grip their
steaming
coffee cups and
smile
as car speakers
boom mariachi
music.
I see strong,
swarthy
Eastern European
workers
build Chicago
neighborhoods
brick-by-brick
and leave their
imprint
on every church,
cafe, and dwelling.
This is the
America I know.
I see chefs
prepare
their meticulous
dishes,
musicians share
their spicy rhythms,
artists bleed
raw
emotions on
canvases.
I see doctors
and lawyers make
their
blue-color,
immigrant
parents
beam with pride.
This is my
America,
flawed and
tattered,
still able to
look
beyond the easy
anger
of bigotry and
narcissism.
This is the
America
that dares to
show kindness
to the strangers
among us.
The other
America is rude,
petulant, and
impatient.
I cry for that
America
and hope she
will one day
remember why so
many
immigrants took
that
brave leap to
grasp
the majesty of
the American
dream.
—Terry
Loncaric
 |
The Old Man.
|
The
Old Man
was supposed to host the event, play
Ed Sullivan shuffling folks on
and off the stage but he would
probably have squeezed in a verse or two of his own between Señor Wences and the ball balancing seal. Maybe this one…
Munich and Charlottesville
August 13, 2017
So is this how it felt on the streets of Munich
when the strutting
Brown Shirts
in their polished
jackboots,
Sam Browne belts, and
scarlet arm bands
faced the scruffy
Commies
in their cloth caps
and shirtsleeves
rolled up
and battled in the
beerhalls,
parks and streets.
All of the good people, the nice people
cowered behind closed
doors
and wished it would
go away—
all of
the liberals, the Catholics,
the
new-bred pacifists of the Great War,
the
professors and doctors,
editors
and intellectuals,
the
Social Democrats,
even—my
God!—the Jews
who had
not gone Red—
a pox on both your
houses they solemnly intoned.
Hey, buddy, in retrospect those damn Bolshi’s
look pretty good,
like heroes even.
Things look a little different in Charlottesville,
in brilliant color
not grainy black and white
and the Fascists
can’t agree on a
Boy Scout uniform and
array themselves
golf shirts and
khakis, rainbow Klan hoods,
biker black and studs
and strutting camo.
But the smell, you know, that stench,
is just the same.
The question is—do you dare be a Red today
or will you close
your doors
and go back to your
game consoles
and cat videos.
Which will it be, buddy?
—Patrick Murfin
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