by Vyt Bakaitis

Death. Death. Death.
Nearly the last words
Gandhi is said to have spoken

Wealth
without work
has no cushion

The Mahatma, a public servant
was puzzling over
Cartier-Bresson’s photo

before he

stepped out

to get shot

Thought without feeling
has no face

Pleasure without beauty
brings no privilege

Work without play
runs to waste

Without conscience
it’s all nonsense

by Vyt Bakaitis

It’s merely a pebble from the road
but why did I stoop to pick this one
still is an open question

I don’t need to describe
it to you, no gift was
intended, but the feel
of it in my hand, small
as it was for my palm
to close down on and have
it nest there, close
so I could feel something

Vital, but without thought
of possession, except it held
all my attention until
I no longer could see where I was
nor knew what to think
any more than I can
blink away stars
caught in the clamp
— down brilliance
the nighttime brings

As fireflies
spell out their wild
scrawl to convey a whim
could it be the pattern
to inform this experience?

by Robert Breen

In memoriam for Fadwa Suleiman

i
The civil war is generational.
Atrocities kick in an untouched spring
As if, a child’s prized soccer ball.
A sparrow hawk flew into danger her
Flame-heart was that of a heroine’s flight.
Daily rations a crumbled stone nest
Have to be enough to sustain her,
Constant struggle in dark solitude.
This barren war-torn land is a place of
Shifting windblown sand; blood flows
Through cedar-less streets of charred
Shell-cratered dreams. Enemies over
Her hills were friends not that long ago.
Her displaced beauty is a wounded spirit,
Always reaching,
Always on the move,
Always searching for a house of rest.

ii
This moment I am valiant, in my choice, for
I stop to attend to you, a soldier, as if we were
Heroes of Tasso’s Jerusalem,
Our shared gaze gives us our humanity,
My shirt torn to tie a knot, we share
A helmet for a cool drink to health.
I etch the time across your soft forehead.
I believe your tourniquet wound wills life.
Crusades could never be romantic.
No one here lives long in the open.
A boy’s will indoctrinated
Can greet you with a hair-trigger smile.
A stealth-silent drone patrols above,
The cold cloud cover of blue skies. This
Soulless industry chews a new day.

iii
On the other side of midnight, Merton said,
“We hit the cosmic lottery.”
Our moment forged eons ago when
Meteor arks crashed together for
A single purpose, creation; yet
Still we spill blood-love that flows from madness.
The plundered land remains holy.
True mindfulness providence delivers
a night’s sketch, throughout this stark universe.
Northern Star and Southern Cross stay fixed.
And showers seem to come to earth
When mackerel skies follow horse wisps.

by Robert Breen

I wait patiently, then here
Like Athena you appear
In a mist of sorts. I can

Not see you in this cover of
Night, you announce your presence
With a veil of majesty

“Who-Cooks-For-You.”

Our neighborhood rejoices in you
Sky’s harvest moon passes by.
A screech outside our bedroom

Resembles an epic flight
That fills the autumn’s air, that
Resonates on every leaf,

“Who-Cooks-For-You.”

This battle rages between us
Two what seems an eternity.
I wrap my wings around you

Wounded tears fill fluvial eyes.

I wipe wet dew from your thigh
And say “I am sorry”
You should never hurt the one

“Who-Cooks-For-You.”

An impartial god never gives
An apology for harm
I, a mortal, realize.

Winter’s light glides through grass stalks
Encased in glass ice fields with
Birch trees peeling rose-white bark.

In spring, I will coax you once
More to ride the waves you love.
As I long for you the one

“Who-Cooks-For-You.”