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Showing posts from January, 2016

Etta, a poem by George Fish

Editor's  note: On this date in 1938, Etta James was born. Etta James    At Last!   in the midst of pop music doldrums that magnificent voice came along   An’ yeah, Somethin’ Got A Hold On Me   an’ so many, many others   An’ yeah, it wasn’t just that It Must Be Love   It Was Love!   An’ it was a lot more than just a Sunday Kinda Love   But, no, I couldn’t Tell Mama   straight, uptight, white lower middle class prig obsessed with shabby respectability   and an ignorant fascist brutal father  for whom Etta’s powerful voice was just more “nigger music” no decent  white person listened to   but I did   guess I wasn’t decent!   But that was the way I liked it—and wanted it!   Raw, powerful, soulful   ‘Cause I’d Rather Go Blind than live in a world without Etta James’s music!    I saw her live about three decades before her death   opening for B.B. King   ‘cause the King of the Blues knew he needed a true Princess of the Blues to properly open the

Roll Call, a poem by Grambi Dora

Roll Call by Grambi Dora You cut back the fro ’cause the Army sergeants  said the long hair had to go You wasted thirty some odd days              at the shit-shittin’  Fort Polk duty station another rotation before killin’ in Afghanistan  But you had to fuck it up mixin’ the doctor’s prescription Demerol with shots of Grey Goose  Now they pay you  a 21-gun salute  Taps plays down the tears  Your M16A2 Rifle stands butt stock up with a sand buried nozzle dog tags dangle  Boots laced  just there where your feet  were supposed to meet Bio: Grambi Dora served served 4 years of active duty in the Army from June 2005 to June 2009. He graduated from Indiana University in 2012 with a bachelor's degree in General Studies, with concentrations in English and Psychology. He works full time at the Indianapolis Veterans Affairs Medical Center. He enjoys writing, playing guitar and doing community service.

Snow on Green Apples, by Donald Nelson

Snow on Green Apples by Donald Nelson Born one spring  near the old orchard, two fawns and their doe summered here until they could cross the busy road  and roam a nearby woods. Seasons later now,  they come back sometimes to eat the fruit  from our unattended trees. I wish them safe crossing on the road today. . .  an early winter snow,  on hanging green apples is worth coming home for. Poet's Statement: This is a poem written after a photograph of our old orchard in a year when an early snowfall settled on an unattended apple tree that still held its green apples. Bio: Donald Nelson is a graphic designer of books and periodicals. He studies poetry writing at the Forever Learning Institute in South Bend.

Musically Challenged Under 30, a poem by Lylanne Musselman

Musically Challenged Under 30 by Lylanne Musselman The future is here and it’s frightening. When our youth aren’t showing signs of good communication, even with 24/7access to every  technological device imaginable it’s obvious we have problems. But problems don’t describe the news I heard today. It seems some young ones who are so familiar with Kanye, don’t  have a clue who Paul McCartney is. Talk about a new generation gap: when I was young – don’t trust anyone over 30; when I was young, we didn’t…and now: I never envisioned a day when anyone under 30 could not, where anyone under 30 would not, know one of the Fab Four that defined music, a time when under-30 Baby Boomers were inquisitive enough to look past Paul, Ringo, John and George, to Ella, Como, Coltrane, Lady Day, or at least were aware of who their parents listened to. How can we just Let It Be? We apparently didn’t teach our children to teach their children well – oh well, that musical reference o