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photo by Joe Maita

“No Kings” protest

Portland, Oregon.  June 14, 2025

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Dear Readers:

…..Earlier this year I asked poets whose work has been published on Jerry Jazz Musician in the past to write a poem sharing their experience with 2025.   The poem did not have to be jazz-themed, and could take any form and cover any topic.

…..Unsurprisingly, the vast majority of the 40 participating poets dove into topics they felt most passionate (and alarmed) about.    Chaos.  Amorality. Deportation without due process. Corruption.  Embarrassment. Anger.  Anxiety. Disbelief. Incompetency.  War. Personal struggles with being an American.  The need to protest.

…..The tumultuous events of 2025 are the sort that inspire creative brilliance.  You’ll find that throughout this remarkable collection of work from poets who may differ on what stimulated them to write, but who universally share a desire for their voice to be heard amid a changing America.

…..I encourage you to take time with these poems.

Thanks to all the poets…

Joe Maita

Editor/Publisher

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Due to the length of this post, biographies of each contributing poet are limited to their photo, their name, and the city in which they live. By clicking on their name, readers will be taken to a list of posts on which their work has appeared, and where more complete biographies can be found.

Poems follow the photos.

 

 

 

 

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Laura Trigg; St. Louis, Missouri

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Two Thousand and a Quarter in this America

Makeup is applied to the politician’s face
for the appearance on camera
while the festering wounds
on the face of our nation
are bubbling up around us.

We are all created equal.*
(*Some restrictions apply.)

Some remain hungry, some cold, some sick,
some told that the inn has no more room.

We serve up bullets for breakfast,
thoughts and prayers for lunch,
we have deportations with dinner
as we discuss tomorrow’s brunch.

Furious floods and forest fires come for us.
The eye of the hurricane stares out at us
and doesn’t even blink.

I watch my grandchild sleep
under a loved but ragged blanket,
each thread, even the loosening ones,
woven into the whole.

May she hold her truths
as she holds someone’s hand.
May she pursue happiness.
May she help keep the promise
mounted in bronze on our front door—
Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses
yearning to breathe free…

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Emmett Wheatfall; Portland, Oregon

 

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We the People

Let us refuse to bow. Let us refuse to bend the knee. Refuse to kiss the ring of any tyrant, despot, any wannabe king. We breathe the fresh air of freedom, drink from caffeinated cups of justice, live in the lingering light of liberty. Our hope is not for a new republic, nor the birth of a new nation, nor an ill perceived manifest destiny.

We will not run. We will not flee. Literally and figuratively, boats that ferried us here have burned, been set ablaze. We cannot go back from whence we came, having fled tyranny, even the bondage of stocks and chain. Branded in our soul is to be an American; one nation, polytheistic, indivisible, with liberty, and justice for all.

Who are we? We the people is who we are. From the blackest of night to the whitest of star light, that is who we are. Our imperfections scarlet wounds; meanwhile, virtues our highest aspirations. Stand with us, never from afar. For our children’s posterity summons us, destiny demands of us, we fulfill the continuance of—We the people.

 

 

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Mary K O’Melveny; Kingston, New York

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2025 Color Palettes

……………..…and all the colors of the world
……………..pass through our bodies like strings of fire
…Marge Piercy, “Colors Passing Through Us”

A still-golden Ginko gently shivers
as eventide gathers slivers of light
from a silver crescent moon.

A fringed silken scarf, Barbie pink,
flutters from a blackened metal balcony
unhinged by a Kyiv bomb blast.

Cattail fronds pale as wheat swirl, whirl,
unfurl at edges of a snow-encased pond
where two burly eagles entreat sun.

Blue and violet light showers
along the Seine as jewel thieves
carry diamonds from the Louvre.

…. Chuck Mangione’s flugelhorn Feels So Good

Ancient white pine stumps sweatered
in lime green moss sit, scattered like
footlights, softening time’s shadows.

A candy-striped unicorn lies crushed
in a Chicago apartment doorway after
ICE dragged residents into night streets.

Decorated in arctic blue, a Jay
has shouted his wishes to wintry winds
from deep within an aging hickory,

A celadon green ceramic land mine
cradles ground in a Donbas meadow.
its sheen mirrored by light snowfall.

….Cleo Lane croons Music in four octaves

Two Styrofoam buoys – canary yellow
and sapphire blue – nest like doves
at rest on a grey wooden Maine pier.

A tattered red and white kaffiyeh
floats into a corner near Al-Aqsa hospital,
cradles one more shattered victim.

A scarlet cardinal rests like a spa guest
atop a winterberry holly branch, its
berries polished as a new manicure,

Once afloat in azure Caribbean seas
beneath pale skies, a speedboat’s remains
coat waters with cinnamon, russet flames.

….Roy Ayers’ vibraphone loves the sunshine

Night skies filled with Northern Lights
excite like bygone griots who spilled
prismatic tales of marvel and delight.

In Chad, Sudanese refugees
ferry orange water jugs to turquoise,
beige tents holding all they could carry.

Lime green frogs, bright yellow bananas,
chickens, clowns with claret noses, apricot
hairdos join protest marches across America.

Objects colored like Great Blue Herons
shift down from autumn skies, past
wind drifts, lay siege to Russian oil.

….Eddie Palmieri’s piano glistens like Azúcar

Persimmon gourds and pumpkins painted
like orange marmalade light up a doorstep
as frost glistens against stone steps.

Clad in plaid wool jackets, tan trench coats,
navy blue sweaters, red quilted puffers,
federal workers dress for food pantry lines.

Grey rubble spills over a White House lawn
where the East Wing once welcomed guests
eager to honor our polychrome history.

Magenta velvet ribbons grasp hold
of bold spruce green holiday wreaths
like last-chance bargain hunters.

…. Roberta Flack whispers The First Time

A tangerine plastic satchel jetés
from a rusted truck bed, then spins,
splays streetside in Cité Soleil.

Stripes of pearl gray, muted amethyst
ribbon a snow-crystallized lawn –
winter’s lavish jewelry case unfurls.

Lines of rainbow-ribboned laundry flirt
with a purple-persimmon Jamaican
sunset as Melissa drifts out to sea.

An opalescent new year ahead shimmers
like a specter. Even as we fear its arrival,
hope’s nectar might still ensure our survival.

….Jack DeJohnette calls us to Parallel Realities

 

 

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Sandra Rivers-Gill; Toledo, Ohio

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The Topography of Modern Music

When rhythm runs through a river
it makes fresh tracks of distinctive sound.
I am a vibration of chords—
a symphony making waves.

My impression is a sound made fresh—
whole notes in the crunch of memory.
I am an opus making waves
like the vernacular of a talking drum.

Marginal notes in the crunch of memory
are silenced by clashing cymbals.
I am not a talking drum but speak
with vibrant passionate tones.

Sometimes my breadth is silenced
but I rebel against the din of discord.
Let my color be a vibrant shade
bridging my body with possibilities.

I am a rebel against the din of discord.
Worthy is a progressive instrument—
a body of possibilities
performing like no one is listening.

I am a progressive movement—
a vibration of chords
performing like no one is listening
to the rhythm running through the river.

 

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D.R. James; Saugatuck, Michigan

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What We Say

Late autumn. The sun’s
troubled: warm, dazzle,

or warn? I’ve yet to get
ready. All night

indifferent preparation
of frost. Elsewhere,

armies hard at work,
like the moon as we sleep,

suddenly on the move,
if we looked, like it’s always

had to be. At least,
that’s what we say.

And in the morning,
the same—armies at work,

like the moon, like us,
unlocking our office doors,

tunneling through to afternoon,
with nothing else to say.

 

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Barbara Anna Gaiardoni; Verona, Italy

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in a world
filled with doubt

cicada choir

 

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Russell Dupont; Boston, Massachusetts

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Balance Sheet, 2025

+                                                                         –

Life has its
ups…………………… and ………………………….its downs.

I am alive.
……………………………………………………………….So is trump.

I have pillow fights
with my great
grandsons.

……………………………………………………………….he fights release
……………………………………………………………….of the Epstein files.

I am 82,
go to the Y
in the morning
and “pump iron”.

……………………………………………………………….he created
……………………………………………………………….an alligator
……………………………………………………………….concentration
……………………………………………………………….camp.

I have been
happily married
to the same woman
for 63 years.
……………………………………………………………….trump has been married
……………………………………………………………….. . . . . . . .
I danced at
my granddaughter’s
wedding.
……………………………………………………………….trump “danced”.

I lost
two close friends.
Each made the world
a better place.
……………………………………………………………….trump gave us
……………………………………………………………….Kash Patel, Kristi Noem,
……………………………………………………………….Russell Vought, Pete Hegseth,
……………………………………………………………….RFK, Jr., and, of course
……………………………………………………………….Stephen Miller.

Life does have its
ups…………………… and ………………………….its downs.

 

 

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Linda Lerner; Brooklyn, New York

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In Lockstep

I should have known
they’d be back
like a key snuck through
prison bars, unleashed
should have known
that March day, as
a craving for chocolate
has driven me out
at night searching,
an overwhelming urge
to see rebellion, if only
printed on a cotton T
drove me to a store
selling them, a need
to block out everyone
………………………….going about their lives
same as always
should have known
when I’d begun to see
Disney characters replacing
those others, a sign
advertising new
spring fashions outside
one store
shouldn’t have been
startled by
mannequins inside
modeling 50’s mid calf
flared skirts
lines of people
self checking them out
resembling those
I came in here
To shut out.

 

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Henry Wolstat, Boston, Massachusetts

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Highs and Lows

Big party for my
Ninetieth in 2024
With close to a hundred
Of my nearest and dearest.
I floated on cloud nine
Until my world collapsed
With Marj’s serious illness.
Six months of worry,
Back and forth to
The hospital and
Medical appointments.

As 2025 arrived
The Statue of Liberty
Weeps as the country
Went into a pit
Of depression.
Marj recovered,
Lady Liberty
Still cries.

 

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Tobi Alfier; Torrance, California

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I am Not a Pain Poet

My parents are old enough
to have danced to Dennis Day
and Patsy Cline, listened
to the Smothers Brothers
and Tijuana Brass, and have
a railcar-sized TV
firmly indenting orange shag carpet.

Yet once a month on Sunday
as the new sun interrogates the morning,
they wind themselves to the freeway
on streets curved like scimitars
and come visit us, because I can’t walk,
and I haven’t walked, offering only travel alone
and caregiving/back-breaking days to my husband.

This is the Madlibs of uncertainty,
Jeopardy for $800 being why, or when.
Tired dreams seek the name of some
obscure café where pilgrims traveled
when their time had come to be healed.
They ran, those silent and obscure souls,
and I am with them, breathless.

I have prayed with the music of Joni Mitchell,
climbed to the top of Notre Dame
and all the steps at Meteora, and now
my wishes are to be a wife, and with palms
gripping a handful of eternity—
stand dead center in front of our door
to let my parents in.

 

 

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Connie Johnson; Los Angeles, California

 

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Bottom Line Blues

………………“Politics is simply the way human beings
treat one another on the earth.” – Grace Paley

& the recklessness / the chaos
& the turbulence / is beyond description
it’s a bottom line condition…. / it’s an
economic recalibration / a family
separation

…………………….it’s tax cuts & tariffs
………………….& no Paris agreement
………(was this really the voters
……intent when they cast their
votes your way?)

……it’s the ascendance
of unqualified loyalists / the lies
unprecedented / ……racism &
division

(is there something I
forgot to mention?)

It’s all woven within
..the project of

2025

……..so put the music on pause…
…………….‘cos when inhumanity
……..is the (executive) order
….of the day / I can’t really
….think
…………………..of one
…………..single jam
……….that I want
to play.

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Pamela Nocerino; Erie, Colorado

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When I Don’t Listen

The first ache of spring
lined my desert yard
with honeycomb patterns of thirst
and miniature canyons
deeper than I could measure.

I turned hope like compost
and anchored a shovel in one long crack
that leveraged only my own weight
against the unmoving clay.

So, I climbed aboard a bigger shovel
and jumped against the dry, dry season
but Earth held its ground.

Nearby, close enough to touch,
wild cacti and bull snakes sunned
in the hard peace –
the kind that doesn’t rot from clinging.

But then I used a neighbor’s tractor and tilled
until I could dig with my bare hands
and the clay finally crumbled through my fingers
with promises it’s never going to make
and filled the lines of my palms with a map
I refuse to follow.

 

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Charles Albert; San Jose, California

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Conspiracists, 9/18/25

If MAGA seeks conspiracies, they won’t find any clearer
Evidence then they could get by looking in the mirror:
They used to say they’d lead the way to root out pedophiles
Until their own damn leader turned up in the Epstein files.

They wanted a committee to inspect Pelosi trades
They told us Hillary and Kamala had Wall Street shades,
But somehow the Trump meme coin didn’t cause them any worry
And neither did the golf course deals he made in such a flurry.
When it comes to health they said Big Pharma controlled Fauci
But ask about the bribes to RFK and they get grouchy.

And remember how upset they were of that dread Jade Helm plot:
Obama sending feds to Texas for…? (They didn’t know what)
But oh, they love Trump’s army in LA and in DC!
Jack-booted thugs in a blue state to make the Dems more free!

They used to whine how libs were always shutting down free speech:
Political correctness was such an overreach!
Yet anyone who dares suggest Saint Charlie was a jerk
Should be shot for treason (or at least fired from work).

They undermined elections with their bogus “stop the steal”
Without a shred of evidence that any of it was real
(Although they didn’t argue when they won in ‘24).
But with Trump’s polling numbers sinking down below the floor
Now they say “we don’t believe in voting any more.”

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Geer Austin; New York, New York

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Porn King (according to Project 2025)

All queer art — recategorized.
The novel I wrote about sex

and love. Its joys and pitfalls.
The short story about a lesbian

brick layer, mostly at work, building walls.
The story about a hustler falling in love

with his client in Venice. Lost on the Lido.
The long poem about a man’s

fraught relationship with his dad.
The other poem about slow dancing

to a jazz trio with another man.
All of it pornography. I’m a porn king now.

My queer bio, a call for incarceration.

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Phil Linz; Wilmington, Delaware

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Holiday Poem 2025

for Jack Sade

As I write this the madman’s still in power, pushing every envelope, breaking all norms, And while I can’t know the future I’ve been told, & my gut seems to agree, He won’t serve his full four years but for now it’s only a hope not a prophesy; The country’s more divided than even ’68 when revolution seemed possible

And yet: within our own small worlds we can connect with others, not alone this struggle, We can deal with the madman in our brunches, our pot lucks, our meetings, our art, our music, Many among us are building lives, creating communities; spiritual resistance is growing There will be more horrors, more military in our streets, more Stephen Miller & Project 2025

But in the end they will not triumph. The rule of law, congress & courts as natural partners, Checks & balances restored; small dreams, but such is possible. And we need turn our attention away from politics, toward each other; must learn to love & support & grow: health, Strength; individual power. A golden time is indeed coming, let’s work to make it happen:

Through generosity, compassion, kindness, true love & tolerance; build this better world!

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Saira Viola; New York, New York

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Vanished Frames
A Poetic Response to 2025 

Author’s Note:
This poem is built as a collage — hospital notes, code, recipes, liner notes, voice memos — fragments stitched together like frames from a broken reel. It’s my way of holding tenderness and light against the cruelty and static of 2025.

I. Hospital Blue

(scribbled on medical tape)
daisies sprayed blue
on walls meant to calm
—petals odd.
the IV hums a tune Sly Stone forgot.
my heart: a remix no one requested.

Error: red_room_not_found
(David Lynch abandoned the reel…)
only snow on the screen, and in the hush,
a kiss buried in dust—
hssss spark, a battery’s whisper,
thumb tracing heat into skin.

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II. Notification Stream

(text messages & app alerts)
1:15 PM:
test results pending…
also: buy milk, bandages, jelly babies

3:42 PM:
Gaza’s sky: pixelated, shaking.
a child writes a poem in the rubble—
“Don’t forget me, don’t forget us when
the world ends. look for my laughter
in songs of broken glass.”

7:30 PM:
Sly on the speakers: Everyday People
…but the vibe is glitchy.
even FUNK can’t fix this.

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III. Code / Core Dump

(terminal window—run debug tenderness)
try:
…..year = 2025
…..if health == “fragile” and world == “burning”:
…………print(“breathe anyway.”)
…..else:
…………raise HeartError(“system override”)
…..except LifeError as e:
…..# reboot with love
…..print(“kiss the wound. rewrite the code.”)
SyntaxError: missing empathy module
…reinstall? [Y/N]
Viva la verité __
soft voices in dress suits , with gold capped smiles and comfy, red-roped pensions
PREACH WAR

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IV. Back of a Paper Napkin

(coffee-stained, lipstick smudged)
· daisies (paint them blue)
· CEASEFIRE (NOW! PLEASE)
· Music that rolls on and on
· Sly’s missing chord
· your hand in mine

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V. Recipe for Sunlight

(written on a faded recipe card, stained with saffron and burnt choc)
Honey Ice Cream
— for Mamma
Ingredients:
· 3 cups of CARAMELISED memory
· 1 tbsp orange blossom water
· a smidge of saffron (bloomed, across kitchens of exiled
tongues )
· sunlight, steeped in a teacup

Stir until the past swirls gold into the present—
Serve:
in the quiet,
on a porch that exists only in our minds.
Taste: is home.
It’s the sweetness we’re fighting for.

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VI. The Frame: Inside / Outside

(two-column fragment)

INSIDE:
the stutter of hosp lights—
harsh flat blue fuzz,
a flicker in the strip-lit script
of waiting.

OUTSIDE:
Monet’s lips of blue
talk in tones of peachy pastels,
glazing evening skies with a
flush of naked pink—
a masterpiece
no one is watching.

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VII. Liner Notes for a B-Side

(found in a waiting room)

—after hearing Weller’s Speak Like a Child on a cracked radio

Track 4: “Vanilla Walls & Saffron Ice Cream (Waiting Room Refix)”
Run Time: 4:33

Personnel:
• Mamma: vocals (Audrey-Hepburnesque, pre-op noir glow)
• Me: tremolo guitar Memory riff
• Nurse: subtle percussion (soft-soled tempo)
• Paul Weller: phat phantom chords, lingering in antiseptic air behind a purple smoky wheeze

Notes:
Recorded live in 🎼 E minor, the key of the long wait.
A sanitizer dispenser breaks into a chrome Sax solo.
Vanilla walls warp into Parisian café lights.
This is the zing- a- bing -bing of a mind refusing to surrender,
choosing instead to RE-MIX the moment.
“Speak like a child,” and so I remember
honey ice cream on a bar of sunlight—
and saw Mamma as a movie star
pausing between scenes.
even here, rhythm finds us:
zim a – za zoo- zim a- zay—
scats of moonlight, kool.

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VIII. Final Broadcast

(voice memo found in a rusted phone)

the world cracks,
reforms,
cracks again.

but—
a daisy blooms through concrete veins.
a laugh drifts in a room without a roof
a kiss sparks the next breath.

we were the beautiful mistakes,
the B-sides no one expected to play.
murdered butterflies
still fluttering
inside a red glass box.

2025: we wore our barbaric hearts
on our sleeves like tattoos of light—
tender, raw, untamed,
ALIVE.

 

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Byron Beynon; Wales, UK

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Wildfires
………….For all victims of the California wildfires

Smoke-breath
as trees, homes, and lives
smoulder beneath
a truant sky.
The debilitating heat
smothers this pervasive air,
a stunned hillside
suffers then patiently
renews its physique,
nature’s rehabilitation
from an ugly sting,
a mirage muzzled and quivering.

 

 

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Martin Durkin; Plymouth, Massachusetts

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Rather than choosing one song or album to sum up my 2025 year, I choose that one song I’ve yet to hear.

This past year has been an exquisite year for me musically. I saw Ron Carter live in Boston, I went to NYC and hit up as many clubs as possible, finishing out the night at a club just listening to vinyl until 1 a.m. I walked the Williamsburg bridge in honor of Sonny Rollins and his album The Bridge.

I have this funny feeling though, if I promise myself to put one song or album aside until the end of my life, I can live forever. Ron Carter is in the Guinness book of world records for having recorded the most music in Jazz. Art Blakely seems to have more albums than one can possibly afford so, provided I set aside one special album until the end, and simply listen to all the other insurmountable jazz records on the planet……God can’t possibly let me leave this earth until I’ve heard it all.

Musical gluttony.

When I’m ready to depart, that one record can be play by my bedside and that will be my greatest year.  Until then, each year continues to be another musical gift. A continuous wave of notes from the ocean onto my shore, getting me through all the good stuff, and coping with the tough stuff. Sharing it with the ones I love.

That one song? That one album…….it’s in my shelf, containing a track list of only the best memories.

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A Birds Love

I love you she said,
like an outside bird at the funeral home
Window – door…..

Life at the moment of death
where everything matters the most
and the very least

So

the least I can love you
is like an outside bird
at the funeral home
window – door

 

 

 

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Mark Donnelly; Davis, California

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I Hear America Crying

I hear America crying
I have marched more than fifty years
Not as a soldier in the military
I enlisted as a civil civilian
Proud American Protester

Protesting against Vietnam, nuclear weapons and power plants in the ‘70s
Protesting against the first U.S. war in Iraq
Protesting against the second U.S. war in Iraq
Protesting outside the Republican Convention’s
Renomination of George W. for a second term

Multiple protests against the first Trump Administration
Multiple protests against the second Trump Administration
A never-ending march for democracy
To win America back
Because

I hear America crying

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Patricia Carragon; Brooklyn, New York

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When I wrote “Feel So Different” back in 2023, Sinéad O’Connor was heavy on my mind. Her voice, her truth, her defiance — they all struck something deep in me. Sinéad never hid from pain; she faced it head-on, even when the world judged her for it. That courage inspired me to write this poem. It became my way of speaking to the little girl I once was — the one who didn’t yet understand that she would have to fight to stay whole.

Now, in 2025, this poem feels even more relevant. The world feels darker, more uncertain, with the rise of genocide and other forms of hate. The current administration feels like an Orwellian, Atwoodian nightmare, and humanity seems to be taking the shortest road to its own demise. But despite all of that, the refrain “she will be all right” has become my mantra. It reminds me that survival isn’t just about endurance — it’s about learning to love the child who once felt invisible, to honor her pain without drowning in it.

Sinéad’s spirit — fierce, unapologetic, and raw — helped me find that balance between sorrow and strength. She gave me hope. “Feel So Different” stands as a bridge between the person I was and the woman I am becoming. It’s not only a tribute to her influence, but also a statement of faith in my own ongoing transformation. I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. So many people are exhausted by what’s happening in the world, yet still searching for light. We need to heal and stay strong if we’re going to rise above the injustices that have engulfed our planet.

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Feel So Different

(for Sinéad O’Connor)

I feel so different
from the child
who sits alone
but she is not alone.
I am by her side
but she can’t see me,
hear me,
feel my hand
on her shoulder.

But she will be all right.

I can’t hug her,
dry her tears,
fight those demons
that mock her.
I can’t tell her
not to worry
about the harsh years ahead
and that wounds will reopen,
unannounced at night.

But she will be all right.

I feel so different now
but I am learning
to remember her,
care for her,
live for her,
honor her,
love her
because
I am still her.

And I will be all right.

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Stan Ellis; Falmouth, Massachusetts

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The Words

They came at dawn from the darkest night
Black and tan, red, yellow, and white
Slaves and warriors and peaceful souls
Waiting to hear the words.

They stood so close beside their own
Grand children’s children never known
With nothing left of life’s sweet joy
They came to hear the words.

Some traveled the fatal trail of tears
Others felt ropes and chains and fears
Of pious men with twisted hearts
Who stood and spoke the words.

On a cold north wind three doves appeared
Clothed in hope they came to hear
What this leader’s heart might say
And if peace would speak the words

One dove knew a nation’s pain
A civil war with blood red rain
Tall and straight in battlefields
He spoke in freedom’s words

Another felt the world in strife
ships at anchor and loss of life
a Sunday breakfast cooked in hell
gave birth to his sad words

The third dove dreamt that one fine day
peace and love would find a way
with all the nations holding hands
love would speak the words

The crowd was hushed, the leader stood
and spoke of change for the common good
Vaccines and money and peace for all
promised with strange, harsh words

Some believed and some did not
They’d heard the lies, they knew the plot
A game of take and take some more
Might follow all the words

The north wind sighed, then moaned and blew t
he three doves flapped their wings and flew
the ancient ones cried for they knew
actions speak louder than words

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Bernard Saint; Bedford, United Kingdom

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A New Year

Children in rags selling roses
Sponging car windscreens stalling in traffic
Sifting all litter for saleable rubbish

Imported Impala sports cars speeding
To compounds of 5 star hotels in the hills
Fountains and flutes of champagne in the spa
Socialites soaking discussing
Sweet deals to tweak then to sign
In the chiaroscuro of the Polo Lounge

Moonlight cocktail firework party
Sushi supper round the Lotus Pool
In customized ceramic bowls
Served by ‘Geisha Girls’ from Central Casting

‘Our gated communities promise
Security an armed patrol provides’

Ribeye beef flown in from Highland farms
Beluga caviar and Blue-point oysters

Beggar camps are bulldozed from the parks
Sculptures for the parks now beggar-free
Strangely disappear in this transition –
All are comprehensively insured

Severance pay of one day is sufficient
For those street-sweepers bussed in by the day
Garbage piles waist-high with major civic savings

Our New Year Charity Ball is white-tie only
Raffle prize a Lexus
Please give generously

Proceeds will refine the Church gold-leaf
Before its re-location to the desert

 

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Mike Jurkovic; Wallkill, New York

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congas

congas in the alley
while it’s
raining cats and dogs
The music
of secession
pounding in your ears

congas in the alley
while it’s
raining cats and dogs
potters field shoveled under
System’s broken
down

congas in the alley
while it’s
raining cats and dogs
Pre-dawn doctrine
creates new law
Oilmen and priests
all deny now
and try to build
towers
beyond
the reach
of God

 

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D.H. Jenkins; Wanaka, New Zealand

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Return to the Static of Normal

To return to the static of normal
we must forget that soldiers are on the streets
we must forget about children put in cages
or teenage girls trafficked to tropical places.

To return to the static of normal
we need to look the other way when landscapers
and yard workers and house keepers are rounded
up at our home depots and sent away.

We may never, never return to normal again
when dogs are shot by security chiefs, when
injured wolves are killed in front of bars, when
our tax dollars are funneled for a trip to Mars.

To return to some kind of normal, static, livable,
real, we need to forget about riots at the capitol
we need to forget alligator Alcatraz is being built
we need to forget who we were before the rug
was pulled out from under our feet.

To return to a static of normal, must we
play hide & seek w/ everyone we meet
trying to find out if they’re going to report
us to the commander and chief?
Or one of his supporters?

We’re all now waiting for the night to come,
dreading the milky coming of day.
In cool quiet twilight, we’d love to stay;

But we need to return to a new static of normal
like starry nights when everything was bearable
and we could sleep, and we could sleep.

 

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CJ Muchhala; Shorewood, Wisconsin

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Flailing, 2025

Awakening into nightmare. Not knowing what to do.
Persevere?  Transform?  Move somewhere else?

Feeling squeezed
by emotions. Silence has its own reckoning:

……………..racism’s thorns in full bloom
……………..the miasma of hate rising

The clock is turning back or just moving on
inexorably, like a hurricane’s eye—
………………………..I mean a dreadful quiet
surrounded by… born of
………………………..resentment… fear … whatever

maybe just desire
to pull the trigger
………………………..a momentary satisfaction.

Either way it’s hard to swallow.
What to do.
………………………..Hear.
……………..Say.

Right now.
………………………..See.

No one should ever have to feel like this.
Die like this.

Where’s a safe space? Not to talk.
Just to be.

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Laurie Kuntz; West Palm Beach, Florida

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The President Golfs, While the Country Protests
Hands Off Protests April 5, 2025

Air Force One sits on the tarmac
emblazoned on one side
the presidential seal and flag.

I am headed to protest the division
of haves and have nots,
of privileged and oppressed
of choice and none.

We are a display
of people united in despair,
and just a few miles away
the president is golfing.

I walk among the denizens
holding banners and chanting.

Between two fires
we find solace in what we can create.

Words of resistance are clever,
one woman balances on a cane
holds a sign:

IKEA has better cabinets than trump!

Cabinets, many made from knotty pine
are built to be sturdy
to hold mismatched socks
blue jeans and sequined gowns,
rhinestone necklaces and broken lockets.

These old wooden cabinets,
some passed down from grandmothers
keep papers intact, diaries private–
every random item held securely.

A country should stand like a cabinet.
Sturdy, unbreakable, protecting all its contents.

I march with my people
our voices, hoarse with one ring
as we take to the streets

be they cobbled or paved,
we are trying to swing
our way out of this united despair,
and make a hole in one.

 

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Alan Abrams; Silver Spring, Maryland

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This Day, This Day

Pedaling along Lake Michigan,
sun glinting off the chop, Loyola
lovelies jogging by, shirtless
Northwestern boys, too, so fine
I could almost go the other way.
Jagged skyline sprung from level Earth—
brash celebration of the art of building.
And people, people, everywhere, people
from Rogers Park, all the way to South 35th,
people on the street, along the posh marinas,
crowding coffee shops and beaneries, salsa
music pouring from lusty Pilsen Town facades,
people, clotting the aromatic sidewalks
of Chinatown, snippets of sing-song
tongue, the festive blue-shirt
blue cap mob at Wrigley Field.
I want to meet each one of them,
hear their stories, wish them well.
Most of all, I want to ask them,
will you remember this day, this day,
this day when we were free.

 

 

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Joanne Grumet; New York, New York

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Election Day

Monday.  We walked a trail of soggy leaves
and watched large birds, black against the sky,
as they commented on our presence.
Red berries hung on bushes, yellow berries
crept on vines across a fallen tree trunk,
leaves twirled down.

Tuesday.  Ill-at-ease, we wait for results
today beyond the empty field and woods;
no bird sounds to guide our spirits,
no fragrant air to breathe,
no fresh moss growing from decay
to reassure us.

 

 

 

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Terrance Underwood; Miami, Florida

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Much Better I Suspect

Upon reading
“Cranberry Sauce” by Joan Baez
I am reminded of my disbelief
these country running “psychos”
listen to any music besides their own
objecting as the faithful must
on grounds that “other” orchestra members

play different & diverse
………………………………………instruments
from different & diverse
………………………………………backgrounds
with different & diverse
………………………………………shapes
coloring different & diverse
………………………………………appearance
making it hard to lockdown criminal records
They trumpet off key notes but won’t play tunes

What would our World be like
if these guys ditched their Trumpet lessons
& started with Vibes instead?

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Lynn White; North Wales, United Kingdom

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That Was The Year

That was the year
when politicians played
on the stage
of the New Theatre of the Absurd
where empathy
was dead as Roszencrantz and Gildestern
and the victims
of Schrodinger’s genocide both lived and died
where Palestine
was once and now it had no territory though it was a state,
where Israel
had a territory for Jews of families not born there in this millennium
or the last
when their lies became truth and truth became lies that no one truly believed
and pretence
was real and death was life and things could only get better and things only got worse
before the curtain
came down
to end
it all.

 

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Edward Sheehy; Minneapolis, Minnesota

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Enjamb Baby

New New Mexico Land of Enjambment just follow the flow as far as it will go without punctuation through every gill and molecule relentless wise ever flowing Tao of Aqua add it all up deduct ten percent throw in free shipping Enjamb baby Music in the gazebo sonic soul surf early Dick Dale sliding into fusion jazz surf breaking on a reef somewhere having safe stratospheric sax Finish strong Walk Don’t Run Up Canyon Road dreamscape of excessive dreams marked down your choice of color and hue Enjamb baby Green chilies and black coffee snap the synapses into action for the hard labor and thought that goes into deciding what is best in terms of price and quality and artistic merit from amongst a field of sculpted polished rock slabs from which a small stream of water dribbles from a pipe in the top like a public fountain at a bus station and then suddenly realizing what kind of fool buys an artisanal water fountain for a semi-arid xeriscape of native cacti and prairie sagebrush during a drought no less and then I remember Land of Enjambment baby Just follow the flow.

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Sean Howard; Main-à-Dieu in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia

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dance & crawl (poem for the next four years)

after
trump,
after all?

the nijinsky-
leap of faith in
words we’ll need,

over the pit of in-
articulacy, reek of
the postliterate: bits,

coins of marble
in the swamp,
the republic’s

baseless,
ballistic
arc

*

but we’ll also – sensing the dancer’s
defiance – need to crawl the sewers,

muttering dickinson & williams,
harjo & angelou, beautiful

curses under the palace,
the stinking breath

dead to the
word

 

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Daniel Warren Brown; Red Hook, New York

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Peekskill Then And Now (A Haibun)

In 1949 Paul Robeson the great black actor and activist was attacked along with Pete Seeger and others when giving a concert in Peekskill NY. Robeson who sang such non-subversive songs as the old spiritual ‘Go Down Moses’ had to be hidden in order to get him from the concert site unharmed. Pete’s car with his wife and children was attacked by rock throwers. Later Seeger took the rocks and used them to make a fireplace in his cabin.

rocks thrown as weapons
were built into a fireplace
warmth replaced hatred

On President’s Day 2025 a protest against the policies of the current insanity took place in Peekskill and it was liberating on several levels. Primarily, no one in Peekskill or in the hundreds of other rallies that included tens of, if not hundreds of thousands of protesters were attacked. We can thank Robeson, and thousands of anonymous compatriots for taking the brunt of violence during the red paranoia that their activist children do not have to experience.

Paul Robeson you took
red scare beatings and abuse
so we sing freely

 

 

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Mike Mignano; Ocala, Florida

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O Congress! My Congress! 2025

O Congress! my Congress! fateful session done
Immigrant pathways still uncharted
Heartfelt pleadings skyward flung ↻✧
Pray this poem by its conclusion
Some thought-filled favor won
Statue of Freedom inspiring
Vigil keep o’er the Dome
Sword sheathed    bronze feathers
Band of stars    solely crowned ♕
Gateways guarding with hopeful welcome
Nation’s conscience — foundation inscribed
“E PLURIBUS UNUM” [Out of many one]

O Congress! my Congress! reality realize
Aspiring millions our neighbors comprise
Questing for work & children’s sake
Points ⬇⬇ new citizenry advocate
‘Treasury Tilled’ greater taxes tolled
‘Criminals Better Vetted’ the process clearer scrolled
‘Economy Grow’ commerce underground rise
‘National Security’ enlistees attain/work force apprise
infrastructure build — food process — products weld
‘Foreign Powers Limit’ propaganda discord quelled
‘American Way Promote’ “huddled masses…breathe free”
‘Political Gain’ the party proffer victory

O Congress! my Congress! let democracy persist
Allegiance to Republic first — power balancing insist
Colleagues neither royalty nor subjects to dismiss
Nation-building equity our vested interest
Incorporate with propriety
Industrious pilgrims on our shore
Their “pursuit of Happiness” our heritage
“unalienable Rights” abidingly restore ✍
Hence from your columned halls Ï Ï Ï
Liberty—Harmony—Justice flow ~~~
Unto these decades questing brethren E
Likewise upon the greater good bestow C

 

 

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Steven Swank; Leonia, New Jersey

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These Unpublished Poems

These unpublished poems
are strong survivors,
like undocumented immigrants,
have overcome many obstacles.

Trekking great distances in the dark,
the color of accents, the courage of choices,
the hope and knowledge of disparate
probabilities, desperate endeavors.

Gathered with like minded voices,
each enchanted to be here at all- –
each with a story of family embrace,
each a tender moment and history.

Here too the cousins, the unwritten poems
like wayward children, loud and raucous
late into the night, that disturb my sleep
with the clamor and the rumpus of dreams

And now the least of these, un- thought poems,
that wait at the border of consciousness,
that avoid with ease the night watchman as he
attempts to reveal them with his illuminaire.

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Rebecca Watkins; Hudson Valley, New York

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Improvement Needed
a progress report for 2025 from a public-school teacher

America,
I want to be proud of you.
Let’s not let the bullies in the classroom win.
Don’t ask me to do the unthinkable
because I won’t do it.
I won’t erase Black History Month in my classroom,
I won’t delete my students’ pronouns,
I won’t let ICE take them out in handcuffs.

You asked me to die for my students when
when the AR15s spray their bullets, and I said yes
so look, my love for them is impossible to undo.

I write words inside my skin
so you can read it in my face
that like any good teacher,
I will fight with you
to fight for you.

America,
you can do better.
Where I grew up in the 1970s and 80s
I was a white minority in a Black neighborhood
as child I felt our sameness more than our differences.
America, you made sure that we’d find out
that I’d be favored and my friends with darker skin
ignored or worse, harmed, or worse, killed.

As a child, I stood in government cheese lines,
even though both of my parents worked in your factories.
I have felt the clench of my gut in the grocery store
as I watch the numbers on the cash register climb.
I have gone without health care,
ignored my body’s pains in fear.

But still I have loved you,
I remember pushing seeds into dark Midwestern soil,
knowing something would grow there.
I remember standing in the desert,
watching the red sun sink down the sky
and feeling God there.

But I’ve also seen the causalities of capitalism.
I have worked in your homeless shelters
where men shake from more than the cold,
I have worked on the reservation where we’ve
forced the real Americans to live.

I have worked in your inner-city classrooms
where mice scurry over my feet as teach
and in suburban classrooms,
where we’ve huddled in corners waiting
to see if the drill is real this time.

America,
Take from me, a teacher, who loves you.
you are not living up to your potential.
There’s still time. Do better.

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David P. Miller; Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts

 .
Seventy And

Psalm 90, verse 10, strikes an alarm
coiled to spring since birth. Time’s up.
There’s my threescore years and ten.

I approach the mile-marker, squinting
toward the tight horizon of my mother’s
threescore years and ten, plus six.

She lived through a half-dozen cycles
beyond the norm chanted by the Psalmist
for whom in fact she named me, believing

that his songs were for my benefit.
I still review my mother’s final laps,
replay her endurance and her gradual silence.

Truth is, that King didn’t mean to drop us dead
at seventy, just to make a point. He granted
fourscore even by reason of strength. My father’s

strength, that was, somewhat, bolstered
by a lineup of replacement pacemakers
and the many operations his body

brought to his attention in retirement.
Dad managed fourscore years and four,
did not outlive his mind. Let’s see about mine.

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Stephen C. Middleton; London, England

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Counter 2025

Choices that are not choices. Echo cardiogram / echo chamber. By-pass triage / so familiar are they with my presenting. Choices that are not choices, “Thank you for choosing XXX Hospital for your treatment. Click here for appointments. There are currently no appointments available”. And I hardly “chose” my local hospital. Nothing joined up – in cyberspace or system. Failure. Symptoms fluctuate so fast. Can read… can just make out / discern… to nadir / zilch. Whiteout. Snow-blind. Tachycardia. Reminders of appointments already cancelled / postponed. Someone else’s letter stapled to the back of my own. System in freefall – the country, mine, immune. Broken admin. Sweats / upsets. Steroid drops. Beta blockers. Antibiotics (toxic). Zoned out / lonely / distant in company. The nerve will not release. Impacted. Back and spine. Damage. Implosion detonation. Backdrop; Gaza / The Rapture (apparently not). Immediately in front of me: spots and flecks, floaters. Checked in at the desk, but the summons inaudible. Left out, waiting. Breathe through the nose. Writ large. Write large! Cannot read or source. All the by-passes blocked / the breath won’t come. The voice hoarse. Drip, drop of toxins. “Look up / look down / blink / look left / look right”. Eyesight fading. Blind at the counter of days.

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Click for:

“What one song best represents your expectations for 2025?”  Readers respond…

The Sunday Poem Archive

More poetry on Jerry Jazz Musician

War. Remembrance. Walls. The High Price of Authoritarianism – by editor/publisher Joe Maita

“The Sound of Becoming,” J.C. Michaels’ winning story in the 70th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest

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