Becky Winter

Libres. (Free.)

Libres como las golondrinas  

elevándose a lo más alto  

impulsadas por el viento  

lúgubre de la muerte.  

Atravesando cementerios  

de angustias y desamores  

que carcomen los pensamientos  

de aquellos que no se han atrevido a volar.  

De esos que anclados  

a los recuerdos, atados al  

pasado y sumergidos  

en fantasmas  

Se han negado el derecho  

a vivir, a soñar, a pensar  

y a creer que son dueños  

de sus cuerpos y de sus alas  

Esas mismas que dan la libertad,  

alas que muchas veces  

nos han querido cortar.  

Sin ser conscientes, se nos pasa la vida y no, 

no aprendimos a volar. 

Free like the swallows 

rising to the highest 

propelled by the gloomy wind

of death. 

Crossing cemeteries 

of anguish and unrequited loves 

that gnaws at the thoughts 

of those who haven't dared to fly. 

Of those anchored 

to memories, tied to the 

past and submerged 

in ghosts 

They have denied themselves the right 

to live, to dream, to think 

and to believe they are the owners 

of their bodies and their wings. 

Those same ones that give freedom, 

wings that many times 

they have wanted to cut. 

Without being aware, life passes us by, and no, 

we didn't learn to fly.

—Otto White

Otto es un poeta de Macondo, pueden encontrar más de él en Instagram: @‌ottowhite7

Otto is a poet from Macondo. You can find more of him on Instagram: @‌ottowhite7

How I Kill Soldiers

Colonial soldiers,

what have they been doing

to my poetry all these years

when I could have easily killed them

in my poems

as they’ve killed my family

outside poetry?

Poetry was my chance

to settle the score with killers,

but I let them age outdoors,

and I want them to know decay

in their lives, their faces to wrinkle,

their smiles to thin out,

and their weapons to hunch over.

So if you, dear readers, see a soldier

taking a stroll in my poem,

trust that I have left him to his fate

as I leave a criminal

to his many remaining years,

they will execute him.

And his ears will execute him

as he listens to me reciting my poem

to grieving families,

he won’t be able to slink out

of my book or the reading hall

as the seated audience stares at him.

You will not be consoled,

soldier, you will not,

not even as you exit

my poetry event

with slumped shoulders

and pockets full of dead bullets.

Even if your hand,

tremulous as it is

from so much murder,

fidgeted with the bullets,

you will not

produce more

than a dead sound..

— Ramallah, Poems from Palestine

Translated by Fady Joudah
Read more at:

Balloon / H.R. Emi / Watercolor and Color Pencil on Arches Paper / 28 by 22 in

Art by H.R. Emi /, Instagram: @‌h.r.emi

See it on display at Café Con Arte.

Tumbleweed Death Wish

Eastern Washington has frequent high winds

And a plethora of tumbleweeds.

When the two combine,

There are many ways the tumbling weeds

Meet their end:

Racing across fields with abandon

Only to impale themselves

On the barbed wires of pasture fencing;


Stacking themselves along the fencerows —

Piling like lemmings without a cliff to leap off;


Pulsing against the fences until 

Whittled to branches insignificant enough

To pass through the wires

And continue their maniacal journey.


Playing chicken with metal adversaries,

The round pricklies 

Trying to cross four lanes of freeway

Other times

Launching at (and losing to) semi-grills, weedy carcasses plastered against chrome


Twisting, tortured in the double maelstrom

Of storm-and truck-generated winds


Shattering, mangled under truck, car, or bus tires,


Rolling, turning, cavorting, cascading,

Tumbling until they are dust


The wind stops.

— SueEllen Davis

January, 2024

In addition to writing, SueEllen enjoys theate, quilting, and family.

Outlet / H.R. Emi / Watercolor, Acrylic, and Oil on Arches Paper. / 28 by 22 in

Art by H.R. Emi /, Instagram: @‌h.r.emi

See it on display at Café Con Arte.