Block prints — grease ink on hand-pressed cotton paper, 5/7in — by Darlin' (he/him).
Puppy Love and Old Dog are parts of an ongoing series of postcard-sized block prints centered around Puppy Play in the BDSM and Leather Kink scene. Both have only been printed six times on this specific paper (and will not be again, because the artist hates making paper). The artist might print the block again if he buys paper.
Puppy Love, printed on rosy pink paper, features two men who are collared together. One of the men is wearing a muzzle while the other man is leaving bite marks wherever he can reach.
Old Dog, printed on a faded brown paper, shows an older man with a leather puppy mask.
Where the past was, a life
Run, run, run
to the past, or the present?
To see your siblings’ 3D faces,
or flat in the pictures?
To hug your mom,
or to stretch upon her grave?
To sing together,
or to cry?
To dance together,
or to die?
I heard you once,
without voice,
without words,
you told me:
“No life without my family,
no mornings without my sun,
without my home.
I’m a tourist in my land.
I’m bleeding in my garden.
I’m starving in my home.
I’m screaming,
but there is no sound.
I don’t need my heart.
Send it to my youngest sister
to my siblings
to my parents
to my family
to my neighbors
to my land.
I need them,
I don’t need my heart.”
— Nadera Raied Mushtha
Gaza Strip
This poem originally appeared on WANN: wearenotnumbers.org,
where emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Every month, we publish Palestinian poetry to help combat Israel’s attempts to erase Palestine’s contributions to history and the arts.
carnegieendowment.org/sada/2024/02/vanishing-ink-palestinian-culture-under-threat-in-gaza
1776
In the beginning, in 1776,
men and women put their lives at risk
and fought for an idea, for democracy.
They pledged their fortunes
and their sacred honor,
and in some cases they lost those fortunes
and their lives.
Oh their idea of freedom was incomplete.
Over the years their idea would grow
to include white men who didn’t own property,
it grew to include Black people and Native Americans,
to include women,
to include the Irish, Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, and our Hispanic neighbors.
We would work to include gay, lesbian, trans
and queer friends.
Those who fought for freedom in the beginning,
risked being caught and executed
by a king.
Those who fought for democracy in the beginning
risked being turned in by neighbors,
shackled by soldiers,
and hung for treason.
Still, they persisted.
These days, those who recently fought,
to STOP democracy, have a fund,
of one billion seven hundred seventy six million dollars, ($1,776,000,000),
to be kept in a private account,
to draw on, as a reward,
for their part in trying to END the Republic.
Ironic.
Perhaps, the fund is a call for rebels
to “stand back and stand by”.
I hope that fund is an inspiration,
a rallying cry, to the idea of democracy,
that began in 1776,
and is still ours today, if we can keep it.
— Larry Morris (he/him)
Larry Morris is a retired clergyman, a poet, and a patriot who hopes our democracy lasts.
cats study my twilight tasks
poised to pounce
at each rustle of tree litter
permadirt beneath my nails
sleep grips hard at night
snore serenade spiced by
dog dream toenail maracas...
howls... yips... growls...
plant communities
new shared habitat zones
the acre evolves
— Jenny Rieke
Two Lands Remember
Stone walls stitched across green hills,
each rock lifted, set by hand.
Fence lines cut across red earth,
posts driven where none once stood.
Wind moves low through Irish grass,
carrying names older than maps.
Wind lifts dust from desert ground,
carrying songs not written down.
Peat-dark soil holds the weight of years,
water pooling where it was taken.
Sun-cracked earth holds heat and bone,
ashes layered beneath each step.
Names thinned and bent on paper,
edges smoothed into something else.
Languages pressed into silence,
spoken only where walls can’t hear.
Roads laid over narrow paths,
turning memory into direction.
Borders drawn across open land,
turning movement into permission.
A flag rises against gray sky,
cloth pulled tight in restless wind.
Another lifts in desert light,
colors carrying what remains.
Hands still gather stone and soil,
placing each piece back with care.
Hands still gather story and land,
holding what was never given away.
— Joshua Liston (he/him)
