on the sidelines
By: Elmo Shade
all these distraught
disillusioned faces
flags fly upside down
bedtime stories without happy
endings the prince not
the frog the swan
not the duckling the lion king
never the elephant man
the faceless face down
clang tin cup coins
pavement scorches face flesh
voiceless chords
severed by sycophants
immigrants shackled and chained
dead man walking from
buried evidence
the homebound sit in sad
silence wait for weekly
meals from wheels punctured
by partisan privilege
a father works a double shift
his boy solo on a soccer sideline
a mother walks her daughter to
school not knowing it will be
the last time
a chained lab moans for his
missing master a refugee cries
for safety and a warm blanket
a woman’s womb weeps
When My Baby Brother Became John Denver
For Doug
By: Elmo Shade
In December of ’58, I wrote a letter to Santa asking for
a little sister on my 6th Christmas morning.
Instead, he brought a Johnny Reb Cannon, two pairs of
socks, and a new freckled-faced little brother.
I already had a little brother so confused as to why Santa
figured I needed another one.
We had the same color eyes, different sized ears, and we
parted our hair on opposite sides.
Growing up as siblings, we weren’t exactly close. Six years
was quite the gap, like the old one between my front teeth.
When Doug was around twelve, he memorized all the chords to
Rocky Mountain High, playing it note for note on his Gibson.
He had also read through each volume of our family encyclopedia
and knew the definition of most words before I did.
His recollection was especially handy whenever I had an overdue
book report or if I needed a song to impress a first date.
And when my first dates never became second dates, he told me
I was “in love with being in love”. Turns out, he was right.
A voracious reader, I thought he was too introverted to show any
signs of social intelligence. Turns out, I was wrong.
I felt genuine heartfulness in his voice moments after I called to
say my spouse had passed, hearing, “We’re coming brother”.
He was supposed to be the last man standing, not the first one to
leave. He was supposed to be the little sister I never had.
We had a three-way call days before his death. He asked about
grandkids, my sister-in-law’s back issue, and what I was reading.
I can hear his spirit strumming as he climbs cathedral mountains,
sees the silver clouds below, sees everything as far as he can see.
Stay Wild
By: Elmo Shade
And then there are wolves, nocturnal creatures,
wild from birth, resilient from fear, who run in
packs, help raise their young, care for their sick.
Animals who mate for life.
And then there are hunters, gamers for the sport,
pride purveyors, fear mongers, blind following
the blind, like processionary caterpillars who
trample truth for profit and power.
Is this a world I want to see— attack dogs salivate
for chaos, the perishable purged by greed. Is what
I am seeing real if nothing real can be threatened,
if nothing unreal exists.
I resist anything or anyone who does not bring me
alive. I give gratitude for good trouble. I bow to
praetorian guards protecting our freedoms. I rest in
the cradle of kindness and kinship.
I plant ivy into the earth, dig my hands deep into
her seasoned soil, feel fortitude foreshadow our
future. I will run with the wolves. I vow to stay
willing. I vow to stay woke. I vow to stay wild.
Murmuration
By: Elmo Shade
Jet black-like smoke fills the sky. Sun darkens nearing dusk. Starlings,
thousands of them, a metallic sheen of glossy feathers mimic a cry for
protection from winter’s storm. Long cone-shaped bills. Single fluid
masses of art morphing into a mesmerizing phoenix. Each swirl is like
a ballet orchestrated by an unseen conductor. My eyes are drawn upward,
tracing each movement, the way the flock seems to breathe as one entity,
pulses in perfect harmony as if the skies whisper secrets of things unseen.
I sear this image on my skin. I cry out for protection. Shield us with wings
that soar on your outer rims. Guard us from the talons of wealth. Purge us
from these political predators, their claws digging deep into our woke flesh.
Roof Leaks
By: Elmo Shade
The business card read, “Roof Leaks. Call Sam. Repairing
Roofs since 1989”, stuck on the backside of my front porch
mailbox. How he knew my back patio shingled roof leaked
like bile ducts into a gallbladder, I never knew. I called him.
Sam arrived dressed in overalls and a red flannel shirt, his
worn cap tilted slightly sideways. Like his card, he seemed
a simple man, asking permission to access the roof from
the upstairs game room due to the steep loft. I hesitated.
A few days before Sam’s arrival, brand new Berber carpet
had been laid preparing the loft space for a vacation rental.
What could go wrong? He’s done this a gillion times. So,
I consented and waited downstairs while he worked.
“I’m almost done” he said “just need a bit more tar” as
he walked down the stairway and out the front door.
I quickly hurried upstairs to inspect his work. I gasped!
Just under the bay window were three black tar stains.
His apologies came quickly when seeing his careless steps.
He said he would only be a minute to finish the repairs &
at the same time, taking his shoes off, holding them as he
crawled back out on the shingled roof. Moments later,
I followed Sam to his truck, hearing his repeated apologies.
“I’m never this careless, Sir”, in a humbled voice that echoed
past regret. “Wait until it rains and if your roof does not leak,
you can pay me then…or not.” It rained. There was no leak.
Opening my mailbox to deposit his check, I was surprised to
see a letter addressed to me from Sam. And at the top was
a picture of a fine carpet, enough to cover his stains, and at
the bottom was a handwritten message from Sam. It read:
Dear Sir: Please use my fee to purchase this nice piece of
carpet to cover my sins. I am so sorry for my carelessness.
Please forgive me. Thank you for not yelling at me. -Sam
What price does a grown man pay at the cost of another man’s
anger? How many times has he left a home feeling shamed
and humiliated. I said, “It’s only carpet, Sam.” His business card
reads “Roof Leaks. Call Sam. Repairing Men since 1989.”
Author Bio:
Elmo Shade is a poet and author of The Dark Side of White Bread- Surviving Our
Fathers: A Poetry Chapbook; Atmosphere Press; 2023, as well as three (3)
additional poetry collections. He is the founder of the first Poetry Open Mic in
Camas, WA, as well as Youth Uptown Poetry in Vancouver, WA. He currently
serves as the Poetry Moves Director for Artstra, a local nonprofit 501(c)(3) arts
advocacy group in Vancouver, as well as a volunteer for Meals On Wheels. His
work has been published in The SubjectivJournal, Pointed Circle, Nine Cloud
Journal, Western Washington Poets Network Anthology, Artstra Poetry Moves,
Navy Pen Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. He is an avid fan of Italian Chianti,
Opus-X Cigars, & RUSH.
Navy Pen 