Gloria Mindock









It is summer.

No, I am not an animal


a car of blue.

What I really am

is a bed of petals

layering the air.


The window won’t open.

I can’t speak right.

I’m startled and feel like

a long passage in a book.

Soon, I will dash out the door and

stand on wasted ground.


My husband feels the same.

We never arrive and try

to free ourselves.

While we are doing this,

the pavement changes.






The tumors in his body have their

own little community.  Talking daily

with each other, they warn when the Chemo starts…

the liquid of kill.

Shrinkage, drown and cut.  What a thing to look forward to.

They brace themselves for death like he does.


The surgeons knife today is dull.

He may be asleep but the hours of sadness, touches him.

Such bitter tears weep when his eyes look at me.

My heart caves in when overwhelmed.


This life could have been longer, better and more exotic

if he would have let it.

When he says good-bye to me, it will crush his

bones into the coffin sooner.

The nights will bleed red and form a friendship.

Night after night, he hopes I will think of him,

remember,  laugh, over the things we said.

On these nights, my soul will give him strength.

He will dance and have thoughts of ice.









The Janjaweed attacked the village,

raped the women out in the open, and

took their clothes.  A wave of horror

surrounds them, hopelessness.


So many throats slit today.  What was

once comfortable, isn’t.

What was once beautiful, isn’t.

There is no fresh air, just the sound

of explosions and smoke filling the air.

Screaming is heard over all other sounds.


The world is witness.  They do nothing.

2.5 million displaced, telling stories but

no one hears.

*They wait for the “white people” to help.

Their tears fall as all hope is buried.


*From the film, “Darfur Now.”






Annihilation is just around the corner.

Peeking through the curtains—

Any moment, we will be gone.


When I think of this, I feel paralyzed.

Did I do enough?

Will my words spin in eternity trying

to land in someone’s hand?

Read with a calmness—

a poem where a person can make

their own conclusions about me.


I cannot persuade anyone to get my meaning.

My thoughts just mourn.




Plymouth Quest (Part 1)








The rain washes the blood

into the earth today.

For some strange reason, the

rain is only heard.  No gunshots,

no screams, no wind blowing

death around, just a silence.


Bodies, unburied, sometimes

unrecognizable, motionless.

I need to cover them.

Let them rest in peace.

Nothing was accomplished

by this slaughter.

Cruel men murder and go milling

about with a mission in their eyes.


This is horrible but not unique.

There has always been war and genocide,

so many bodies piled onto the soil.

Burial sites, if you could call it that,

are difficult to look at.

Tears fall from my defenseless sight.

I must be in a dream.


Bones pushing out of bodies, filleted into

whiteness, brutal.

The dead, are on a different journey with worn-out hearts.

How much can I say or do to stop this?

No one pays attention in this world.

Suffering has been here since the beginning:

shimmering, drifting, whispering, screaming, crying,

filling the void between peace and death.


All the bones saturate the ground.

One can learn about the life and death of the

dead by holding them.

I hear you, know you, there is no vacancy

in my heart as your life closes in.

The whiteness of bone, I caress, kiss and

retrieve your memories for a better life.









Mike Amado Tribute, Part 2






























Gloria Mindock is the author of La Porţile Raiului (Ars Longa Press, 2010, Romania) translated into the Romanian by Flavia Cosma, Nothing Divine Here (U Soku Stampa, 2010, Montenegro), and Blood Soaked Dresses (Ibbetson Street Press, 2007).  She is editor of Cervena Barva Press and the Istanbul Literary Review Gloria’s poetry has been translated into Romanian, Serbian, Spanish, and French.  Widely published, her poetry recently has appeared in Levure Litteraire (France), Vatra Veche (Romania) and in the anthology Hildagards Daughters (Belgium).  She has work forthcoming in The Muddy River Poetry Review and Ibbetson Street.  From 1984-1994, Gloria was editor of the Boston Literary Review/BLuR.  She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, St. Botolph Award, and was awarded a fellowship from the Massachusetts Cultural Council distributed by the Somerville Arts Council.  Gloria currently works as a Social Worker and freelances teaching poetry workshops and editing manuscripts.



Gloria Mindock, Editor

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