When The Dark Stars Come
October twenty-first, night of the new moon,
autumn’s constellations hidden behind
clouds. Perhaps more rain will blow in before
dawn summons a fresh day, or maybe
the storm will pass over to strike elsewhere.
It seems there is always another storm.
Democracy’s fragile, could slip away
easily. This has happened before;
like the dikes in Holland that hold back the sea,
and need constant repair, our humanity,
our rights require defending. We’ve seen
this in Hitler’s Germany, Franco’s Spain,
Italy’s Mussolini. The bulwarks
failed and the sea of hate and fear swept over
all we cherished. When the night of dark stars
rages, the brightest dawn won’t save you.
James Deahl
~. ~. ~.
Chosen
On a canopied crowded street, a woman
with almond eyes plucks my
shirt, pulling me close. She hs no scent
or lines of age. Her voice is
glass. Her breath in my ear lily white.
As she murmurs the truest tale of my
life, a volcanic ache erupts below our breast.
I cry out, clutching, Here it
hurts! A fews heads turn in distaste. She yanks my
rigid hand away, hushing, urging, Do not let them hear
you. She shrouds herself in patchwork blankets,
relinquishing this realm for the next. The pain follows
her. I feel unglued. Alive.
Chosen.
Anne Marie Kristiansen
Both poems from the February 2026 edition The Banished Poets Society:
A Periodic Poetry Newsletter Produced by Valley Press
Katherine L. Gordon
~. ~. ~.
Thanks Chris. I forwarded to Anne.
Loved your issue and especially Charlie Angus.
Love and light from Katherine.
