3 poems by Sheila E. Tucker

knitting socks

how much more can I hear and see

of our macrocosm
seared onto tv screen
blasted into newspaper
cellphone tablet radio

mother of two naked
lying face down dead
metal screws hammered into torso
bullets through saturated pelvis
husband’s body nearby
except for his head
which rolled down a ditch
eyes and mouth wide open

how much more can I hear and see

children crushed under concrete
bullets tearing through teenagers 
grandmothers’ limbs trapped
boys stiff from hypothermia
fathers carrying dead daughters
cheek bones prominent
jaw line sharp

how much more can I hear and see

through centuries past and future
invasion torture subjugation 
iconoclasm suppression appropriation 
enslavement then and now
one-percenters then and now
apathy fury revolution war
then and now
then 
and
now

how much more can I hear and see

oh yes you say but many are kind
think of doctors without borders
church ladies knitting socks
food kitchens shelters 
second-hand sneakers
charities and don’t forget
a simple smile 
will brighten someone’s day
no! not enough I tell you
not enough







The Gutless Horseman

you fancy yourself the next Bronze Horseman
"Putin the Great," shirtless, a tiny bit flabby,
a huge bit hubristic, egocentric, 
cunningly media-exploitative!

ah yes, you see, I think of the before and after . . .

before that shot 

of your oh-so-manly pursuits on that horsey-worsey 
next to which one of your underlings had placed a step-stool
so that you could actually clamber up there
to pretend you just happened to be trotting by
seemingly oblivious to a professional photographer
who just happened to be standing in the middle of a gravelly terrain
and who clicks a couple hundred times, or maybe a couple thousand

ah yes, you see, I think of the before and after . . .

after that shot 

you got to choose which image to flood into the world
to scrutinize and think "in this one, I look rather fat,
that one makes me look weedy, in this my shoulders are too round
but here . . .  I sit up straight and oh, good, the profile,
three-quarter body shot with my arm mostly hiding my waist
a stern countenance, fierce even, a "don't mess with me"

and indeed, they don't mess with you, do they, for they know 
you get off on terrorizing even your inner circle: oh
your delight in watching their stricken faces 
if they think they annoyed you even for a minute . . .
will you force-feed them a Siberian vacation to break rocks 
or arrange for their noose be novichok?

you are one-point-seven metres tall, Putin—five feet six,
exact same height as Zelenskyy
President of Ukraine—and there
the similarity ends

I'll speak plainly: you are a chinless heartless spineless 
waste of space
he is none of those things

we all see plainly: he is a valiant patriotic steadfast
tower of strength
you are none of these things

you pay handsomely for your bodyguards . . . 
they protect you because their bread is buttered well

Zelenskyy does not pay a penny . . . he does not need to
for his people love him, will defend their leader to the death

I tell you now—
Zelenskyy is worth a million of you! 

who knew the low-key, polite, brand-new politician 
had it in him? never judge a book by its cover!

whether Zelenskyy lives or dies he will always, always,
always be remembered as standing up to a superpower, 
to an infamous, ruthless, vicious, murderous power-addict
— Zelenskyy the hero—
for staying put, for doing his best to fulfill the duties of a leader 
who cares for his land, his people, his culture

ah yes! Bronze Horseman—really, Putin? 
indeed you will be remembered for the horse photo
but with the same mirth with which it was always met
outside of your brainwashed masses

whilst the better man, the leader with a strong backbone
in the face of unspeakable odds 

he will be remembered 
for all time, whether he stands or falls,

—in the free world, Zelenskyy is the one 
surrounded by admiration and love: a champion! 







the battle

she is

a fish swimming upstream while the others
swim downstream

she is also

a fish swimming downstream while the others
swim upstream

he is 

part of the street parade making music but he’s
marching to a different drum

and when change is needed 

when the protests begin

these two

will lead the way

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Sheila E. Tucker’s short stories and poetry have won contests and appeared in anthologies, magazines and newspapers both in Canada and in her home country of Britain. Sheila served as editor-in-chief of an anthology for Toronto’s Heliconian Club for Women in the Arts and Letters, and co-edited a collection for a Mississauga-based literary group. Her own books include the memoir Rag Dolls and Rage, plus two children’s books. A member of The Writers’ Union of Canada and The Ontario Poetry Society, she is currently working on a science fiction novel and a collection of poetry, both of which will touch upon social issues and climate change, as well as our relationships with each other. Sheila previously worked as an editor and graphic designer for the publications department of an international firm.

Sheila blogs on her site, https://ragdollsandrage.com/  and is also on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/OakvilleSheilaTucker/

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