Voiced, Voiceless Protests in Texas

Irene Keller

September 6, 2026

My older brother sat on me for fun;

I yelled, “Get off of me! Mom, help!”

He walked away. I could breathe again.

Choking Earth gasps, “Please, no more” 

can’t be heard as loud machinery pours

concrete constantly for false foundations  

as our Matriarch feels herself smothered. 

Domestic violence stomps on women’s

faces, bodies then bruises, stitches, casts.

Voiced demands: women shelters avail. 

Bravado tall buildings point to the sky; 

men awed by their new, shiny monoliths. 

No attention to planet Earth who wails 

a song of pain, muted by concrete, steel. 

The old echo continues: no woman governor,

be a domestic queen that God planned for you. 

Women continue to push against archaic tales.  

Texas loves big business no matter from where;

hill country acres sold to out-of-state wealth.

New town, homes, roads as the Earth’s soul cracks

from relentless progress to conquer her giving body.

Like venerable Earth, aging women become invisible 

while old men grovel for attention in their maga ways. 

Wisdom warns of wide prairies, wildflowers no more. 

Breathing wealth is a fallacy, but arrogance continues

as Texas refuses to heed to damaged Earth as she feels 

the cuts, bruises of domestic violence. She, unlike

humans cannot yell, “Please, stop! I can’t breathe!”

Irene Keller, a Texas poet who continues to be concerned about the damage to our Matriarch--Mother Earth.

Surprise!

Mary Fogel

September 6, 2026

It’s quite hard to explain

what’s been happening

to me

Trump Trumpeting Terrors

bombard

Putrid background music

suggesting doom

Surprise bubbles up

Do I laugh 

or cry?

What is this combo

of revulsion and amusement

While a cartoon lunatic

is itching

to drop a nuclear

bomb?

How can I be happy

with these daily demonstrations

of failure and stupidity?

I’m pulling up weeds 

in flower beds

in Texas

in August

freeing up blooms

previously smothered

by the pesky plants brought on

by rains

Yet that was in springtime

and that was then

and this is now 

and it’s really dry

and it’s really hot

Surprise gets pulled up

with every weed

while this is going on

How can I be happy 

with each little root

extracted?

Satisfaction flowing

when the dark earth

is visible once more

So, Turks cap and lantana

are having their day

My hands are hurting

with sweat and dirt

covering every inch

of me

I stop for a time and watch

a hummingbird dip deep

for a Turk Cap Red Soda

and monarchs

in differing hues

join in

They are the only ones

who might see me

take off my filthy clothes

right there on the porch

and feel an almost breeze

on my skin

before dashing in for a shower

Water is scarce in the world

and fires rage

It frightens me at night

when I worry about climate

and future

and kids

How can I be happy when

reality is so bleak?

Yet I stand in the shower

and rejoice

Heart full of gratitude

and a final rinse of cold

brings it all home

I am consistently surprised at the joy

that presents

Is it the space

between death 

and life?

Between destruction 

and beauty?

When I find myself dying

will I find a bloom

somehow?

Might there be a bloom

of new leaders

come to fill November

with hope?

Will there be stretches of good earth

growing flowers

that nurture

the creatures

who come to sip?

Mary Fogel is a poet and late-blooming adventurer.  She retired from the counseling field and child advocacy in 2018.  In 2023, she faced the loss of her husband of 18 years and of her best friend.  Although she had been writing poetry for 20 years, her focus on writing became central to her recovery.  Mary has been fortunate to fall in love again, find a writing group,  and begin a new life in 2025 that involves a great deal of joy and gratitude.

The Talarico sign in my front yard

Herman Sutter

August 2, 2026

brings the gift of my neighbor’s concern

across the street

bearing him upright

to tell me face-to-face

of the foolishness 

of my choice

There are only two

genders, he says

Adam and Eve, he says

not Adam and Steve

and chuckles softly

and though he does acknowledge

the corruption of Ken Paxton

he feels compelled 

to keep talking

about gender and Democrats

and the border

and Biden’s incompetence and how 

even the Kennedys were not

the angels they’re made out

and extending his hand

he adds, At least

Trump stands up for something

even if it’s only himself

And shaking his head, he turns

Only two, he says again 

with a sigh, and his gift

is gone

Herman Sutter (award-winning poet/playwright/essayist) is the author of two chapbooks: Stations (Wiseblood Books) and The World Before Grace (Wings Press), as well as “The Sorrowful Mystery of Racism,” St. Anthony Messenger. His work appears in: The Perch, The Ekphrastic Review, The Langdon Review, Touchstone, The Merton Journal, as well as: Texas Poetry Calendar (2021) & By the Light of a Neon Moon (Madville Press, 2019). His recent manuscript A Theology of Need was long-listed for the Sexton prize.

The Articles of Extraction: A Call for Active Resistance

Jim LaVilla-Havelin

July 5, 2026

I’m thinking we’ll need

good heavy wire/fence cutters to open holes in the

detention holding tanks.

a bunch of large, strong folks with implements to 

cut open locks or knock down doors,

wearing bullet-proof vests  (if they’re going

to shoot us, they’ll have to go for our heads)

and some of these strong folks should be ordained

and with collars (is it harder for them to shoot

nuns and priests?)

Spanish speakers to translate at every site

some people ready to get arrested if need be

thousands of people waiting outside the fences –

a crowd to blend into

vans at each site to fill with people to take away to

safe houses set up in advance - sanctuaries, families,

ready to take them in

and no GPS, so no one can hack in

a single night

fearlessness, but not foolhardiness

a level of disgust with holding children and families,

huddled masses, that makes doing this

the only answer

a song to sing in the darkness that makes us,

keeps us strong in the face of everything.

I’m thinking every day we wait is a life lost.

Jim LaVilla-Havelin is an educator, editor, community arts activist, and the author of eight poetry books, including 2025's A Thoreau Book and Mesquites Teach Us to Bend. He co-edited the University of Houston Press volume on Rosemary Catacalos, serving as her literary executor.

A creative writing teacher for 50 years, LaVilla-Havelin has taught diverse populations, from juvenile correctional centers to senior programs and high schools. He served as Poetry Editor for the San Antonio Express-News for over a decade and has coordinated San Antonio’s National Poetry Month for 18 years. He received the 2019 San Antonio Distinction in the Arts.

John Cornyn—Don’t be afraid (a protest poem for Texas)

Herman Sutter

July 5, 2026

Stand up for Texas, not for Trump

Do not bow before that aging stump

Of appetite anger and selfishness

Instead call Texans to be their best

To love and share with grace and kindness

To bless each other, family and friend, stranger and homeless

And do not be afraid of tyrants or would-be kings

You are a Texan—why be afraid of anything

Except roaches as big as Cadillacs

And certain spiders and (of course) certain snakes

And jellyfish (but I digress)

Stand up, John Cornyn to your emperor’s emptiness

Only Yes-men, get singled out for praise

Yet, already he’s numbering their days

You know better than any, this is true

And so, Mr. Cornyn, I ask: What will you do? 

Stand up John Cornyn –You were not made for this

Texans do not bow to lies or boots to kiss

Stand up, John Cornyn for Texas and truth

Don’t let a thief ignore our laws and corrupt our youth

Stand up for the weak, stand up for the oppressed,

The rich and the poor, the hero and the homeless

Stand up, John Cornyn, make Texans proud

Stand up to Trump, clear and loud

Courage and love, not envy and hate,

Are the strengths real Texans bring

Stand up, John Cornyn, stand up to Trump

And make America truly great (again).

Herman Sutter (award-winning poet/playwright/essayist) is a school librarian and the author of two chapbooks: Stations (Wiseblood Books) and The World Before Grace (Wings Press), as well as “The Sorrowful Mystery of Racism,” St. Anthony Messenger. His work appears in: The Perch, The Ekphrastic Review, The Langdon Review, Touchstone, The Merton Journal, as well as: Texas Poetry Calendar (2021) & By the Light of a Neon Moon (Madville Press, 2019). His unpublished A Theology of Need was long-listed for the Sexton prize.

Uprising

Chris Ellery

July 5, 2026

When the dream 

that you believed in and trusted

turns into a whirlpool, 

you can begin to awaken.

Instinct will command you 

to kick and thrash against the spinning, 

to save your body as it is, 

your life as you would have it. 

But the water wants to change you. 

Let it take you under. 

The bottom is the real ground

of your dreaming. Only in the drowning 

can you find yourself 

and a crew of able companions 

bearing the names of every virtue, 

worthy of a great uprising.

Chris Ellery of San Angelo is the author of six collections of poetry, most recently One Like Silence. He is a member of the Texas Institute of Letters and the Texas Association of Creative Writers.