Bang 

He’d just gotten a haircut. Bang. 

She was an exchange student from Pakistan. Bang. 

He was the world’s best son. Bang. 

She was his sister. Bang. 

He was fifteen. Bang. 

They came to the United States to escape violence in their home countries of Eritrea, Iran and Vietnam. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

She loved the Dallas Cowboys. Bang. 

It was her first time in a gay nightclub. She was with her uncle who she called Guncle. Bang. Bang. 

He was 25, one week away from finishing his internship. Bang. 

They were Mexican. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

They had twelve great-grandchildren. Bang. Bang. 

He was a standout athlete. Bang. 

They were at a prayer service and invited him to join them. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

She was 86. Bang. 

They were Black. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

The baby was alive under his mother’s body, covered with her blood. Bang. Bang. 

He was visiting from Germany. Bang. 

He was shot by police. Twenty-eight bangs. 

They were gay. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

He was protecting his wife and grandchild. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

He was an off-duty police officer. Bang. 

They were twenty children, ages six and seven years old. Too many bangs. 

He was a bus driver. Bang. 

She was his mother. Bang. 

He was a Petty Officer, Third Class. Bang. 

She was his girlfriend. Bang. 

He dreamed of becoming an art teacher. Bang. 

She was the last victim to be shot. Bang. 

She thought about bringing her pistol to work the night before. Bang. 

He was three. Bang. 

He saw the shooter brushing his teeth in the bathroom moments before. Bang. 

She begged for her life. Bang. 

They were watching Trainwreck. Bang. Bang. 

She was pregnant. Bang. Bang. 

They had sixty-three combined years working for UPS. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

They were at home, eating dinner. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. 

Our president sang Amazing Grace.

by Margo Jodyne Dills

January 2019

May 3 - Still missing Mom....She would have been 95 today.

April was an interesting month.

April 1, April Fool’s Day, I helped my former husband celebrate his 73^rd birthday. He was 37 when I met him, and a party would likely have included a bevy of friends in those times. Things change; sometimes drastically. When I received an email from him inviting me to join him for a drink, coffee, whatever… to keep him from observing the day alone, I felt bad. We had a lovely time reminiscing with our dear mutual friend, Jim. This news will surprise some people but I’ve always felt that Breeze got robbed. I did, too, of course, but if you could see him now, having a hard time walking, hearing, multiple health issues that can’t really be solved. I’m the lucky one. Whoever would have seen that back there in the mid-‘90’s, when my life crumbled, over and over again and people disappeared off our radar like gypsy spies.

Some of these poems are for Breeze, but not many. Most of my April Poem-a-Day poems are based on real life. As are my books, which take chapters in my own life and fictionalize characters who have painted my personal canvas with gorgeous, bittersweet, splendid colors. The good news about my novels is the phone call I had April 5th with the marketing director for a small press, Pagespring, who boosted my ego, gave me great advice and promised great things for my future, after I put in a few more drops of blood, sweats and tears.

I’ve lost some followers in the past few years and picked up a few, as well. I won’t troll for followers and realize Blogspot is not an easy site to leave comments on, but I do invite those who like poetry (or enjoy voyeurism) to read April. There's a poem every day. 

Thanks for reading…