democracyroad

 
 
Enlighten Radio Presents
 
When a man passes, the streets get shorter.
 
 
London streets, county roads, streets of Jerusalem, Is moonlight warmer than the city lamps? W. Ethelbert Miller, Amy Lowell and Naomi Nye headline the feeling of being followed, or following: Nobody?
Broadcast Wednesdays, 10 AM on player.enlightenradio.org
Hosts: Janet Harrison, John Case
This Episode Recorded 06/24/2026
Streets of Jerusalem
by Homer
 
Streets Naomi Shihab Nye 1952 – A man leaves the world and the streets he lived on grow a little shorter. One more window dark in this city, the figs on his branches will soften for birds. If we stand quietly enough evenings there grows a whole company of us standing quietly together. overhead loud grackles are claiming their trees and the sky which sews and sews, tirelessly sewing, drops her purple hem. Each thing in its time, in its place, it would be nice to think the same about people. Some people do. They sleep completely, waking refreshed. Others live in two worlds, the lost and remembered. They sleep twice, once for the one who is gone, once for themselves. They dream thickly, dream double, they wake from a dream into another one, they walk the short streets calling out names, and then they answer.
 
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Enlighten Radio Presents
 
Dark -- But Untwisted
 
 
Poems to the "black swan" -- associated with magical rarity, or fantasy contexts, except in Australia whence they originate. Jeanine Leane, Bridget Pegeen Kelly, Katharyn Howd Machan, more
Wednesdays 10 AM
Hosts: Janet Harrison, John Case
This Episode Recorded May 18, 2026
Odile, The Black Swan
by Una Mcdonnell
Impossible to look at her without thinking dark water, depths where light doesn't reach. In the diner on Dalhousie, her presence commands the booth, though only the decrepit at the counter sees the water rising, water- line gurgling just beneath her chin. Flutter of a dark wing that briefly stretches. Sally, a regular, orders coffee between johns, eggs at 4 a.m. They arrive, sunny side silicon perfect. Minivans line up to glean sorrow from her eyes. If only I could dance, says Sally. When the sky turns pink, she'll sleep. Odile once had an act involving lit black candles and a snake. Smoke she could conjure on demand. Rose on stage, an angel from the black lake. They all desired her, but one. Before Champagne Rooms, loose laws, when looking was enoughShe holds her mug as if it could contain her. The transistor radio tin-tin-tins demented heart songs tie a yellow ribbon -- and getting caught in the rain --¦ and I'll never have that recipe again --Pale-skinned fries rise like broken limbs from plates, tendrils of vinegar seep down. The scent is grease, acid, hot breath and chrome. There are no new ways to be alone. There are no new ways to mourn.
 
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questions, comments: jcase4218@gmail.com