February 10-16, 2014: Holly Day and Andy Scotson

Holly Day and Andy Scotson

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration. Click here for submission guidelines.

Holly Day

Bio (auto)

Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, also known as “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Holly Day and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

My First Nazi

Nathan was the first Nazi
I ever met—his father was a methe addict redneck
who wore swastikas on his motorcycle helmet
saw his son twice since birth. Nathan’s mother
was an illegal from Guatemala, was promised
marriage and a green card by Nathan’s father
only to be left knocked-up and homeless in California.

And Nathan was a Nazi.
“My dad sent these to me,” he’d say
proudly displaying a cigar box packed
with cheap die-cast Iron Cross necklaces, swastika earrings,
mass-produced rings bearing snake-wrapped skulls.
“He’s going to come and get me someday,
take me away from all this shit.”

Nathan’s mother worked from 4 a.m. to 8 p.m.
at Mattel, an assembly-line worker making toys
she could never afford. Once, she brought home
a skateboard, a Christmas present for Nathan, asked me
“Did I get the right kind? Do you think
he’ll like it?” I remember feeling envious
over the brand-name board, the killer wheels
even the artwork on the board was way better than mine.
“He’ll love it,” I said, wondering what
Nathan’s father was going to send that year.
“And if he doesn’t want it, I’ll take it.”


my grandfather won’t watch sitcoms because
there are too many black people in t.v.
I watch as his world grows smaller and smaller
as he cuts more and more things
from his life because he doesn’t want
to look at black people, new movies,
the news, his walks through the park
answering the door, all to avoid
seeing black people. he spends his days

watching old movies, pretending the world
is Fred Astaire, Roy Rogers, Elizabeth Taylor,
only white people, listens only to Lawrence Welk and
polka records from his childhood in Canada
where he still thinks everyone is
white. I secretly scout out nursing homes
struggle to find ways to ask the staff
how many black people live there
how many white people work there
if there’s some way we can keep him
safe from the rest of the world.

Andy Scotson

Bio (auto)

I write lots of poems. I am 51 and live in Kilsby near Rugby in the UK. I work for Tesco on nights. I studied history English and Politics at Leicester Polytechnic a long time ago. I live in the country and love it there. Visit Andy on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Andy Scotson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Blurry eyed, hungover
tv on news in hotel room
awake, blue skies, shouting
hands point up
to flame lit figures falling
arms flailing

at ticker tape showering down
shell shocked States smitten
a plane, buildings, acts of war

Headless chickens
where did the attack come from ?
hide, escape
but from what and to where

Jerry and me, Vancouver
woken to World War 3
September 11th
world changed while we slept
the sleep of the drunk

Planes grounded
we fly tomorrow
not !
wander in town, in shock

mum, we are safe
news so seismic
it flashes oceans
smashes living rooms
around the globe

Everything diverted to Canada
nothing moves
blueberry pancakes lose flavour as we

sit drinking in a
change in the world
war on terror begins
before planes finish falling.


Subscribe to our weekly Newsletter: