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Today's News . . . Today's Poem
The New Verse News
presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.
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Monday, December 04, 2023
SHOPPING SPREE
Sunday, December 03, 2023
TACKY TINSEL STUFF
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Vintage Judaica solid brass Weinberg dove bird Hanukkah menorah candlestick. |
hooked to curtains
mylar dreidels, menorahs
glitzy glitter star of David
dangles from the fireplace
the breakfast bar
covered in hanukkiah,
driedels and drip trays
crafted by my children
thirty years ago
they’re asking for a truce
just two more days, two more
three hostages have died
one is a ten-month-old
dreidels fill plates
in our living room
dining room and den
I can’t spin them
the nine-month-old hostage
has yet to be released
is that the same baby that died?
how do you spin that?
newlyweds return to the rubble
of their Gaza home
a box of wedding candy
the sole survivor of their stuff
One of my menorahs
takes the shape of a dove
I don’t know
I don’t know
I cannot recall
the candle blessing
but those images of Israel
of Gaza burn bright
Julie Standig, a lifetime New Yorker, now lives in Bucks County PA. She has been published in anthologies, online journals, and is the author of a chapbook, and full collection, The Forsaken Little Black Book. A long-time participate at the 92Y, she loves the writing community she has found in Bucks County.
Saturday, December 02, 2023
AFTER THE SINGER, SILENCE
1000 droplets hang
each catching the grey morning light
like a Christmas string
and a magpie’s carolling down by the lake
on and on. You’ve gone downstairs
to give your morning sessions
this first day of December, 2023.
Yesterday Shane McGowan died
that broken beautiful man. Maybe
that’s why the magpie sang so long
although it’s fallen silent now,
and why I sit here, on and on,
mesmerised by these beads of light.
Kai Jensen is a US-born Kiwi/Australian poet who now lives at Wallaga Lake on the Far South Coast of New South Wales, Australia. Kai’s poetry has appeared in many Australasian literary journals.
Friday, December 01, 2023
HUMANITARIAN PAUSE
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“Two Turkeys ‘Liberty’ and ‘Bell’ Pardoned by Biden” —VOA, November 20, 2023 |
They won the lottery of born
right time, right place: were given room
Their beaks and toes weren’t scissored, clipped;
they weren’t warehoused for a life of stink and filth.
They are the inverse of scapegoats: suffer liberty
and tender, attentive care to cover for the rest—
multitudes hoisted and hacked, gutted and wrapped.
Thankful at the table, see and smell the golden,
roasted bird—headless, plucked, and stuffed—
and give thanks for the generous spread of luck:
you here, and not there. Surely that rings a bell.
Matthew Murrey is the author of the poetry collection Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019). He's published widely, most recently in The Dodge, Bear Review, and Redheaded Stepchild. He was a public school librarian for 21 years, and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. He can be found on Instagram, Twitter/X and Bluesky under the handle @mytwords.
Thursday, November 30, 2023
AS I WATCH ROSALYNN CARTER’S TRIBUTE
Wednesday, November 29, 2023
THE ENGLISH TEACHER PENS A LETTER TO TECH CEOS
An afternoon grading on the internet, I walk out
To the November skies of Los Angeles, warm,
A day moon more orb-like than usual in the east.
The sun a shining lake behind fair weather clouds.
I’m thinking of you. How you stalked us in our
Classrooms for years, removing first our books.
Taking our grades and popping them on screens
That would never time out, even on vacations.
It’s you I blame whenever I can’t direct students
To a specific page, numbers eliminated long ago,
The corners, dog-eared, the scanning of the hand
Across print to mark a quote, to seize an argument.
But I’m a gnat on a remote beach of the economic
Planet to you staring at a sea of adolescents with
Endless passwords tattooed on their brains. Strolling,
I spot a Yellow-rumped Warbler shadowing me along
The side of the road. An intelligence, a god, birthed
Of the moon and sun. Buffering, my human hopes.
Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.
Tuesday, November 28, 2023
BYE, BYE, HOMO SAPIENS… WE HARDLY KNEW YA
Monday, November 27, 2023
UNDER
there was a grub twisting in the topsoil,
and a topsail from an ancient ship
folded nine times,
and a mole with pale human-like fingers
prodding a tree root,
and under this,
a chest seething with stolen coins,
and an aquifer dank with depleted water,
and a cave system beading on for miles
and miles, and a vein of gold ore,
and a cache of diamonds, and a hoard
of sapphires, and under this,
a corpse moaning the name of its child.
Sunday, November 26, 2023
SIMCHAT TORAH WAR
by Elya Braden
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“Bereshit” print from Nireh Or |
The beginning is the promise of the end.
—Henry Ward Beecher
Every Fall we rock the house,
dance & sing & lift the scroll.
Roll back to B’reishit. In the beginning—
chaos cleaved into light & dark
a man a woman a garden a fall.
Roll back l’dor v’dor—generation
to generation.
Roll back Deuteronomy’s gifts—
Ten Commandments, Moses peering
into the Promised Land.
Roll back Numbers’ sufferings—
rod, stone, bland manna,
a wilderness of complaint.
Roll back Leviticus’ hundreds of tiny edicts
the cost of forgiveness—
denial & purification.
Roll back Exodus’ hungry waters,
locusts, frogs, endless night,
lambs’ blood to guardian our sons.
Roll back to Genesis—father/mother/
multiply two sons & divide
by one patch of desert.
So, who’s to blame for blood feud?
Isaac & Ishmael? Or their mothers—
Sarah & Hagar? Sarah’s laughter
withering on her lips as her handmaid
suckles Abraham’s eldest—
a legacy of lack & opportunity.
Or blame God—God’s two-faced
promise: I will make of your son
a great nation.
Well, one thing we know about land
is God ain’t making any more.
Yet we multiply like frogs, spill
from lakes & puddles & faucets & mouths,
our hunger rises like the papery wings
of a thousand moths splitting their cocoons,
stripping the trees of green.
So why not drone a war on this day
we dance & sing, raise Torah scrolls
above our heads to celebrate return?
B’reishit bara Elohim,
“In the beginning, God created…”
Air raid sirens the only psalms now sung
in this land of too many Gods.
Saturday, November 25, 2023
TIOGA DOWNS
by Julene Waffle
Ten minutes before the sun started
its fiery path across the sky
and dropped its first dewy light
through my window,
someone called the fire department
at Tioga Downs,
but it was already too late.
Always Smooth, Better Call Saul (a cheeky bugger),
Birdie Three, the angel of the barn, and more.
Did he speak to them? Tell them why?
There must have been a click of an igniter
Did their ears prick at the sound?
Did they stomp their feet?
Da Boogie Man, Danzon Hanover who loved
nipping at zippers and pulling strings.
A barn intentionally set on fire.
In an instant thirty horses were gone.
Diamond Express whose eyes sparkled like her name.
Fireside Tail arrived not twelve hours before;
A yearling, her owner cried,
I’m so sorry little angel.
Their trainers and owners couldn't
free them from the flames for the heat
and the smoke and the burning.
Hall It Off. It’s Rigged was a soft-hearted oaf.
Karpathos was 22 and in his eleventh year
of retirement. Lone Wolf American.
Onlookers could hear them, kick and scream,
then nothing
but the crackle and break of flame and beam.
And people crying in the dusk.
Hot Shot Joe had a zest for life
as big as the race inside him.
Hunts Point—no one will know his full potential.
Ideal Chance arrived two days before.
He was in a new home amidst strangers.
These horses were more than statistics, more than racers;
They were promises made and promises kept.
They were family.
Market Mayhem. Mc Mach loved racing
but might have loved his ears scratched more.
My Delight was a lady’s man. Payara danced in her stall.
Owners knew their lineages better than their own.
Grant Me This adored her barn sister Silverhill Misty.
Pineapple Sundae just finished six months of rehab
for a knee injury. He was a race horse
who didn’t have one last chance to run.
Once they begged for treats. Others leaned eagerly out
of their stalls to greet everyone who passed.
Some napped twenty-two hours a day. Some knew
their mind and let everyone know it too.
Pocket Watch N. Prairie Dutches.
Rough Montana Lane loved cuddles and kisses.
SD Watch Me Now was grumpy, but
would secretly give you kisses then pull faces
behind your back. Blazin Mooss was sweet in the barn
and crazy on the track. Slave Labour.
Schlitz lived for hay bags and hugs.
And a horse named Violence
would sit in your lap if you let him.
Buzzards R Flying was a wise old man at heart
and his brother, didn't even have time
to earn his name.
Some were just learning. Some were veterans.
They were nicknamed: Dandy Cheeks, Princess Di,
Macaroni, Norman, Spongebob, Sassy Susan, Tank.
They were gentle to the wheel,
and named by little girls and boys who were their best friends.
They made men cry at the track and made their owners
throw themselves into the flames to save them.