JEREMIAH 2020AD

by Julie Kramer

Immigrant families wait in May 2019 in Los Ebanos, Tex., to be searched and taken to a U.S. Border Patrol station after they were caught illegally crossing into the United States from Mexico. Credit: Jabin Botsford/The Washington Post, October 23, 2020

“Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” —Matthew 19:14

 

You put them in cages

    and arm their enemies with AK47s

You take away their food

   and say that it is for their own good

You dirty their air and water

   and point to it as progress

You make their world uninhabitable

   and call their cries a hoax

You let your police

   murder them in their beds

   and say they deserved it

You punish their governors

   for standing up for them

You take away their families’ health insurance

   and say it’s in service of freedom

You beat them in the streets

   because they challenge your authority

You promise them relief

   and present it to the rich

You insult their allies

   and sell out their friends

You sit by as they die of a dread disease

  saying it will just... go away

You defile and debase

   the halls of their government

   with petty criminals and yes men

You make their lives less sane, less safe, and less free

 

You think that their God is sleeping

   do not be deceived

God will bring about his justice

   through the least of things

Including teenage TikTokers

               small dollar donations

                                absentee ballots

                                               and subpoenas.

 

Julie Kramer is a molecular biologist, lay minister, marketer, and mom of three teenagers living in Madison, Wisconsin.  In 2012, she made the unforeseen and disconcerting discovery that she is also a poet. Her themes include family, religion, #me too, and current events. She has had previous work published in the Journal of Women and Religion, and the Wisconsin UCC Conference newsletter.

TODAY

by Earl J. Wilcox

Today when I awoke it was very dark outside.

Today when I got up at 5:30 AM, it was cold.

Today I fumble putting in my hearing aids.

Today my glasses help little with macular degenration.

Today my bladder wants to empty before I arise.

Today I struggle to put on my pants, my shoes.

Today the cats wait patiently to be fed, petted.

Today I see dimly the coffee pot, the faucet.

Today I munch a protein bar, put on a mask.

Today I find my walking stick, unlock the door.

Today I stumble out the door, my knees resist walking.

Today it is still dark as I move toward the street light.

Today I shudder, cough and sneeze, wait for a ride.

Today I hear kids and cars and school buses pass by.

Today a friend stops for me. I hobble to his car.

Today I find his car is warm, his voice hopeful.

Today we ride to a community center across town.

Today I can barely hear or see the place we seek.

Today I wobble down the pavement, smile, anxious.

Today a friendly voice asks if I am “doin’ OK?”.

Today I walk inside a warm hall, hear low, calm chatter.

Today I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait.

Today I wonder if the line will open a slot for me.

Today I arise, my cane is calmer than I am.

Today I hand my photo ID to someone at a table.

Today I am helped to a small machine I barely see.

Today a friendly voice asks if I can see the screen.

Today I barely read, barely hear, barely stand.

Today I feel a rush of joy and peace.

Today my friend puts a small sticker on my sweater.

Today and tomorrow the sticker says I VOTED.

 

This week at age 87 Earl Wilcox voted.

DÓNDE ESTÁ MI MADRE

by Roger Aplon

 

A child weeps & her cries reverberate throughout the dingy warehouses,

makeshift barracks & swarming

extraction camps, it

 

ricochets across the desolate plains of west Texas & southern California &

southern Arizona & the mesas

of New Mexico.

 

A child weeps & his tears threaten to drown the tongue-tied Christians, Jews

& Muslims, they dampen dinner tables

in Portland, Maine &

 

Poughkeepsie, New York & St. Louis, Missouri & across the Rockies &

across the sea to Honolulu. Children weep &

parents weep &

 

a once-proud people cringes in the wake of what it has allowed & what it

has wrought & what it is to be

dishonored.

 

Between bouts of fear & trembling these kids are heard to ask ¿ Dónde está mi madre?

          —¿Dónde está mi padre?—

¿ Dónde estoy?

 

‘Where Am I?’ rings off-key like a cracked bell—like a symbolic “liberty”

bell, cracked but still resonant, reminiscent

of what has been lost but might still be.

 

Roger Aplon has published thirteen books: one of prose poems & short fiction: Intimacies;  twelve of poetry, including the recently published: Mustering What’s Left—Selected & New Poems—1976 – 2017 from Unsolicited Press. He lives in Beacon, N Y & publishes the poetry magazine: “Waymark – Voices of the Valley.”

OCTOBER 2020

by Roberto Christiano 

"Fear of Pain," oil painting by Igor Shulman

I have heard the sirens falling

falling like the songs of sorrow

I have seen the black man hobbled

hobbled by the blues of bullets

I have smelt the forests burning

burning till the ashes whiten

 

I have seen the mermaids leaving

leaving as our rivers rumble

I have heard the children crying

crying with our cupboards empty

I have smelt the fear of winter

winter with the sirens calling

 

Roberto Christiano won the 2010 Fiction Prize from Northern Virginia Review. He received a Pushcart Prize nomination for poetry in Prairie Schooner. His poetry is anthologized in The Gávea–Brown Book of Portuguese-American Poetry (Brown University). His chapbook Port of Leaving was published by Finishing Line Press. Other poems have appeared in The New Verse News, The Washington Post, Writer.org, and The Sow's Ear.

IN LOVE AND POETRY

by Indran Amirthanayagam

“Hope,” a painting (1886) by George Frederic Watts and assistants.

Call it now. Out loud.

Without shame. By

its name. Call it

this morning on waking

in the still dark. Call it

reading last night

your words on the screen.

Call it banishing sleep.

There is no energy

more sweet that sustains.

Call it for the one

who corrects these verses.

Call it on streets of

suburb and city,

in the fields. Call it

in front of the Capitol

on top of Mount Baldy

on Waikiki Beach,

by Lake Superior.

We are going far my dear

and we are walking back

home for Thanksgiving

Let us invite Kamala

and Joe to the table.

Let us boil sweet potatoes,

serve elderberry jam,

make a bean and onion stuffing,

let our friends know

the meal will not involve

killing a turkey

or any other fowl.

Let us give thanks God

for this vitamin flowering

in the early dark, guiding

our fingers as we write,

saying call it now.

in the day, at night,

to friends and enemies

alike. In love and poetry

we are going to make

table and bed, and

we are going to write

our songs in these days

of the plague until

we see light come up

above the trees on fire,

the befogged clouds,

until the back of beyond.

Indran Amirthanayagam writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese and Haitian Creole. He has 19 poetry books, including The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, 2020) and Sur l'île nostalgique (L'Harmattan, 2020). In music, he recorded Rankont Dout. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, is a columnist for Haiti en Marche, won the Paterson Prize, and is a 2020 Foundation for the Contemporary Arts fellow.

JOY IN THE TIME OF COVID

by Rebecca Leet

“Joy of Life,” a painting by Alexandra Romano.

Joy has deep, soft texture these days,

like going barefoot on a carpet so lush

you almost feel you’re walking on air.

Its sound is soft, too—no brass bands,

 

no clashing cymbals. More like sweet air

passing through spring leaves. Its color

is the wash of a water-color painting—

nothing bold. To claim joy feels slightly selfish

 

but how can I feel other when—as I write—

all whom I love are healthy and those dearest

I can hold with my eyes—un-Zoomed—

and with my arms. I cradle my granddaughter

 

and inhale her infant perfume, draw each daughter

hard against my breasts. Randomly, a quiver

of Covid concern causes pause until—

like warm sun on my face in winter—

 

time dissolves into the eternity of now

and I breathe in the joy of the moment.

 

Rebecca Leet has been writing poetry for five years since retiring from the media-policy-politics world of Washington, DC. Her first book of poetry is Living With the Doors Wide Open. She has been published in Canary, Passager, Bourgeon, and elsewhere.

COVID ABATTOIR

by Philip C. Kolin

Above: Family members of JBS USA meat packing plant employee Saul Sanchez watch as his casket is lowered during his funeral after he died of Covid-19 in Greeley, Colo., on April 15, 2020.Jim Urquhart / Reuters via NBC

“Meatpackers deny workers benefits for virus-related deaths, illnesses.” 

—NBC, September 29, 2020

Upton Sinclair is roiling in his grave.

Things have not changed in Packingtowns

across America. Covid has just made them worse.

The virus works well in these damp, cold, sun-

blocked meat processing plants where droplets can settle 

and slay much longer. Gigantic fans whirl and spread 

saturated foul air as workers breathe each other's

infected coughs and sneezes.  Loud machinery demands

they must talk louder and farther to announce Covid's arrival.

All in cramped spaces.

Packed shoulder to shoulder, workers have to

butcher in non-stop 10-12 hour shifts, no plexiglass

or strip curtains between them. Processing lines

move at race car speeds, leaving workers even  more

vulnerable thanks to exhausted breath, great Covid hosts. 

It's a lung-breaking job. And sharing knives

and hammers means shaking hands with coworker Covid.

Like the animals they eviscerate and de-hide,

these meat processing workers leave the plant

with slaughtered lives, their lungs and hearts offal.

It's a jungle in these plants.

Philip C. Kolin is the Distinguished Professor of English (Emeritus) and Editor Emeritus of the Southern Quarterly at the University of Southern Mississippi. He has published more than 40 books on Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, African American playwrights as well as ten collections of poems. His most recent books are Reaching Forever: Poems in the Poiema Series of Cascade Books and, forthcoming from Main Street Rag, Delta Tears.

SUBURBAN WOMEN

 by Laura Winkelspecht

Suburban women wake up early to exercise,

load the dishwasher while brushing their teeth,

and dress their kids on the way out the door.

 

Suburban women drive to office jobs

in late model crossover vehicles

and pick up overpriced coffee on the way.

 

Suburban women schedule family vacations,

manage doctor appointments and oil changes,

and plan pregnancies in between potty training.

 

Suburban women attend soccer games,

take turns at carpooling to school,

and organize fundraisers and family reunions.  

 

Suburban women decorate for each holiday,

nurture their prized sourdough starter,

and sew masks for everyone in their family.

 

Suburban women host socially distant barbeques

with their brown neighbors two doors over

and promise play dates with genuine smiles.

 

Suburban women tolerate condescension

with tight-lipped smiles and long memories. 

They register voters on the weekend.

Laura Winkelspecht is a poet and writer from Wisconsin who writes with the hope of finding lightning among the lightning bugs. She has been published in Anti-Heroin Chic, One Sentence Poems, Rat’s Ass Review, Poets Reading the News, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee.

SIMILE

by Gil Hoy

So now he's said:

 "Maybe 

I'll have to leave 

the country 

if I lose the election." 

You mean 

like a fleeing felon 

trying to get away?

All of America's birds

gone South

Will then be seen 

flying north.

Every hibernating thing

will be waking early.

Gil Hoy is a Best of the Net nominated Boston poet who studied poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy previously received a B.A. in Philosophy from BU, an M.A. in Government from Georgetown University, and a J.D. from the University of Virginia School of Law. He served as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman for 4 terms. Hoy's poetry has appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, Chiron Review, Ariel Chart, Right Hand Pointing, Indian Periodical, Rusty Truck, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, The New Verse News, Rat's Ass Review, the penmen review, and elsewhere. 

THE CAN'T-WORRY TALES (EPILOGUE)

by Richard Hacken

Whan that panne-demie with her virrus bittre

the lande with Mericanne courpses did littre,

and swathed thus visages with couvre-masque,

of which vertu for manye was too bigge an asque;

Whan Donaldus (eek!)  with his love for selfe

putte bleech and snaque's oil on ev'ry shelfe

for tendre eldres with prievyus conditiones

held oute to driy at cause of his foul perditiones;

and with electiones at halfe cours yronne,

twentie-milles of lyes he'd alreddie sponne, 

So priketh hem the truth from toe to tooth

which longeth folk to goon to voting booth,

or mail-personnes who neith in raine nor sleete do faile

to delivere ballotts by the U.S. Mail;

And specially from every stayte and districke

of Vespucci-Lande at the urn they pick

the hatefulle, hurtfulle jerke away to sende

that in an SDNY gaol he might justlie ende. 

Richard Hacken is a librarian-poet with degrees in German literature and past appointments at U.C. Davis, Oregon State, University of Kansas and BYU. He has translated Austrian short fiction and the poetry of a Tuvan poet from Mongolia who publishes in German. He claims to have found this Chaucer epilogue in the wash.

DEMOCRACY AS AN ACT

by Mary O’Melveny

Ardeth Platte, Dominican Nun and Antinuclear Activist, Dies at 84. Sister Ardeth spent years behind bars for her beliefs and was the inspiration for a character on the Netflix hit Orange Is the New Black. Photo: Sister Ardeth, left, and hr friend Sister Carol at the White House in 2019 protesting plans for a military base in Okinawa, Japan. —The New York Times, October 8, 2020

Who can say what lines cannot

be crossed? What laws must be obeyed?

Most days, it feels as though we

are all complicit in our world’s great ills.

 

Who can say how we will react

when guilt cannot be assuaged

in ways that “they” deem polite?

Safety in numbers does not always save.

 

I have wielded bolt cutters

and climbed cyclone fences to search

for a more peaceful planet.

They had to wash my blood from missile silos.

 

I wore white until orange

was chosen for me by others

who mistook my acts for threats.

Humility can flourish in many colors.

 

Who can say what bravery is?

I was just afraid we would

all expire from carelessness,

that we would disappoint by despairing.

 

I always loved my life here,

even strip searched and shackled.

My convictions were the dues

I paid to earn my right to be a truthteller.

 

Who can say how we best serve

as stewards of our earthly time?

I never judged others’ paths

but I knew my own footsteps were not enough.

 

In the end, we are all fellow

travelers trying to bend

the moral arc toward justice.

Who can say for sure that we will not succeed? 

Mary K O'Melveny is a recently retired labor rights attorney who lives in Washington DC and Woodstock NY.  Her work has appeared in various print and on-line journals. Her first poetry chapbook A Woman of a Certain Age is available from Finishing Line Press. Mary’s poetry collection Merging Star Hypotheses was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2020.

ODE TO THE OCTOBER PUMPKIN

Earl Wilcox is a regular reader and contributor to The New Verse News.

OCTOBER 17, SWEETEST DAY

by Ron Riekki

or, this year, Sweatiest Day, how hot 

 

the goddamn gowns and gloves are in- 

side the war of the COVID wards, how 

STUPID are the anti-maskers, the 27— 

at my current count—White Housers 

positive, and here I’m a pessimist, 

seeing the ramifications, seeing the 

ventilators, seeing the conventions, 

 

packed with people; or maybe it’s 

 

the SWATest Day, the ICEist day, 

these days of mass pollution/mass 

arrests for immigrants just trying 

to go to mass, or to work; or may- 

be it’s the Sleepiest Day, the mass 

hypnosis of this world, being told 

that this virus will just "go away," 

 

told by someone who, by the way, 

 

could get re-infected, someone who 

just had a runny nose, but now who’s 

running for President when he has 

never yet actually been President, 

or been presidential, just swinging 

pendulums in front of our eyes, 

telling us we’re feeling sleepy, so 

 

sleepy; or maybe it is, as I said, 

 

the Heat-est Day, the Hottest Day, 

the hottest October 17 that’s ever 

been recorded, because, sadly, 

that’s the theme of this year, how 

there haven’t really been any holi- 

days this year, just evil-days, sad- 

days, maydays, doomsdays, play- 

 

days where kids can’t touch, birth- 

 

days where we can’t hug, because 

we’re on an expressway to hell if 

we don’t stop the way we treat 

the world and the way we treat 

each other, if we fall for the tricks 

that led us to this collapse, the tricks 

of 2016 where the U.S. was covered 

 

in red.  Honestly, aren’t you, too, tired? 

Ron Riekki's latest books in 2020 are Niiji (Cyberwit, co-written with Sally Brunk), i have been warned not to write about this (Main Street Rag), and The Many Lives of It (McFarland).

SERVE

by Akua Lezli Hope

via GIPHY

Her smirk

not a quirk

an expressive face that moves

knows the dance in a glance

an intellectual twerk

displays the staunch resilience

of the endowed but denied

civility’s proprieties

resistance to a jerk

who made exchange real work

those demeaned, those denied

who manage but won’t hide

constraints placed on contempt

silence endless drumbeats to genuflect

accommodate, excuse, cow-tow

duck and shamble, indulge the ruse —

all ignored in the arch of her brow

skew of her lips, pursed

and parsed along the narrow band

of behavior deemed seemly

she could not unmean what she meant

nor unintend the message sent, she would

proffer her passion extolling another

yet not relent and we, her many

cousins laugh and apprehend this

semiotic vent, who know well

the sly, deliberate tell

 

 

Akua Lezli Hope is a creator and wisdom seeker who uses sound, words, fiber, glass, metal, and wire to create poems, patterns, stories, music,  sculpture, and peace.  A third generation New Yorker, her honors include the NEA, two NYFAs, SFPA, Rhysling and Pushcart Prize nominations.