HOW FAR IS AMERICA FROM HERE ?

by Howard Winn

Image source: Tnooz

What has happened to the sign posts,
the route numbers,
and why does the compass
seem not to work?
Has someone burned the maps,
torn up the directions,
pointed in the wrong way
while standing at the side of the road?
The noise from the speakers
seems to disguise the words
or make them into a meaningless mumble.
Who is talking?
What do they want?
It is difficult to see past that mirage
created in the Texas heat
over the road onward.
The scene appears like a cool lake,
shimmering in the sunlight,
calling for a redemptive baptism,
that turns the highway ahead
into seeming holy water.
Will we walk upon it,
following some self-defined sacred leader,
or will we find the surface
hard and black like the shadows
of the storytellers who lead us.
How far is America from here?


Howard Winn's poetry and fiction has been published recently in Dalhousie Review, Galway Review, Taj Mahal Review, Descant (Canada), Antigonish Review, Southern Humanities Review, Chaffin Review, Evansville Review, and Blueline. He has a B. A. from Vassar College and an M. A. from the Stanford University Writing Program.

FOLLOWING THE NEWS, WE RETURN YOU TO THE MUSIC OF THE SEASON

by Maryann Corbett

Students in India mourn the Pakistani students lost in the Peshawar school attack last week.

And as the alto line shoulders its ache
of dissonance against the calm soprano,
I think, Always the same mysterium:

The moment when at last the milk-drunk infant
droops against the breast, and the new mother
sighs into sleep, is darkened by the knowledge
that soldiers from a foreign empire are quartered
in the next street, while a strongman in the hills
clings to to his shreds of power. When he strikes,
we wake to scenes of the bloody slaughter of children.

For them there are few carols, rarely sung.

                        Peshawar
                        remembered on 28 December,
                        Feast of the Holy Innocents

Maryann Corbett's poems, essays, and translations have appeared in Southwest Review, Barrow Street, Rattle, River Styx, Atlanta Review, The Evansville Review, Measure, Literary Imagination, The Dark Horse, Mezzo Cammin, Linebreak, Subtropics, Verse Daily, American Life in Poetry, The Poetry Foundation, The Writer's Almanac, and many other venues in print and online, as well an assortment of anthologies, most recently Obsession: Sestinas in the Twenty-First Century. She has been a several-time Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, a finalist for the 2009 Morton Marr Prize, the 2010 Best of the Net anthology, and the 2011 Able Muse Book Prize, and a winner of the Lyric Memorial Award, the Willis Barnstone Translation Prize, and the Richard Wilbur Poetry Award. Her third book, Mid Evil, is the Wilbur Award winner and is forthcoming from the University of Evansville Press.

ROBERT FROST POSTS ON FACEBOOK

by Earl J. Wilcox

Sat down on back porch
This morning after feeding
Chickens, like yesterday.
Watched morning mist
Circle round apple orchard,
Listened long to lonesome
Dove coo its mate. Two lines
Of new poem came to me
During a long night. “Whose
Woods these are I think I know,”
But next line does not seem right,
Still I post it here for interest
To see if anyone likes it.
“His house is in the village
Though.” Now if only I had
A few more lines to go with
These two I might make a poem.
Probably won’t come to much,
Yet the Rhode Island Red Rooster
Liked the lines when I said them
To him. What do you think?
I will see if I can get more
Started while I walk around farm.
Cloudy and cold here in Vermont
Today. Could even snow. Rob.


Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he is a regular contributor to The New Verse News. More of Earl's poetry appears at his blog, Writing by Earl.

CANNIBAL KING,or EVERYWHERE IS SANDY HOOK

by Howie Good

God, if there is one,
must be a very old man
who sits on a stool
in the shade of a sidewalk tree,
now & again dozing off,
his stubbly chin
dropping onto his chest,
while not far away
bat-winged dogs
devour the schoolchildren
he’s just too full
to devour himself.


All proceeds from Howie Good's latest book of poetry,  Fugitive Pieces (Right Hand Press), go to the Food Bank of the Hudson Valley.

WORK WE'VE FAILED TO DO

by Barry Koplen

In the wings,
trouble greets submission;
guns speak. Murder calls
random numbers.

Mine? Yours?
The guy who commands
Curiosity to find water
on Mars?

He's distracted or
he will be
when the Super Bowl draws

nigh or when Miley
wears little or nothing but
the gunman is not

distracted. Like an actor,
he loves his role so much
we can't keep him
in the wings.


For more than fifty years, Barry Koplen has been writing poetry and prose. Often published by friendly journals too arcane to mention, he received his MFA from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. Recently, he completed the second half of a two-volume collection of poems and essays. The first, Whale of Grief, complements Wail of Joy, the second; both are related to impressions of life as a Jew in a non-Jewish world. His No Gold Stars tells his personal story of the integration of the Greenville, SC school system. His latest Why Don’t They Believe Me? Four of Us Saw the Saucer will be available in January. Currently, he is completing two collections of poems while teaching Creative Writing in Virginia at Danville Community College.

GREEN TEA AND A CANDY BAR

by David Chorlton

On a desert cool December evening
outside the CVS branch
a dark shape in the parking lot
asks for green tea and a candy bar.
He doesn’t say Please, doesn’t

want to chat, doesn’t introduce
himself, doesn’t offer a story
to explain why he’s here
with a rolled up blanket and
bad teeth; he just stirs like a conscience

with Christmas on the way
and knows what he wants
even if he’ll settle for less.
It’s difficult to concentrate
on peace and goodwill when

there are hostages in the news,
as well as police and yellow tape
around the house where a man
died of self-inflicted wounds
after killing his ex-wife and whomever

else was within range, while
the breaking story farther away
is more brutal than a video game.
A truce would be nice, or an outbreak
of compassion. Maybe a little snow

to fall on Phoenix to convince us
of the season. We select an energy bar
to go with the tea, not exactly
what he asked for, but he takes it
as he turns to leave without offering

a Thank You, just heaves
his bundle onto his back as if
to load a world of worry he can’t change
and tell us what he really wants
is a cup of hot coffee.

David Chorlton came to Arizona in 1978 after living in England and Austria. He has spent more than three decades stretched between cultures and writing poetry, the pick of which has just appeared as his Selected Poems, from FutureCycle Press.

IN THE DEEPEST TRENCH

by Anne Graue

dark/cold/silent until the submerged
vessel/submersible grinds its way
with its own ethic/light and the eel/fish/
snail/dog floats in search of food

in its own water its own dark/cold
swimming deep as deep as the sub
has sunk in search of something
to catalog/write/study/announce/name

in the name of science with God's
backing who commissioned
the naming of all earth's creatures
and so the work continues—a new

species never before subject
to the flashbulbs, its white
translucence necessary
for surviving in the depths

of the Mariana Trench
along the inner slope where
plankton and other food float
into the snail-fish mouth, waved

in by wing-like fins, steered mouth-ward
by the eel-like tail day in and out
where no day is marked with light
or its absence, the existence

is a new discovery for the fish
explorer of the ocean bottom
in deep/dark/cold/blackwater
where the adapted snailfish/eeldog

surviving lightless floating for food
is lost to hubris with no other
survival mode—the naming
changes everything—recognizing

life that has been—protected
by molecules now dependent
on a name which is why someone
took the time to write it down.


Originally from Kansas, Anne Graue lives, writes, and teaches online from her home in New York's Hudson Valley. Her poems have appeared in Compass Rose, Ginosko Literary Journal, The New Verse News, and The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly. 

PHILOSOPHY

by Donna Hilbert

The British Prime Minister

fucks a pig in the first episode

of “The Black Mirror”

on prime-time TV,  just as the terrorists

demanded, to save the princess

whom they’d kidnapped

before the first frame.

As incentive, they’ve presented

her severed finger in a box to prove

they’re serious. Mean business.

Sorry to spoil it for you.

But, alas, all plots are spoiled

in this life slipping fast past satire

into theater beyond absurd.

What role would suit you to perform?

Terrorist? Princess? PM? Pig?

Me, I choose to play non-contemplating pig,

happy and innocent in my muck

until evil overtakes me from behind.

Donna Hilbert's latest book is The Congress of Luminous Bodies, 2013, Aoritc Books. She writes, leads workshops, and carps about movies from her home in Long Beach California. 

THE BOATS

by Joan Colby

Mithridates survived 17 days before expiring.

Head, hands and feet stuck out
Between two wooden boats.
The face, the extremities smeared
With honey for insects, stinging wasps,
Flies. Force fed so that he lives
In the torment of worms and maggots
Eating him from the inside out. A death
Reserved for traitors.

A cordon drawn. He needs to hide.
They’d walked from the blast
Satisfied. Now it’s gone wrong.
His brother’s body beneath wheels.
Bleeding, he crawls under the tarp
Of a white boat in someone’s yard.
All day, silent, Trapped in torment
eating him from the inside out.

Joan Colby has published widely in journals such as Poetry, Atlanta Review, South Dakota Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, the new renaissance, Grand Street, Epoch, and Prairie Schooner. Awards include two Illinois Arts Council Literary Awards, Rhino Poetry Award, the new renaissance Award for Poetry, and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Literature. She was a finalist in the GSU Poetry Contest (2007), Nimrod International Pablo Neruda Prize (2009, 2012), and received honorable mentions in the North American Review's James Hearst Poetry Contest (2008, 2010). She is the editor of Illinois Racing News, and lives on a small horse farm in Northern Illinois. She has published 11 books including The Lonely Hearts Killers and How the Sky Begins to Fall (Spoon River Press), The Atrocity Book (Lynx House Press) and Dead Horses and Selected Poems from FutureCycle Press. Selected Poems received the 2013 FutureCycle Prize.  Properties of Matter was published in spring of 2014 by Aldrich Press (Kelsay Books). Two chapbooks are forthcoming in 2014: Bittersweet (Main Street Rag Press) and Ah Clio (Kattywompus Press). Colby is also an associate editor of Kentucky Review and FutureCycle Press. 

THE CANDLE OF PEACE -- ADVENT II

by Marc Janssen




Violent economy, pays: blood -- storms --
While the high school choir sings of peace on earth.
In the street standing, hands raised, “Don’t shoot”
While the high school choir sings of peace on earth.
On TV hostile faces express “views”
While the high school choir sings of peace on earth.
Oh Henry, it has been a long long time,
And hate still mocks the song of peace on earth.
The violence of our days, fear in our nights,
Pleads for peace on earth good will to men.


Marc Janssen grew up in the State of Jefferson, educated in Southern California and currently resides in Oregon. Janssen is a former copywriter and marketer who now works as a bureaucrat. He is regularly published in journals and magazines such as The New Verse News, Off the Coast, The Ottawa Arts Review, Cirque Journal, Vine Leaves and in anthologies including Manifest West and The Northern California Perspective. 

CYBERBULLYING HACKTIVISTS

by Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote

Suspects responsible for recent cyberbullying attacks targeting State College Area School District students were identified Tuesday. Superintendent Bob O’Donnell said more than one person ran a Twitter account called @SCHateTweets, which posted its first tweet Thursday. State College Police Chief Tom King said at least two people set up the account, but neither he nor O’Donnell would confirm that they were students. The account targeted about 50 State High students, Principal Scott DeShong and O’Donnell. The tweets ranged from attacking students’ personalities and appearances to alleging sexual promiscuity and drug use. --(State College, PA) Centre Daily Times, December 16, 2014



cyberbullying faceless gutless soulless cowardice

hiding behind internet smokescreen anonymity

provides abusers pretending they’re tough

actually insecure unhappy social outcasts



malicious rumors taunts vile put-downs

transmitted through email instant messaging

chat room exchanges digital images

sent to victim’s cellular phone



cyberstalking is equal opportunity offender

knowing no geographical socio-cultural bounds

don’t live in shell of

silence tell someone report crime



reportedly over half of adolescents

have been harassed or participated

in cruel denigrating online attacks

inflicting emotional distressful psychological trauma



girls are about twice as

likely as boys to be

cyberbully victims and perpetrators also

more likely to contemplate suicide



people who love themselves won’t

belittle others knowing what’s right

doesn’t mean much unless you

do what’s right – stop cyberbullying!


No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson and Mr. Saknarin Chinayote proudly present YouTube mini-movies @ YouTube – CharlesThai1 

BREAD AND CIRCUSES 2014

by George Salamon

Charities are being run by for-profit financial firms. And take our most prestigious universities. It's become an oft-repeated argument that they have become hedge funds with tax-exempt colleges attached. --Jesse Eisinger, ProPublica, Dec. 10, 2014

Nothing is sacred, all is corrupted
From giving to learning
Wall Street money and
Corporate voices
Confer commands.
A people once free and proud
Has been bought and sold,
Hired and fired, outsourced,
Downsized and rightsized,
Sliced up like a salami.
His knife, he attacks with
"Sharklike intensity."
His smile is dazzling.
He's got our bread
And we are his circuses.


George Salamon taught at several East Coast  colleges, worked as a business journalist and editor, and now contributes regularly to the Gateway Journalism Review, Jewish Currents and The New Verse News from St. Louis, MO.

CORVIDS

by Jonathan Travelstead

Image source: WebEcoist

Want to catch an illegal alien? Study the crow,
its shiny things. Foil hat. Mirrors, chewing gum wrappers
wadded in nests.

We haven't been family for three hundred million years.
Their minds are closer to the lizard brain
where we parted ways, descending different trees.

Yet watch them make tools from straws they use,
solving riddles which require up to eight steps of critical thinking
to deftly pincer out the strip of raw beef.

Crafty. Pistachio, floating in a glass. I watched a crow fly
between an alley and a picnic table, plinking pebbles
and small stones until enough water

displaced the nut to within reach of its beak.
They're smarter than you. We haven't evolved in the right direction
to distinguish their motivations.

Pepper them with shot, and they remember, tell the next
generation about the change in route and elevation.
Screen a dome over the tomatoes walled within your garden

and a few tunnel the fence, but first send scouts
proficient in the killdeer's portrayal of a broken wing
along your flank, divert you while a murder

marches on the front gate. They'll rob you blind. In Arizona,
I hear blackberry pies vanish from windows.
Sheets hanging on the line disappear.

Canadian fishermen drop lines into holes
rough-cut in ice, later report their lines drawn up in a spaghetti tangle
of nylon, scales, and black feathers on the red snow.

Crow, rook, blackbird, raven- call them what you want.
Hell, my Chevy broke down near Roswell and one completed
my solenoid's broken circuit with a flat-head,

then wouldn't take a dime! Each can do the job of ten men.
They don't think like we do.

They don't need much.

Jonathan Travelstead served in the Air Force National Guard for six years as a firefighter and currently works as a full-time firefighter for the city of Murphysboro. Having finished his MFA at Southern Illinois University of Carbondale, he now works on an old dirt-bike he hopes will one day get him to the salt flats of Bolivia. He has published work in The Iowa Review and on Poetrydaily.com among others, and his first collection How We Bury Our Dead by Cobalt/Thumbnail Press is forthcoming in February, 2015.

MY DAUGHTERS MARCH

by Janice Lynch Schuster

Demonstrators block the intersection of Forest Drive and Hilltop during a police violence protest in Annapolis, MD on Friday afternoon. (By Matthew Cole, (Annapolis) Capital Gazette /December 12, 2014) 

Lined up with
signs and silent
rage
protestors stymie
rush hour drivers,
so eager to be home
and done
with the day.

For the marchers,
some things are never
done.
Even when they breathe
their nostrils
burn
with awareness
that others cannot.

some mother’s child
will be next
it is only a matter
of time before
another child goes down
on a playground
or in a school
or home
or sleeping
or whatever it is
the living
take for granted

What are my girls
to the irritated drivers
who bitch
to Facebook
and text their nannies?
Thugs, they shout
at my daughters,
safe behind
their horns.

Whatever they knew
of care
is gone on the wind.
The women--
solemn
behind their signs--
pray anyway


Janice Lynch Schuster is the author of a collection, Saturday at the Gym, and has been published in various print and online venues, including Poet Lore, Your Daily Poem, and The Broadkill Review. She writes about health care and public policy, lives in Annapolis, MD, and works in Washington, DC.

NEW DARK AGE

by Richard Schnap

A crowd in Selma, Alabama before the historic March 1965 march. Photograph by STEVE SCHAPIRO, “The Long Road from Selma” in The New Yorker, 22-29 December 2014.

I hear the cry

Of a distant siren

Wondering if it will bring

A mother to tears

And I hear the words

Of a holy man’s sermon

Instructing small children

On the best ways to kill

And I hear the testimony

Of a fat politician

Saying that those tortured

Got what they deserved

And I hear the ticks

Of a madman’s clock

Moving with precision

Backwards in time

Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

WHO CAN BREATHE

by George Held

            “I can’t breathe.”
                        Repeated last words of Eric Garner, police victim


Like Fate’s arbiters,
Cops crush the breath
of those they oppress,
let the rich breathe easy;

Hawaiians couldn’t
smell the breath
of standoffish whites,
ha‘oles

(men without breath),
distrusting those whose
withheld breath might stink of
treachery.

If you are rich
or white and can breathe
easy these days,
you should shun

city streets, TV news,
and poems that can
take your breath
away.


George Held, a regular contributor to The New Verse News, has a new book out from Poets Wear Prada, Culling: New & Selected Nature Poems.

EPISTLE TO THE DISPLACED

by Martin Willitts Jr

“On December 1st, the World Food Programme (W.F.P.), announced that it was suspending its operations to feed one million seven hundred thousand Syrian refugees—scattered across Lebanon, Turkey, Jordan, and Egypt—because it had run out of money. (The program is under the auspices of the U.N., but funded entirely by voluntary donations.) . . . As vast as the crisis in Syria is, it’s only one of several across the globe. In Iraq, South Sudan, and the Central African Republic, huge numbers of refugees are on the move; in West Africa, there is the outbreak of Ebola. Apart from watching all this, what can you do? You can send money. I’ve seen the work of both the World Food Programme and the I.R.C. up close, and I can tell you that both make a difference.” --Dexter Filkins, The New Yorker, December 12, 2014. PHOTEO: Syrian Kurdish refugees enter Turkey, September 27, 2014. CREDIT PHOTOGRAPH BY MICHAEL CHRISTOPHER BROWN/MAGNUM via The New Yorker.

Peace to you in a place where there is no peace,
where grace has no meaning, and you hide
from the violence where there is no shelter.
Where you are is so dangerous, so uncertain,
there is no guarantee this message will reach you
or ease your fears. And I fear, you have died
or lay dying under ruins, wondering
where salvation is, where peace is promised,
and have you the grace necessary to go there.

Where I am, in safe for the moment, but
as we both know, not one moment is certain
or safe, and all my security could be gone,
wiped out in an instance, and my light taken.
So as grace leaves me in search of you,
you shall be making a different peace,
one before death, wiping the slate clean,
professing your faults, as the pieces of life
disassemble around you, lacking grace.


Martin Willitts Jr has 7 full-length collections and 28 chapbooks including his recent social issues poetry chapbook City Of Tents about the Occupy Movement and other historical and political poems (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2014).

SCENES FROM THE HOEDOWN

by Joseph Reich

More than 25,000 people marched through Manhattan on Saturday, police officials said. --NY Times, December 13, 2014. Photo Credit: Kena Betancur/Getty Images

united states of amerika!
ready or not here i come!
united states of amerika!
don’t know who i am
          anymore!
united states of amerika!
ready or not here i cum!
united states of amerika!
don’t know who i am
          no more!
united states of amerika!
what the fuck! jeeze-louise!
& sweet-fancy moses!
united states of amerika!
make way for the joker
& riddler & fiddler
on the roof! they took
everything from you
(your all-inclusive
now reclusive
heart & soul
hardened soul
gone numb & cold!)
& the bat signal is lost!
united states of amerika!
kkk! kentucky fried chicken!
& a chicken in every pot!
united states of amerika!
make love not war! huh?
make love not war! huh?
make love not war! huh?
make love not war! huh?
united states of amerika!
with your 3 recent
killings of 3 unarmed
black men with heads
down heads up hands up!
claiming can’t breathe man
man to man (to the man!)
5! 6! 7! 8! 9! times
might tell you to count
backwards 9! 8! 7! 6! 5!
to get rid of your anger!
to get rid of the trigger!
to get rid of the stranger!
to get rid of your crime!
united states of amerika!
where might will always
win out over right
(especially in
the middle
of the night!)
& when you find
are under their control
got absolutely no rights!
united states of amerika!
a wink & a nod
this one is 4 you!
o brave men in blue!
serving & protecting!
serving & protecting!
serving & protecting!
serving & protecting!
united states of amerika!
been given a warning!
been given a warning!
united states of amerika!
what would you call this?
a hit & run? road kill?
the hunting season?
pleading self-defense?
insanity? taking the
5th? mistaken identity?
united states of amerika!
how come cry uncle
doesn’t work anymore!
united states of amerika!
have you heard the one?
united states of amerika!
come on down!
come on down!
come on down!
calm on down!
united states
of amerika!
ringo-leevio!
123! 123! 123!
united states of amerika!
321! 321! 321! & then
zero! zap! they’re all gone!
united states of amerika!
how would your chalk
artist now draw chalk
around the broken
bones of those 3
recent innocent
dead bodies
on the run
& would they
look anything
like the crucified jesus?
like the boogie man?
like black man hanging?
united states of amerika!
i can’t get my arms
around? can’t get my
head? can’t get arms up!
united states of amerika!
with your torture report
your bible of what really
goes on behind closed doors!
(what they like to refer to
as “advanced interrogation”
& just curious? do they have
a remedial session? think
john lennon still asked
the operational question–
“how do you sleep at night?
jim morrison–‘5 in 1, 1 in 5
no one here gets out alive!’
gil-scott heron! the revolution
did get televised! & they’re
still in denial! still dying!)
united states of amerika!
i’ve got some developing news!
i’ve got some breaking news!
i’ve got rules & regulations!
i’ve got the blues!
united states of amerika!
i’ve got a rhetorical question?
ahhh! forget about it!
you already answered it!
united states of amerika!
i’ve got an onset & upset
case of tourette’s  & promise
you ain’t making it up
or doing it to attract
attention! matter of
fact quite the opposite!
united states of amerika!
my p.t.s.d. is kicking in
& don’t know what to do
to stop it, as your triggers
are so goddamn persistent!
so united states of amerika
what should i do? become
obsessive-compulsive
to try and get control?
to make sense of it all?
united states of amerika!
red rover! red rover!
let my loss & madness
come over! caught between
the fight & the flee & the flee
& fight syndrome & left with
just the raw flesh & bones
of symptoms & no place
to call my own literally
kicked out of bars
defending every
lost soul!
half-crazed!
holy! hysterical!
waddling, wandering
happily ever after
down the avenue
all by my lonesome!
like chaplin on-the-run
running into old runaway
pals & partners just as
abandoned & done wrong!
old black men now homeless
in the park turned out
by white girls they had
mistakenly fallen for
& used to give
exhibitions at
the guggenheim
& the whitney!
hoodlums!
enterprising
drug dealers!
old timer
madmen
geniuses!
multi-millionaire
hoteliers now
penniless!
vacant!
supported by
angelic daughters!
united states of amerika!
what’s up! what’s up!
united states of amerika!
is this your bloody & gory
version of world federated
smackdown? only not fake
& choreographed & the real
deal & brutishly acted-out
with guns & chokeholds
& the ones going down
the results always fatal!
united states of amerika!
with not enough evidence
to bring them into court!
united states of amerika!
to not even file a report!
united states of amerika!
with not enough
cold! hard! facts!
united states of amerika!
with not enough evidence
for dignity & respect!
united states of amerika!
to not bring them home
to their moms & dads!
united states of amerika!
innocent till proven guilty?
guilty till proven innocent?
sorry got that all mixed-up!
united states of amerika!
always a punch line
to your eternal joke!
united states of amerika!
hiccup! hiccup! he cough!
united states of amerika!
from st louis, missouri!
to the state of florida!
to new york, new york!
to phoenix, arizona!
united states of amerika!
where they still operate
& function by a poll
tax & ride the back
& coat tails of 40
acres & a mule!
united states
of amerika!
watch your back!
watch your back!
watch your back!
watch your back!
not by coincidence
all walk with heads
over their shoulders!
united states of amerika!
where the murderers roam!
united states of amerika!
where the romans murder!
united states of amerika!
worse than any roman empire!
united states of amerika!
worse than any rise & fall
(where hopefully one day
the fallen may rise once more!)
'cause you’re conveniently
turning you’re head
the other direction
& disrespecting
not even deserving
of bringing them in
in front of a judge & jury!
united states of amerika!
bring on the brainwash!
brutality! rationalization!
justification! manipulation!
united states of amerika!
still not showing an ounce
of remorse or contrition!
united states of amerika!
where they can stop you
based on suspicion or guilt
by association (‘cause they run
the show & they got the power!)
but never tell you what you’re
suspicious of & who you’re
associating with, like some
real-life fucked-up kafkaesque
word problem with no solution
as there are no possible
factors to the equation!
united states of amerika!
better to be seen & not heard!
or do i have that backwards?
or vice-versa? or does
any of that really matter?
united states of amerika!
with your infamous
anger management!
think about the state
of that statement
& deconstruct it!
anger management!
anger management!
anger management!
anger management!
like some cold-hearted
& callous corporation!
& will patronize
& parentify
& tell you to work
through your issues
& you got enough
to make a living!
united states of amerika!
what happened to your
jeffersonian democracy!
jeffersons moving on up!
archie bunker hand on
your heart hand on
your gun pledge
of allegiance
myth debunked!
united states
of amerika!
here once again
is your rerun!
your rerun!
your rerun!
your rerun!
your home movie
mu/dead played
in slow-motion
over & over
& over again!
united states
of amerika!
your real-life
son of a gun!
son of a gun!
united states
of amerika!
here’s your toast!
here’s your roast!
here’s your heart
& soul on a platter!
for all you white
devils & white
trash! for all you
lily-white tourists
& your instant
guide to success!
how to win friends
& influence the masses
& to forgive & forget!
united states of amerika!
you’re a cheap rip off!
you’re a chip
off the old block!
& the apple doesn’t fall
too far from the jock!
from the schmuck!
from the murderer!
from the manslaughterer!
from the police benevolent
association & supporters!
from the parent teacher’s
association & those don’t
let into the neighborhood!
(really no joke! & the real
estate agents back them up!)
from the kangaroo court!
from the puppet/tears!
from the dummies
& ventriloquists!
from the false witnesses!
from the hung jury!
from the judge
& the misses!
from the pimp
& politician
& people
who voted
them in!
united states of amerika!
off to the sacrifice & slaughter!
your breakfast of champions!
& madonna/whore daughters!
united states of amerika!
do not pass go!
do not collect 200!
united states of amerika!
in god we trust! & ashes
to ashes! dust to dust!
united states of amerika!
ready or not here i come!
united states of amerika!
don’t know who i am anymore!
united states of amerika!
yes sir! yes ‘um! uuum...
united states of amerika!
god a cross between a howl
& crying-out and nothing’s
coming out no more!
united states of amerika!
been there! done that!
united states of amerika!
beer here! beer here!
united states of amerika!
stand your ground
& give them
a beat down!
u knighted states
uuh...mur
eek! cold
united stay
of amerika!
united stain
on amerika!

Joseph Reich has been published in a wide variety of eclectic literary journals both here and abroad, been nominated five times for The Pushcart Prize, and his most recent books include, A Different  Sort Of Distance (Skive Magazine Press), If I Told You To Jump Off The Brooklyn Bridge (Flutter Press), Pain Diary: Working Methadone & The Life & Times Of The Man Sawed In Half (Brick Road Poetry Press), Drugstore Sushi (Thunderclap Press), The Derivation Of Cowboys & Indians (Fomite Press) The Housing Market: a comfortable place to jump off the end of the world (Fomite Press) The Hole That Runs Through Utopia (Fomite Press), Taking The Fifth And Running With It: a psychological guide for the hard of hearing and blind (Broadstone Books) , and The Defense Mechanisms: your guide to the fragile mind (Pski Porch Press).

SOVEREIGNTY

by Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote

Resounding global support for Palestinians
Demonstrates natural affinity of humankind
Empathetic to populace under siege
Public opinion demanding fair-minded justice

After 47 years of oppression
Self determination enshrined in humanitarianism
De facto military control restrictive prohibitions
Bullyrag abuse of power preconditions

Enough is never enough said
Gaza war senseless assault grim
Reaper bloody reminder 2000 dead
Conflict resolution no negotiable solution

Ending occupation oppression persecution devastation
Requires return to 1967-designated borders
West Bank Gaza East Jerusalem
2-state side-by-side civil coexistence

Stumbling block issues borderline security
Water rights religious site access
Palestinian refugees’ right of return
Jewish settlement expansion termed illegal

Aim just lasting comprehensive peace
Pseudo agreement hypocritical pyrrhic victory
Where everybody loses nobody wins
Israel more isolated than ever


No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson and Mr. Saknarin Chinayote proudly present YouTube mini-movies @ YouTube – CharlesThai1 

THE UNITED STATES SENATE TORTURE REPORT

by Christina Pacosz




The griddle of truth is heating up now
The whine of a high speed drill
Blindfolded eyes
Opening
Shackled arms folded in a coffin      Alive or dead

Black  Latina  Arab  Yemeni  Somali Afghani Palestinian Iraqi Pakistani
Lives matter   Lives matter
Poland my motherland just one of dozens of countries Guilty
of hosting and performing torture
An Awful Ballet
written by two US psychologists who were paid $81 million
for their Ballet of Pain      Boasting about making $1000 a day
On the world stage    Now

We demand the Rule of Law
for All
US War criminals
Americans  high on medieval torture
CI A  diplomats   military elite  cabinet appointees   POTUS
Death to the Euphemism
enhanced interrogation techniques   rectal  feeding   black sites
Strawberry Fields
The names    We have the names
George Bush  Dick Cheney  John Ashcroft    Alberto Gonzales

Christina Pacosz’  poetry/writing has appeared in literary magazines and online journals for almost  half a century. A poet-in-the-schools and a North Carolina Visiting Artist, she has published several books of poetry, including Greatest Hits, 1975-2001, Pudding House, 2002, a by-invitation-only series.  Her chapbook, Notes from the Red Zone, originally published by Seal Press in 1983, was selected as the inaugural winner of the ReBound Series by Seven Kitchens Press in 2009.

A BAG OF WORDS

by Craig Brandis

Anti-Bush protester Anna White, from Washington lays a red rose and a banner outside the White House in Washington, October 17, 2006. Reuters/Jason Reed via International Business Times

“We tortured some folks” –Barak Obama, August 1, 2014

Like flying birds
We snapped as twigs

Covering our own heads
With a bag of words


Craig Brandis is a singer-songwriter and is the author of the poetry chapbook Altitude. His poems have been published in the Friends of William Stafford Newsletter and The Camel Saloon.

BORDER PATROL, ARIZONA

by Jonathan Travelstead

In-processing. Sunnyside High School, Tucson

The square-jawed sergeant snatches my orders.

Nothing that matters burns in the desert. Congratulations,

Airman First Class- You’re a medic. Shunts me

to a female private beneath the basketball hoop who,

with an IV and an orange bruised soft as skin,

instructs me with lessons on the military’s care towards aliens.

Cups my orange-clasped hand in hers. Finds the sweet spot

in four or less punctures. Suddenly it’s my lone hand

which holds the fruit. My hand puncturing its rind

with eighteen gauge holes like pinpoint windows

I imagine unlatch from the inside. Because the only beliefs

that matter in battle are attendance, minutes later

I find myself burdened beneath kevlar, a helmet

two wars old and missing its lining. Topographic maps

of dusty cattle-roads (useless after the first washout)

winged under one arm. Under the other, orders amended

with signatures validating my crude proficiency in Tex-Mex,

the Law of Armed Conflict, rules of engagement

briefings, and a crash course in medical training

to include intubation on all things American. America.

Where the line items that qualify for participation include

1) Warm Body, and 2) Able to throw a loaded die.

Just then the barefaced, double butterbar lieutenant

marches from the bivouac of a coach’s office

to a know-nothing airman planted at attention

beneath the free throw line. The way he exchanges salutes

of diplomatic importance, recites phonetically, de rigueur

from an index card as if each word were a sharp-edged stone

tumbled, slicing at the thin flesh in his mouth:

Como fway to entry nameento? It’s not me there at all,

but a boy, or a body-double who does not hesitate, says Si

just as the keys to a medic’s humvee and all its bastard

line-and-tackle plop into his outstretched hand. Tylenol.

Cases of Gatorade’s yellow electrolyte gruel

we dare not ask whose hands on what assembly line

in which Latin-speaking country have filled and capped.

A backboard projecting from the canvas window,

and he- newly-christened honorary phd in guardship,

Grand Poo-bah of Sonora’s mesas - is the one charged

with stitching together all the dotted lines.

Jonathan Travelstead served in the Air Force National Guard for six years as a firefighter and currently works as a full-time firefighter for the city of Murphysboro. Having finished his MFA at Southern Illinois University of Carbondale, he now works on an old dirt-bike he hopes will one day get him to the salt flats of Bolivia. He has published work in The Iowa Review and on Poetrydaily.com among others, and his first collection How We Bury Our Dead by Cobalt/Thumbnail Press is forthcoming in February, 2015.

THE FALL

by Jan Steckel

Tamir Rice memorial. Source: NBC News.

I don't want to be Joan of the Narrative Arc here,
wielding my flaming sword of story to drive you out
of my personal bleeding-heart-liberal paradise, BUT
here's a prompt: write a poem using the words
grant, bell, garner, brown, ford, and rice.
Employ a light touch, no sing-song or doggerel.
No sentimentality, please. No rants.
Attention to form but not formality.
Invoke all the senses. Let me see, hear, feel
what the twelve-year-old saw, heard, felt
waving that BB gun around the park.
The gold and orange leaves of Cleveland.
The smell of them rotting in rainwater.
The black-and-white pulling to the curb.
The crack. The pavement rushing up.


Jan Steckel's poetry book The Horizontal Poet (Zeitgeist Press, 2011) won a Lambda Literary Award. Her poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in Scholastic Magazine, The Bellevue Literary Review, Yale Medicine, American Journal of Nursing, The Pedestal Magazine, and elsewhere.

ELEGY FOR CLAUDIA EMERSON

by Joan Mazza

Claudia Emerson, Florida, 2008. Photo by Joan Mazza.


Even when your flame flickered, you still

shone in photos of the stitches of your

upper arm, broken when opening a jar.



Through surgeries and radiation, you coupled

your words with music, stanzas we entered

unafraid. You kept your smile when your hair



fell out, and showed us how to fall in love

with love again when you and Kent gazed

at each other. You said that when you were gone



women would line up around the block

with casseroles for Kent. He’s widowed

twice now. Another late wife.



Before your brain surgery, you wrote,

I hope I wake up! and you did.

How we’ll miss your light and words.


Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, seminar leader, and has been a Pushcart Prize nominee. Author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam), her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Kestrel, The MacGuffin, Mezzo Cammin, Buddhist Poetry Review, and The Nation. She ran away from the hurricanes of South Florida to be surprised by the earthquakes and tornadoes of rural central Virginia, where she writes poetry and does fabric and paper art.

MONSTER

by George Held

"The last thing I remember is blacking out and Cosby mounting me like the monster that he was.”

--Janice Dickinson

Which came first, the blacking out or the mounting?

Can the Cos turn/be turned into a monster?

Is this just another case of black on white crime?

Is this just another case of white hysteria?

Is this just another episode of Beauty and the Beast?

Why is there a statute of limitations on rape?

Is this just another act of racist vengeance?

Is this just an instance of “buyer’s remorse”?

Is this a case of a black superstar without boundaries?

Is Bill Cosby more like Ray Rice or O.J.?

Is Dr. Cosby more like Dr. King or Dr. Marcus Welby?

How long will Bill Cosby remain beloved?

How long will Bill Cosby remain funny? 

How come Cosby is heavily booked into 2015?

Is the Cosby monster just a diversion from Ferguson?

George Held, a regular contributor to The New Verse News, has a new book out from Poets Wear Prada, Culling: New & Selected Nature Poems.

THE DAYS AFTER

by Catherine McGuire

Our streets are filled with the dying –

not like Freetown or Dakar, where flies feast,

but boys in blue hoodies, dark-haired girls

with taped mouths, lowering themselves to asphalt,

lying on wet roads and looking up

at the thousand-eyed headstones our cities erect

to cover the dead. I Can't Breathe.

Above them, the window eyes glow with money,

with silk-suit rituals to appease a Quad of Horsemen

who are already too near. The children below

give themselves lovingly to the pavement;

no real fear of death can penetrate the young.

But they've offered their hearts

to those who have been pierced – they've seen mothers

crushed and groping, tear-drenched or too numb for tears.

They've seen the impotent rage – that they can feel –

and they lend their bodies, their voices

hoping to be the horns that sounded so pure

that Jericho itself came down.

Catherine McGuire is a writer/artist with a deep interest in philosophy. Using nature as a mirror, she explores the way humans perceive themselves and their world. She has poems published in the US and abroad and has four chapbooks: Palimpsests, (Uttered Chaos, 2011) Glimpses of a Garden, Poetry and Chickens, and Joy Holding Stillness.