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Thursday, October 31, 2024

BAKING BEFORE THE ELECTION

by Joy Kreves




There just happened to be exactly 

the right amount of butter in the fridge 

to make the Blood Orange boxed cake 

and frosting mix 

that sat in the cupboard for over a year

just waiting for election anxiety to crescendo

into a medicinal need for baked goods. 

 

The citrus flavor was out of sync 

with this Season of the Dead warm pumpkin, 

apple and caramel, yet a perfect flavor note 

for a particular person, on this day

of this year.

 

Who knew cake mixes could be best 

when left to ripen in the dark like pears

into an allure that calls out in a time of need

says, I’m here, yes, I’m here,

I’ve been waiting for you—

 

not shouted in a threatening way, not

like it’s wandering down a hallway 

I’m here, I’m coming for you, Nancy,

Nancy, where are you? Not menacing like that.                          

 

Look at this cake’s color—a delightful pink 

neither bloody nor orange.

Nothing revolting, nono assault on the senses

no clobbering of tastebuds

just a small tart dance upon the tongue

an antidote for its time, this time.

 

If it had to write its own package description.            

it might state as its aim 

to serve a slice of laughter, a forkful of delight

for that overburdened, anxious brain.

I am at my best when paired

with pre-election hand-wringing.



Joy Kreves is an artist/poet in Central New Jersey, where she watches in horror as civil society comes crashing down around her. She is the Managing Editor of US1 Worksheets, in which she has had poems published, as well as several art exhibition catalogs. Her recent chapbook is Nature of The Beast.

OCTOBER 31

by Tricia Knoll



Photo by Nathaniel Kelly at Flickr.



Halloween scares her. That surprises me—

she is sixty, sexy and beautiful. Would make

a glamorous witch. Barbie’s mother. 

 

Perhaps it’s plastic skeletons two stories tall,

memories of falling in a puddle in a ballerina costume

on the way to a neighbor’s door, gauze ghosts

dangling from naked limbs, costume party

shootings. Zombie and Yorick skulls on leafy lawns. 

Or family feuds over dividing her dead 

father’s assets. Her brother’s cleaver. 

 

Or porches and lanterns doused in acrylic webs

and jack o’ lanterns whose smiles sag in mold.

TV images of fractured concrete in bombed out enclaves. 

Forty-two million tons of rubble, 36 cubic feet each ton, 

a grave takes 120 cubic feet. Flinch. The dead walk

starved, confused. Hamlet’s father’s ghost refuses

to speak. A revived corpse never asks

for a Kiss or Snickers. 

 

Maybe it’s money. Twelve billion

on starbursts, skittles, candy corn, and twix.

You could buy half an island with a fog bell

in San Francisco Bay. Climate chaos 

balloons the cost of chocolate. 

 

Days narrow. Clocks reset and whack rhythms.

Lively green folds into loam. We hear carols. 

Ads run for books of evangelical horror 

and Amish romance. Stuffed Santas 

line pharmacy shelves beside pumpkin

plastic pails of high fructose corn syrup.

Flimsy polyester dinosaur suits crawl

to landfills. Few believe in reasons

to wear masks. What am I to do? 

Write another starlight promise

poem? Light the bonfire? 

Hug her? Kiss her cheek?


Tricia Knoll has usually enjoyed the Halloween season, but not so much this year. Too much angst about election weirdness. She can't stop from thinking about all the money spent on the holiday and how much is needed in war zones. Her poetry is published in nine either full-length books or chapbooks with information at triciaknoll.com

Wednesday, October 30, 2024

FINDING HOPE

by Ron Shapiro




Festive.


Never in my life have I been to a march where everyone is smiling, singing along to the music, waving flags illuminating the space between elbow-to-elbow people of all ages.


Look to my left, women dancing. Look to my right, people hugging.

 

Is this the country I hear about on the news? Divided? Tribal?

 

None of that here. No way. No how.

 

Three mega-screens with the word Freedom surrounded with three stars on each side.

 

Above, wispy clouds and warm sun grace the day eventually evolving into a spectacular sunset of pink and orange clouds.

 

But right now, it’s a party! A celebration!

 

Good to be around so many like-minded folks. The vibe invites me to hope. 


Is that so bad?


You can’t tell me it is. No talking heads here. Just ordinary citizens being what this country could be.

 

Idealism bubbles up from the pessimism, cynicism, half empty, brokenness, anger, hatred and anything else in the raw sewage of lies and fascism.

 

Sitting now on the grass, I can only feel the deep bass shaking the earth and observe moving feet, bouncing bodies grooving with the music. I can’t help but smile. O’Jays “Love Train” rolling down the tracks of hope and love.

 

And if I look over my right shoulder, I can imagine the Washington Monument swaying a little.

 

The most alive I’ve felt during this election season. No news here; just joy of life, of being here now. Unplugged but plugged into the moment. Nowhere else I’d want to be.

 

This  place feels like a shelter from the political storm. Nothing to turn off or turn down here.

 

Just acceptance of how the country’s future could be if sanity, truth and love prevails. Nothing perfect but a baby step in the direction of King's "moral arc" of justice.

 

And should Harris win and repubs undermine some of her policy ideas, at least she will have elevated the English language.

 

Her speeches regularly use words such as hope, idealism, promise, opportunity, joy, rights, freedom, helping, raising, community, love, heroes, happiness, citizenship, compromise, love, new, forward, caring, trust, others, light and truth.

 

As someone who loves words, hearing and, yes, feeling those words at the rally yesterday emerged as one of the highlights for me. Being with 50,000 or so people immersed together in such positive language was deeply inspirational.

 

I think even Orwell would have savored the spirit of this uplifting moment.

 

And perhaps I sipped a bit too much of the celebratory kool-aid at the event.

 

But let me say that it was a delightfully sweet and tasty brew.



Ron Shapiroan award-winning teacher, currently mentors college essay writing as well as teaches Memoir Writing through George Mason University. He has published writings in Nova Bards 23 & 24Gatherings, Poets of the Promise, Poetry X HungerMinute Musings, Backchannels, Gezer Kibbutz Gallery, All Your Poems, Paper Cranes Literary Magazine and twochapbooks: Sacred Spaces and Wonderings. He lives with his wife and Shanti the Cat in Reston, Virginia.

FROM THE DARK

by Karen Warinsky


Top: Palestinian journalist Bisan Owda. Bottom: Screenshot of Bisan’s Instagram post referenced in the poem.


A voice from the dark

speaks quietly to the living light,

a soft, devastated voice

without tears or trembling

because the woman of this voice

has seen too much

traveling through this beast’s belly

for more than a year

and now knows what

humankind can do

to children

to hospitals full of elderly, ill 

and injured people,

to entire towns,

knows the outcome of bombs

the smell of death and garbage.

“The world is complicit in this.

No one must be silent in this,” she states.

 

She expects nothing now, 

after her year of messages

cast upon the online sea,

her Emmy, her fame,

but wishes the world would march

to the borders of Gaza,

call out, shout, pray

make a presence that would

stop the madness,

“What next?” Bisan asks, “what next?”



Karen Warinsky is a former finalist of the Montreal International Poetry Contest and a 2023 Best of the Net Nominee. She is widely published in anthologies, journals and E-zines. Her books are Gold in Autumn (2020), Sunrise Ruby, (2022) (both from Human Error Publishing), and Dining with War (2023, Alien Buddha Press). Warinsky coordinates poetry readings under the name Poets at Large in CT and MA.

Tuesday, October 29, 2024

GARBAGE

by William Aarnes

AI-generated graphic by Shutterstock for The New Verse News.


             persona sin valor
I like to imagine
a Puerto Rican mother

who, despite herself, caught
one of those rolls

of paper towel
tossed into the crowd

with utter contempt.
She’s kept it, the plastic

wrapper still intact,
atop her refrigerator,

a trophy to remind her
what the word useless—

inútil—means.
Some day, she hopes—

ella espera!—
she’ll feel free

to ball it up,
hoja tras hoja sucia,

and light a fire
to celebrate—

por finpor fin!—
the tosser’s loss.


William Aarnes lives in Manhattan.

LESSONS FROM THE PAST


by Sally Zakariya


The New York TImes, October 17, 2024



Unearthed in Peru 
signs of a female sovereign
thirteen centuries ago

In the tomb painting
she’s wearing a crown
and holding court from
a power throne

We’ve had so far a very
masculine view of this
old civilization, say
archaeologists, devoted 
diggers of the past 

Could be we’ve had 
a pretty masculine view
of this new world, too

Could be the time
has come for another 
woman leader here 
in these Americas


Sally Zakariya’s poetry has appeared in some 100 publications and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her publications include All Alive Together, Something Like a Life, Muslim Wife, The Unknowable Mystery of Other People, Personal Astronomy, and When You Escape. She edited and designed the poetry anthology Joys of the Table and blogs (occasionally) at www.butdoesitrhyme.com.

EXPANDING OUR KNOWING

by Akua Lezli Hope


Listen to the waltz at The New York Times, October 27, 2024.


new Chopin waltz found
unearthed discoveries heal
fix our view of truth
 
new Chopin waltz found
other discoveries heal
reframe our old truths
 
fix our view of truth
unearthed discoveries heal
new Chopin waltz found
 
new discoveries
heal our discordant truths
new Chopin waltz found


Akua Lezli Hope is a paraplegic creator and wisdom seeker who uses sound, words, fiber, glass, metal, and wire to create poems, patterns, stories, music, sculpture, and peace.  Her honors include the NEA, two NYFAs, NYSCA, SFPA, Elgin, &  Rhysling awards. She created the Speculative Sundays Poetry Reading Series. Editor of NOMBONO, the first BIPOC speculative poetry anthology, she is working on an anthology of disability focused speculative poetry.

Monday, October 28, 2024

ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL OF TEARS

by W. Barrett Munn




In four days, it will be November, 
and the expected temperature for today
here in Tulsa is 88 degrees Fahrenheit—
an obscene number so near Halloween.
The good news is we have no water to drink,
this I read on a sign 
held up by a thirsty lawn whose brown 
is this season’s fashion statement.

Drill, baby, drill says the untrained actor, 
the miscreant trying to get us to self-destruct.
Avoidance is a technique of psychological 
origins, a thrill for the adoring crowds
who no longer care how much damage
is done as long as they can hurt someone else
more—like a dentist without gas or Novocaine—
Drill, baby, drill. 


W. Barrett Munn is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature where he studied writing under Larry Callen. His adult poetry has appeared in The New Verse News a number of times, in print editions of Awakenings Review and Copperfield Review Quarterly, a printed edition of Sequoia Speaks, and online in Volney Road Review, Speckled Trout Review, Book of Matches, San Antonio Review, and many more. He lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

DAYS BEFORE THE ELECTION

by William Palmer


AI-generated graphic by Shutterstock for The New Verse News


He prays
and walks an old trail through the woods,
yellow leaves trembling 


William Palmer’s poetry has appeared recently in I-70 ReviewJAMAOne ArtOn the Seawall, and Rust & Moth. He has published two chapbooks: A String of Blue Lights and Humble. He lives in Traverse City, Michigan.