HAUNTING SEPTEMBER

by Jerrice J. Baptiste

Photo: Kevin Bubriski, World Trade Center Series, New York City, 2001, gelatin silver print, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of the Consolidated Natural Gas Company Foundation, 2003.65.1, © 2001, Kevin Bubriski

                  ~for Nolbert

 

Your sanctuary hasn't been touched

in over twenty years.
Hair intertwined with bristles
resting on the bathroom windowsill

next to the porcupine plant.
The shower still smells of Irish

Spring soap bathing your body.

 

You thought you would be late to protect

two sky scrapers.
Blue striped sheets pushed aside

on your futon fitted your body each night. 

That September

morning, running late you grabbed

 

a pair of un-matching socks. 

One grey sock hid from you under your bed. 

You looked confident

in your grey uniform,

deep pockets for hiding notes,

ready to stop crime in the towers.

Today, I peek outside the oval bedroom window
seeing the view of early Autumn that you had

that last morning. Leaves beginning to change

colors, red, yellow, violet, hugging branches

before they fell in the yard. 

Jerrice J. Baptiste is a poet, educator and facilitator of poetry for healing and self-expression. Her new book of prose poems is titled Coral in the Diaspora published by Abode Press (August 2024).  Her writing has been published and is forthcoming in The New Verse News, Artemis Journal, Urthona Buddhism and Art Magazine, The Dewdrop, Shambhala Times, The Yale Review, Wax Poetry & Art, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Mantis, Penumbra Literary & Art Journal, The Banyan Review, Kosmos Journal, Silver Birch Press, and many others. Her collaborative songwriting and poetry are featured on the Grammy-nominated album Many Hands Family Music for Haïti. 

PRACTICING FOR THE BIGLY DEBATE

by Wayne Scheer

No one ever saw a debate like this.

They tell me seven billion people

will watch me,

maybe more.

So I have to prepare bigly.

First, I’ll mispronounce her name.

Ka-MAL-a, 

Then I’ll call her 

Kamrade.

She’ll try to laugh 

And I’ll remind people how only low IQ people

laugh like that. 

I never laugh.

I smirk, sometimes I sneer.  Mostly, I grimace.

That’s manly.

She opens her mouth when she laughs.

That’s a girlie thing.  

My father once hit me in the mouth for laughing.

I hate people who are happy.

I have more money.  Money makes a person happy.

My father taught me that, too.  

Ka-MAL-a doesn’t have as much money as I have,

so her laugh is a lie.

It has to be.

My father said.

And stop feeding me all those facts and statistises.

No one wants to hear that.

My rating will drop with my followers if I spout facts.

They want red meat, not kale salad.

Do you know how much red meat has gone up

since Komrade Ka-MAL-a and Obama have been in power?

Neither do I.

But people tell me it tripled, quadrupled.

People have to feed their children sawdust 

because they can’t afford

prime rib for their babies.  I hear that all the time.

I teethed on filet mignon and lobster,

(this was pre McDonald’s) 

but children today suck on little plastic thingies.

It’s all Obama’s fault.  And Hillary’s.

Lock them up! Lock them up?

What’s that?  I’m going to debate Kamala Harris, not Obama or Hillary.

Since when?

Oh, that’s right, Ka-MAL-a.  

I get them mixed up.  Ka-MAL-a. O-BAM-a. Frederick Douglass.

Ka-Mal-a? Isn’t she the one who sat in the front of the bus

when she isn’t even black?

What? Why should keep that to myself?

You don’t know anything about ratings.  

It’s time to let me be me.

I’m President of the World and a black belt in Karate.

I trained as a Navy Seal, you know.

They say I was the best recruit they ever saw.

I would have gone to Vietnam and stopped that war in one day,

but my father had bone spurs... 

Wayne Scheer lives with his wife in Atlanta. After twenty-five years of teaching writing and literature in college, he is trying to follow his own advice and write. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his stories have appeared in such varied publications as The Christian Science Monitor, Sex and Laughter, The Pedestal, Flash Me Magazine, Cezanne’s Carrot, The Binnacle and The Better Drink.

TRANS FATS

by Chris Kaiser

This is not a real book. Its cover has been A-I generated at Shutterstock by The New Verse News to accompany this poem.

Trump falsely claims children being forced into gender transition ops at school in rambling fantasy-filled rally speech. —The Independent, September 9, 2024

I sent my boy to his fifth grade class 

and he returned a girl, 

apparently operated on by the school nurse,

without our permission, 

just like Trump predicted. 

The school also confiscated his backpack 

(or her backpack? I’m not sure. 

It was easier to imagine others 

with this woke problem). 

In his—ok, wait here while I ask 

my previous son what pronoun to use. 

He said she wants to play 

with his sister’s dolls, 

while she said he wants an operation too. 

I’m confused. 

And then my wife mentioned polyamory,

and I said, we already store our guns 

in more than one bunker. 

The book they confiscated from my son’s — 

wait here—

“Terry!” 

He said she wants to spell her name with an ‘i’.

The book they confiscated from Terri’s backpack was

“Trans Fats: The Real Story,”

which the school librarian, 

who moonlights as the science teacher, 

thought was about fat boys transitioning 

into skinny girls, 

and vice reversa. 

Though Trump railed against 

these secret surgeries as if they’re evil incarnate, 

I’m not so sure. 

Terri has since won All State 

in her youth softball league

and her sister is on track to win gold 

in boy’s figure skating.

Chris Kaiser’s poetry has appeared in Rattle, Eastern Iowa Review, Dissident Voice, Better Than Starbucks, and The Scriblerus, as well as in anthologies from Moonstone Press. His poetry also appeared in Action Moves People United, a music and spoken word project partnered with the United Nations.

HOW WILL I SAY I LOVE YOU

by Rachel Mallalieu

My son, a newly minted freshman, regales me

with tales of high school. There are pickleball

courts and the teachers are cool and the tacos

in the cafeteria aren’t that bad. Some of the varsity

basketball players already know his name.

He doesn’t think he will ask a girl

to Homecoming this year. There’s just one thing 

that’s bothering him. They take our phones

at the beginning of class. How will I say

I love you when someone shoots up the school?

Rachel Mallalieu is an emergency medicine physician and mother of five. As such, she deals with both the fallout and fears surrounding gun violence regularly.  Rachel is the author of A History of Resurrection (Alien Buddha Press 2022). Some of her recent poetry is featured in Superstition Review, Chestnut Review, Rattle and Whale Road Review. 

POWER OF THE VOTE

by Paul Brassard

Public Domain Photo by Simone D'andrea altered by the poet using GIMP image manipulation software.

Paul Brassard is a retired teacher of high school students with behavioral challenges. He has been writing poetry and fiction since he wrote his first short story Honolulu Calling at the age of twelve. Paul has been writing a personal haiku, senyru or haiga every day for the past several years as a method of self-reflection or in response to current events. He writes his short stories and poetry at his home in South Portland, Maine, which he shares with Patti, his wife of 50 years. His writing has appeared in The New Verse News.

ONE IN FOUR

by Deborah Kennedy

A study in the journal PLOS ONE found that extreme temperatures resulting from climate change could cause one in four steel bridges in the United States to collapse by 2050. By 2040, failures caused by extreme heat could require widespread bridge repairs and closures, the researchers found. Photo: A bridge connecting North Sioux City, S.D., and Sioux City, Iowa, collapsed in June after flooding. Credit: KC McGinnis —The New York Times, September 2, 2024

Squire Whipple's careful pen strokes flickered in the candlelight. A self-taught engineer, he drew his new design, the bowstring truss bridge built of iron, not unreliable wood. From the 1870s to the 1930s, his bridges arched across rural and urban American rivers knitting together a growing nation. 

(Houu-hou-wit. Mourning doves mate for life. All the tiny parts, unseen, unnamed, unloved, holding together whole worlds. Houu-hou-wit.)

Bowstring truss bridges feature sturdy arches and bracing studded with innumerable round-headed rivets set by teams of three men. A good team could set fifteen rivets a minute, all day long. The first man heated each bolt in portable coal forges cranking the fan and setting the bolts in the white-hot coals. When a bolt glowed cherry-red, he tossed it up to the next man who caught it in a tin cup, grabbed it with long-handled tongs, and set it against the milled holes. The last man formed the head with the ringing blows of a ball-peen hammer.

(Kraa-kraa. Ravens remember the faces of their enemies and teach their young. Did the ravens scold the men who brought rank smoke and sharp sounds to quiet rivers? Kraa-kraa.)

For decades, dutiful communities painted these bridges a patient flat grey, fending off creeping rust. Now, these bridges strain under the weight of modern cars and trucks delivering our endless needs and whims. Through the winter the metal freezes, draped in icicles. In our scorching days, triple-digit weather silently heats each rivet and expands each joint and slab. Rivets shear, expansion joints twist, concrete buckles, and bridges collapse.

(Tchew, tchip, tchup. In one day, hummingbirds can eat up to 2,000 small bugs and mosquitos. They are slowly disappearing. All the tiny parts, unseen, unnamed, unloved, once weaving our world together. Tchew, tchip, tchup.)

A writer and artist, Deborah Kennedy’s work has been presented in the United States and Europe. Her recent book Nature Speaks: Art and Poetry for the Earth (White Cloud Press) combines poetry and illustrations to capture the bond between ourselves and the larger natural world. Nature Speaks won several national awards including the 2017 Eric Hoffer Poetry Book Award and Silver Nautilus Poetry Book Award. Her writing has recently appeared in great weather for MEDIA, First Literary Review-East,  and Canary: A Literary Journal of the Environmental Crisis. Kennedy lives in San Jose, California where she teaches college classes and poetry workshops. She presents poetry readings with multimedia slide lectures to poetry, ecology and spiritual groups. Kennedy lives in San José, California, and is a Creative Ambassador for the City of San José working to advance creativity in her community with her innovative Broadside Art and Poetry Project. 

PINK ROLLERBLADES

by Brian Forehand

Wounded people, including nine-year-old Tala Abu Ajwan, who died of the injuries she sustained as she skated near a park, are seen in the Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in Gaza City after an Israeli army attack on a residential building, Sept. 3, 2024. Credit: DAWOUD ABO ALKAS/ANADOLU/GETTY via CBS News.

Didn't they see her there

gliding like an angel

pink wheels on her feet

wheels spinning so fast

in these head spinning times?

perfectly pink

like the walls of her bedroom

sweet wishes fulfilled

for a sweet young girl

here where wishes seem so fleeting

sweet dreams

carried away too swiftly

wings on their feet

resigned now to angels

fleeing en masse from this hellscape

pink wings replacing

pink wheels

no longer spinning

not fast enough to save her

from this frightful nightmare

pink wheels that roll no more

still and lifeless now as small feet they entomb

another angelic victim

no winged victory found

in this senseless, ceaseless war.

Brian Forehand is a creative polymath with too many interests and too little time. A late bloomer, he only recently embarked upon the cathartic practice of writing poetry. He lives in Washington, DC with his husband and their stripy cat.

JUST ANOTHER DAY AT SCHOOL

by Peter Witt

At least four people were killed and multiple people injured after a shooting Wednesday at a Barrow County high school, near Atlanta, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation announced, adding that a suspect was in custody. Photo: Women embrace following the shooting. (Elijah Nouvelage/Reuters)—The Washington Post, September 4, 2024

A fourteen year old killed two innocent children Wednesday,
along with two teachers, somebody's sons or daughters,
partners or parents, people who will be saddened,
no devasted, as the police call asking
a relative to come to the morgue, the death house,
to identify the body of a child or an adult who rose this morning,
dressed, said goodbye to their loved ones, forever,
and headed out the door to school, where they waited 
for a 14 year old with access to a gun to shoot them, 
dead, dead, dead. dead.

And the best we'll be able to do is thoughts and prayers,
as the gun lobby mounts another round of efforts
to suppress any reasonable action, as talking heads
are paraded across the TV screen with the same tired
rhetoric, while anti-reform legislators collect 1000s
of dollars to stand pat, do nothing 
again, and again, and again, and again.

Soon there will be funerals, with tearful parents,
loved ones, a community of people holding candles,
perhaps a politician speaking truth about killing machines 
in the hands of children, young people hugging each other, 
while hallways and classrooms are cleaned,
students and community members are offered counseling, 
so in a short period of time school can resume,
funds can be raised for a permanent memorial,
and the issue can disappear from the news
until the next young person gains access to a gun,
access to a school and puts out the light
again and again and again and again
in another group of young people
and dedicated teachers’ eyes.

Peter Witt is a Texas poet who is repulsed by the argument that people kill people not guns...it's obviously both...he has published his poetry in a wide-variety of outlets.  When he's not writing he's out birding and reinforcing his understanding of the human connection to the natural world. He and his wife also travel extensively, having just returned from Iceland/Greenland, where the witnessed first hand the impacts of climate change.

THE CON MAN AND THE DEVIL

by Scott Talbot Evans

Graphic via Red Bubble

There once was a con man of ill-gotten wealth.

Many counterfeit trophies cluttered his shelf.

He prided himself on his great mental health,

And made known to the world he’d done well for himself.

 

He built monuments, palaces, and towers so high,

That they threatened to poke God Himself in the eye.

The man was so crooked, unscrupulous, and sly,

That Satan decided to give him a try.

 

“Nice to meet you. I’m the Prince of Perdition.

I can see you’re a man of blinding ambition.

If it’s not too much of an imposition,

I offer a once in a life proposition.”

 

“What are you bothering a busy man for?

Can’t you see I have houses and women galore?

What could you possibly add to my score?”

The devil grinned widely and simply said, “More.”

 

“You will boast and brag. Your horn will be tooted.

The masses will fall for you as if struck by Cupid.

They won’t even notice their pockets you looted.

They will believe every word you say, no matter how stupid.”

 

“You will split the world in chaotic division.

Your critics will charge you with crimes and derision,

But my lawyers will twist every fact and decision,

So you won’t spend a single minute in prison.”

 

“I need more. I want banners to herald my name,

In bold proclamation of my unequaled fame.

The public must shower me with so much acclaim,

That it puts Alexander and Caesar to shame.”

 

“You drive a hard bargain. I find you quite droll.

In return for all that, you must pay a small toll,

A possession you won’t even miss on the whole,

A little thing commonly known as your soul.”

 

“Is that all?” The cheater started to squeal.

His eager excitement he tried to conceal.

“Looks like I found myself quite a steal.

Okay, buddy, you’ve got yourself a deal!”

 

They smiled and squinted. Their slimy hands shook.

Lucifer wrote the fool’s name in his book.

And that little scribble was all that it took,

For somewhere in hell an ember started to cook.

 

The man’s fame suddenly started to rise.

Half the world believed all his terrible lies.

His power and ego increased to king-size.

He was hailed as a savior in his followers’ eyes.

 

He invented false dangers to control people’s fears

And inflamed their angers to arouse their cheers.

His empire grew on prejudice and smears,

And contempt from his critics was music to his ears.

 

He hobnobbed with hoodlums, gangsters, and whores.

Tyrants and despots were his secret mentors.

He suppressed opposition with threatening roars,

And brought discord and riots to once peaceful shores.

 

He had unholy power to swindle and cheat.

Honesty and integrity took a back seat.

In no time he rose to the world’s highest seat.

But he could not rest ‘til his gluttony was complete.

 

Every ruler and judge was under his heel.

At his feet, the world’s nations were obligated to kneel.

All the lands and possessions were marked with his seal.

And then he sighed, because there was nothing left to steal.

 

He heard a crack, and there was a puff of smoke.

The demon stood before him in a long flowing cloak.

From the heart of darkness a raspy voice spoke.

“The dream is over. Time for you to get woke.”

 

Beelzebub grinned like a fiend and he said,

“The clock has run out, now. Guess what. You are dead.

Forget all the dreams in your silly head.

Fall to your knees and fill yourself with dread.”

  

“I have kept my bargain to the final dot.

The whole world and everything in it is what you got.

You had your fill, and that is saying a lot.

And now I shall take what is mine on this very spot.”

 

The snake’s eyes glowed and he sounded a gong.

A choir of demons sang a tormented song,

But the whole thing went on for a little too long.

“What is happening here? Something is wrong.”

 

The serpent looked for the man’s pain to begin.

But there wasn’t any, to his great chagrin.

From the corpse’s eyes arose a sparkle from within,

And his wrinkled lips curled into a wicked grin.

 

“I told you I was the best dealmaker bar none.

You shoulda read the fine print when you first begun.

I agreed to give you my soul when all was done,

But the joke’s on you, Satan, because I never had one.”

 

The cheat convulsed with laughter to the point of tears.

The joyful sound burned like acid on the devil’s ears.

“This is the first time I’ve been swindled in all my years.

He bowed. “From one con artist to another, cheers!”

Scott Talbot Evans' poems are published in Poetry Salzburg Review, Samjoko Magazine, and Straight On Till Morning. He was twice a finalist in The New Yorker caption contest and won the GEVA Theater 2 Pages/2 Voices competition and the Script Studio Scriptitude Competition. His work appears in Amazing Stories, Weekly Humorist, Shoreline of Infinity, Creepypod, and Crimeucopia. His novel The Love Police was released last year. He is working on his sixth book.