The New Verse News presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.
Guidelines
Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com. No simultaneous submissions. Use "Verse News Submission" as the subject line. Send a brief bio. No payment. Authors retain all rights after 1st-time appearance here. Scroll down the right sidebar for the fine print.
you bring your stringy hemp bag. How nice, but what
did you think, that one tomato at a time we
can stop climate change, find
a way to keep butterflies and songbirds here?
Say you'll install solar panels on your roof, no
say you've already installed them, your purpose
feels urgent, you are off the power grid, but
the sun feels stronger every day, what
you never expected was tornados, floods, we
can barely hold on to any progress we make.
Today each weather warning lasts longer, that
way the window of safety shrinks, and
we huddle closer, protect ourselves, our beloved,
while lightning sparks, we wait for all to clear
though we need more time to prepare, instructions
to face this new future. The earth will turn
against us, beyond the ladders of light leaning into
the clouds, beyond the hymns and songs
to creation, show me a new song to sing,
not king coal, not drill baby oil, give me
more songbirds to hallelujah my grandchildren awake.
Bonnie Proudfoot is a poet, fiction writer, essayist, and reviewer whose work has appeared in online journals and anthologies. Her novel Goshen Road (OU / Swallow Press) was longlisted for the PEN/ Hemingway and received the WCONA Book of the Year Award. Her recent book of poems Household Gods can be found on Sheila-Na-Gig Editions.
The Special Counsel states that “while this report does not conclude that the President committed a crime, it also does not exonerate him.”
All that weekend, checking our phones while
we waited, some of us praying, all of us thinking this
might be it, this might be the day the report
says what we want it to say, telling us what he does
is what he’s always done, he lied, he lies, sometimes not
even big lies, from which it’s easy to conclude
many things about his psyche, most of all that
he’s deeply insecure, so insecure it’s hard to see the—
the what?—extent of his neuroses? but a president,
carrying on like a child—maybe he should be committed,
we say, his rants are so wild, maybe he’s just totally a-
moral, and while that’s nothing approaching crime,
it does show how asleep we are, how numb, moreover it
shows how power corrupts, no one’s exempt, even us, and also
it exposes the deep fault in the national psyche, it does,
it does, we are split, fractured, broken, divided, there is not
much time for healing, and since nothing will ever exonerate
us for our silence, let us say what is, let us dig in against him.
Lynne Knight has published six full-length poetry collections and six chapbooks, along with I Know (Je sais), a translation, with the author Ito Naga, of his Je sais. Her awards include publication in Best American Poetry, a Poetry Society of America award, a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, and a RATTLE Poetry Prize.
“People love you and you win, and when your son looks at you and says, ‘Mama, look, you won. Bullies don’t win.’ I said, ‘Baby, they don’t, because we’re going to go in there and we’re going to impeach the motherfucker.'”
They’re outside in their blue shirts with patches and neckerchiefs. Oh mama!
The Cub Scouts are out in the rain recycling the disrobed trees again. Look—
the little ones are struggling to lift and load those noble corpses! You
know I’m not going out there to help. No way-too cold. I think they’ve won
the War on Christmas, by the way, those little deconstructionist bullies
hauling away holiday cheer for a donation sealed in a Ziplock bag. I don’t
really care, though. I’m teasing, eating too much chocolate. And I can win
at other things. Like raising a glass before lunch, refreshing newsfeeds and
licking the rim of the eggnog carton. With the ornaments packed, I
can pour more vodka in my coffee, light my bowl and kick it. Someone said Be Best and you know I’m being and doing my best now, baby.
No one is paying or being paid, toilets overflow, the zoo is shut and they
say maybe it's really a strike. National emergency. Yeah, okay, chill. Don’t
you know smooth voiced 44 hit the Billboard charts? Yeah, that’s because
there is some karma left. And it dances, sings and swears. Now as we’re
forced into gingerbread cookie detox programs, I ain’t gonna
lie (like the king). This won’t be some “but-I-posted-about it” easy go.
Things get uglier before they get prettier. I had to put all the nutcrackers in
boxes that looked like coffins, pack up the merry-making, stack them there
in the garage 'til next Thanksgiving. The scouts are dragged out there, and
really, they just want to shoot arrows at camp. Go ahead, please, impeach
the Grinch, the happily-ever-privileged, the liars, the pussy grabbers, the—
never mind. I’m off to take a nap, hoping to sleep off this motherfucker.
Editor's Note: The Golden Shovel is a poetic form devised by Terrance Hayes in homage to Gwendolyn Brooks. ("Golden Shovel" is a reference to "Seven at the Golden Shovel" in the Brooks poem "We Real Cool" from which Hayes built the first Golden Shovel poem.) The last words of each line in a Golden Shovel poem are, in order, words from a line or lines taken often, but not invariably, from a Brooks poem.
Karen Shepherd lives with her husband and two teenagers in the Pacific Northwest of the United States where she enjoys walking in forests and listening to the rain. Her poetry and short fiction have been published in various journals including Constellate Literary Journal, The Literary Nest, Halfway Down the Stairs, Riddled With Arrows and Wales Haiku Journal.
