THE ANTI-CHRIST

by Gordon Gilbert

 

 

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Finally the devil gets his due
Not that we didn’t hear him say
He could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue
And MAGA folks would love him anyway
 
Pardons for those found guilty of insurrection
Granting more tax breaks to the richest in our nation
Chaos abroad, rising prices and corruption
A war of choice, suffering, death and destruction
His TACO cowardice whenever others called his bluff
His bombastic ranting, hate and lies were not enough
 
He’s broken all his campaign promises
But this time he’s gone too far for the far right
At last they see the devil for what he is
And even MTG has seen the light
 
Once they may have thought he’d be their savior
But this devil never was nailed to a cross
Pure evil can be seen in his behavior
And now his followers are at a loss
 
They never will forgive him for this sin
His claim to be godlike has done him in 


Gordon Gilbert is a New York City west villager. In these trying times, he finds some solace taking long walks along the Hudson River. He keeps hoping things will turn around, waiting on that elusive inflection point. Maybe this is it. 

A RISING TIDE

by Gordon Gilbert

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

At high tide the king comes to the shore

and stands upon the sands at water’s edge 

He commands the sea to leave his kingdom

as followers break into loud applause 

TRiUMPhantly he gloats as it recedes 

But alas he tarries far too long 

The tide has ebbed and soon relentlessly

the waters now make their advance

and still the king refuses to retreat

unheeding warnings from his own soothsayers 

He does not, cannot, won’t acknowledge

the inherent truth that laps now at his feet 

All shall soon be swept away

by the waters of the rising tide

just like the foolish pharaoh and his legions

in pursuit of Moses and his people

who when the waters parted chose to follow 

only to be drowned in the Red Sea 

Gordon Gilbert is a New York City west villager. In these trying times, he finds some solace taking long walks along the Hudson River. He keeps hoping things will turn around, waiting on that elusive inflection point, but it keeps receding. Maybe next time… 

Still waiting.

WE CAN MAKE IT SO

by Gordon Gilbert

in support of Zohran Mamdani

We say, 

“Nothing changes but we make it so!”   

 

“But change wreaks havoc on our world!” 

say those who would lecture us

on what they say we all should know.

 

It must be said that these "teachers" are older,

more well-off, and very much invested

in this world that they love so,

while we are young and still have little…

 

So we would say to them, 

“That’s a good thing! 

We have little to lose!" 

 

We can be bolder than those older,

and there is so much to be gained! 

And this much we know: 

Nothing changes but we make it so!   

Gordon Gilbert is a NYC west village writer who takes walks along the Hudson River to find some relief in nature from the almost daily unrelenting bad news. But he finds reason to hope for a better 2026 with the new mayor, Zohran Mamdani.

I DREAMED LAST NIGHT

by Gordon Gilbert

Mile Stretch Road, Fortunes Rocks, Maine. Photo by the poet.

I Dreamed Last Night
of Mile Stretch Road and of a world to come,
perhaps only after I myself am gone,
but perhaps in my remaining years.  
 
I dreamed last night
that I was walking south
along a down-east beachside stretch
of crumbling asphalt.
 
On either side the road lay only ruins
where once stood so many houses
up and down the beach,
like all those visited behind
and not so far ahead,
what I feared I’d soon see.
 
But then I saw the colors
blue and red and white
on wooden boards covering a window
in all that still remained of a beach house,
and I walked over for a closer look
and realized why all this came to be: 
It was the end of immigration,
as the nation forgot
that it was the immigrants
who made this country great.
  
It was end of the commons,
as all had been privatized,
further enriching the already rich,
further depriving the already deprived.
 
In the end, it was the end
of all that we once had,
the end of the American dream. 


Gordon Gilbert is a writer living in the west village in NYC, who finds solace in walks along the Hudson River, even while contemplating with trepidation another new year of climate change and political mayhem.  

BEHIND THE SCENE

by Gordon Gilbert

Acknowledging the good use of A.I. for imagery in New Verse News, 

I will not even try to submit an A.I. image, but simply describe it, 

to accompany my words, which are a parody of the motto of three 

characters in a classic novel:   

Donald Trump's image hovering above a traditional image 

of the Three Musketeers, swords pointed upwards, points touching, 

whose faces are those of Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos and Mark Zuckerberg.  

The title above is "Donald Trump and the Three Musk-eteers.”

The caption underneath is two lines, the first in French, the 2nd, English: 

"Tous pour un, aucun pour tous." 

"All for one, none for all.”

Editor’s note: En garde. We tried.

Gordon Gilbert is a writer living in the west village in NYC, who finds solace in walks along the Hudson River, even while contemplating with trepidation another new year of climate change and political mayhem.  

WAR IS THE DRUG WE DEAL

by Gordon Gilbert

via The Guardian

As a nation, we send more military aid

to other nations than any other country does.

But it’s all a con game, the old flimflam.

 

The money stays right here at home,

our tax dollars going to corporations here

that manufacture arms, munitions & weapons of war.

 

And those in government take money from those corporations

to keep us at war, when they can, while ever always arming

the rest of the world as well, setting the stage for future conflicts.

 

Fear your neighbors! Distrust their motives!

Anger, hatred will follow. You must protect yourselves!

We can help.

 

Guns sold as peacemakers to one side, then another.

An escalating arms race? More money to be made.

Greed runs amok.

 

War profiteers. Masters of war. Dealers of death.

War is the drug we deal. Addictive. Often fatal.

Ours is the hand of Midas, destroying all it touches. 

Gordon Gilbert is a writer living in NYC's west village.  During the pandemic, he often found solace and an inner sense of peace by taking walks along the nearby Hudson River; now he does so as unwilling witness to the ongoing genocide in Gaza. 

DON'T BLAME IT ON THE SHRIMP!

by Gordon Gilbert

Angry that your favorite Red Lobster closed down? Wall Street wizardry had a lot to do with it. Assigning blame for company failures is tricky. But some analysts say the root of Red Lobster’s woes was not the endless shrimp promotions that some have blamed. (See The New Verse News, June 1.) Yes, the company lost $11 million from the shrimp escapade, its bankruptcy filing shows, and suffered from inflation and higher labor costs. But a bigger culprit in the company’s problems is a financing technique favored by a powerful force in the financial industry known as private equity. —NBC News, May 25, 2024

It was not the little shrimp alone

that took their giant lobster cousin down.

Oh no!

 

Red Lobster was the victim of a larger predator.

Private equity’s the one to blame.

Oh yes!

Golden Gate Capital it was

that stripped Red Lobster of its hard-shell assets,

its molting soft-shell vulnerable to any and to all.

In the end, the little shrimp were just the last and latest,

all it took to do Red Lobster in.

 

So let’s not blame it on the shrimp!

 

Leveraged buyouts often do drive corporate defaults.

Private equity's a graveyard where 

too many good companies go to die:

Sears, Mervyn’s, Shopco, other retail chains;

Steward Healthcare, Manor Care

and other hospitals and nursing homes;

and now, most recently, another food chain:

Red Lobster.

 

Senator Edward Markey says beware!

Already they are coming for your healthcare!  

Gordon Gilbert is a writer living in NYC's west village.  During the pandemic, he often found solace and an inner sense of peace by taking walks along the nearby Hudson River.  

ACCEPTABLE LEVELS OF CRUELTY, STEADILY RISING

by Gordon Gilbert

In the not-so-distant past,
genocidal acts, a holocaust,
distant from our shores,
rumoured only, but for most unseen,
finally revealed in retrospect
indelibly to soldiers’ eyes,
brought home in photographs,
not to be denied.
 
Ah, we said, if only… If only…
But we did not know
at the time, only later,
and alas, too late to do
what we surely would have done
had we only known…
 
But now this genocide comes to us live,
like a fog slowly lifting, revealing
the landscapes of barbarity:
bombs falling; the destruction of
homes & neighborhoods,
schools & hospitals,
mosques & churches;
the death of civilians—
babies,  children,  women,  men;
the cries and wails of those
(for now) still alive.
 
Survivors,
searching in the rubble for those they lost.
We know this time. 
We cannot say we do not know. 

Editor's note: The title of this poem is a line from “To the Days” by Adrienne Rich.


Gordon Gilbert is a writer living in NYC's west village.  During the pandemic, he often found solace and an inner sense of peace by taking walks along the nearby Hudson River; now he does so as unwilling witness to the ongoing genocide in Gaza. 

A YOUNGER NETANYAHU RETURNS TO ADDRESS HIS OLDER SELF

by Gordon Gilbert

"What terrorists do is target the innocent deliberately, and therefore my definition of terrorism is… the systematic and deliberate attack, murder, maiming and menacing of innocent civilians for political goals.... You can tell a lot about terrorists and what happens when they come to power. Those who fight for freedom and come to power do not impose terrorism.  Those who do, who fight in terroristic means, end up being masters of terroristic states."  —Benjamin Netanyahu to William F. Buckley on Firing Line, May 30, 1986.

Ah, Bibi, habibi!

 

You are not the man I thought I'd be,

no, not the one I find I have become.

I always knew how absolutely

power does corrupt.

I see now how just knowing that

was not enough to keep me

on a path of righteousness,

or save me from myself,

my own worst enemy.

 

So much suffering for all,

and in the end,

so much worse for Israel,

even now, as I,

the man you used to be,

confront you!

 

But no, I must say "we."

I am the former you.

Can you not see

you once were me?

 

We are taking down with us

our own beloved Israel!

 

Ah, Bibi, habibi,

what have we become?

Gordon Gilbert is a resident of the West Village in NYC who got through the pandemic taking long walks along the Hudson River.

THIS IS NOT THE ISRAEL OF OLD

by Gordon Gilbert

in the Israel of ancient times,

prophets were revered

and even kings

(often reluctantly)

would allow them voice

knowing

they must be heard

even when (especially when)

they came to denounce

the actions or inaction

of the king

because all knew they were

both messengers from God

and the voice of the people

and as such

prophets must be given audience

 

some kings even listened

some even changed their ways

 

but this is not the Israel of old

and “King” Bibi chooses to kill

he does not listen 

not to those who prophetize 

nor to the voice of the people

and the anger grows on all sides

as former friends of Israel fall away

 

no

this is not the Israel of old

this king ignores the prophets

this king must go

NOW

if Israel is to survive

Author's Note:

My father was a minister. 

Not the kind who preached fire and brimstone.

He preached God’s love and forgiveness. 

But sometimes his sermons served to educate the congregation

about one or another of the Old Testament prophets

and why he thought them important. 

Gordon Gilbert is a resident of the West Village in NYC who got through the pandemic taking long walks along the Hudson River.

YEAH, I’M WOKE

by Gordon Gilbert

        My eyes not closed
 
to all the colors of the rainbow;
         this world is not just black and white
 
to men telling women how to live their lives;
         they can’t even manage their own
 
to the rich getting richer;
the rest of us, poorer
 
to the racism everywhere;
how to some, others’ lives don’t matter
 
to the worship of the gun;
some even willing to sacrifice our children
 
to those who have the one, true religion;
they want to impose it on us all
 
to those who profit from these endless wars;
         they are never the ones who fight them
 
    My eyes have been opened
    I see the world more clearly
as it is
                         not
                             as it never was
 
            and so,
              I say it proudly,
                     yeah,
 
       I’m WOKE !

Gordon Gilbert is a writer of poetry and prose residing in NYC's west village. Actively involved in NYC spoken word events since 2008, he has also hosted programs celebrating the beat writers, several African American poets and other poets as well,  including William Carlos Williams. During the pandemic, Gordon found solace and inspiration in long walks along the Hudson River. 

WHILE YOU ARE LIGHTING UP ON 4/20, I’M SERVING DECADES IN PRISON FOR SELLING WEED

a found poem
by Gordon Gilbert

after an April 20, 2023 Truthout op-ed written by Edwin Rubis

from a federal prison in the hills of Alabama  

Author’s note: Edwin Rubis has served over 24 years of a 40-year sentence in federal prison for a conviction on marijuana charges. 

Editor’s note: April 20, or 4/20 in its calendar denotation, is a holiday celebrated by many weed-smokers both in the United States and around the globe. 

Gordon Gilbert is a poet and playwright living in NYC's west village.

I DREAMED LAST NIGHT

by Gordon Gilbert

I dreamed last night of seasons of unrest that lie ahead:

Saddled on nightmare steeds with fiery nostrils,

eyes of cold blue light and blood pouring down their heaving flanks,

apocalyptic horsemen rode over our lands,

setting farms and fields ablaze and poisoning the wells;

pestilence, drought and famine followed in their wake.

Monstrous firestorms swept across tinder-dry forests,

consuming all, obliterating every living thing  in their path;

whirlwinds that followed gathered up the dust and ash

and blotted out the sun.

Insufferable desert heat by day, 

unbearable desert cold by night.

All of our tomorrows, 

only the broken promises

of those who too long led us in denial.

All of our future days, 

each and every one in turn,

fading away into a long parade 

of sad and sorry yesterdays.

This morning I awoke to the radio:

The meteorologist was saying 

it’s unseasonably warm for this time of year,

and the temperature is rising.

Long-time NYC west villager Gordon Gilbert has found solace and inspiration during the pandemic in walks along the Hudson River, photographing and writing about the wildlife, flora, and river traffic as the seasons change. It gives him hope in these terrible times, but he knows that is not enough. Change only comes when we act to make it so.

A "NEW" YEAR BEGINS

by Gordon Gilbert

wild geese, Hudson River Park, NYC

the same earth that buries the dead 

nourishes new life coming forth from that same soil 

 

the same air through which the dead leaves fall 

lifts the wings of those who call it home

 

the same water that overwhelms in sudden storms 

and drowns those who can't escape to higher ground 

gives life and shelter to aquatic beings 

and is from whence we came and still we need

 

the same fire that destroys all in its path 

we harness for our purposes and progress 

 

destruction and creation, condemnation, resurrection 

but alternatives among a multitude 

coexistent in a four dimensional realm 

in one of a multiplex of universes 

the one that we inhabit

 

we are no different from that from which we came 

neither truly good nor evil in our nature 

 

we are but the natural progression and expression 

of a larger whole with this exception:  

we self-conceive and give that self expression 

 

now here we are again the same side of the sun  

this moment that we choose to call a "new" year 

a starting line across the oval track our planet travels 

artificially designated, of recent origin 

not that once chosen by

hunters, gatherers, herders and farmers 

in many lands, in many other eras 

 

we have come so far we tell ourselves 

but we have gone so far from where we were 

and we are lost now to the earth that birthed us 

before it is too late, we must return, reclaim

who and what we truly are 

we must be born again 

Gordon Gilbert is a long-time resident of the West Village in NYC who has found solace and inspiration for the past two years in his walks along the Hudson River, photographing and writing about the wildlife, flora and river traffic during the pandemic as the seasons changed.

THE GOLDEN CALF

by Gordon Gilbert

At CPAC.

He spoke appropriately enough

(although misspoken)

of a herd “mentality.”

He could have been speaking of

his own followers,

this super-spreader,

deliberately infecting their bodies

and their minds.

 

Now they wander in a desert of their own making,

mindless in their worship

of this golden orange-coiffed calf,

and at his bidding

they have set aside

the ten commandments,

for only one that now all must obey:

 

“Bow down

&

worship me!” 

 

Gordon Gilbert is a long time resident of the west village in NYC. He only took up writing seriously and performing his work in public in 2008. Since then, besides poetry, he has written many prose pieces (short stories, monologues, short fiction) and one play, Monologues from the Old Folks Home, which he has produced and directed eight times in the past seven years at various venues in lower Manhattan. He has hosted over a dozen programs celebrating the beat generation writers, as well as some other writers, including William Carlos Williams. Gordon is also a member of the Irish American Writers and Artists, and has occasionally hosted their bimonthly salons as well.