AMERICA’S TRUE FACE

by Jon Wesick

is orange. It is gallows on the Capitol Mall,

a pile of shit on Nancy Pelosi’s desk,

a hammer to her husband’s skull.

It wears a red tie hanging below its knees

and stores the nation's secrets

in Putin’s bathroom. It is one set of laws

for the rich and heads slammed 

into police car roofs for the rest of us.

To the snobs who suggest plastic surgery

or even a little concealer, we say

Hell No! We like America’s face just fine! 

 

Jon Wesick is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He’s published hundreds of poems and stories in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, I-70 Review, Lowestoft Chronicle, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, Pearl, Pirene’s Fountain, Slipstream, Space and Time, and Unlikely Stories Mark V. His most recent books are The Shaman in the Library and The Prague Deception.

RED TEAM VERSUS RED TEAM

by Shannon Anthony

Sounds like your party has a civil war

or self-implosion theme. Unfriendly fire:

Your taco bar comes with razor wire.

So now briefly, you are chiefly

claiming that your camp is

against the heartland champs

because the one point of Barbie, that doll,

is to be here to cheer, not cheered at all.

And because she once spoke

and you're proudly unwoke

you're rooting for the 49ers

to kiss the ring where the sun don't shine

forgetting every bad thing you ever said

about the city that gave you Nancy.

Cognitive dissonance and decline: Go red!

Knock yourself out with your bash (nothing fancy).

I think you'd agree I've got that right.

(I'm not male, but not pregnant, and I'm white.)

If you come to (such as they are) your senses

you'll see that concussions have consequences.

You're not immune, and this isn't a kingdom.

What happens in Vegas is just a symptom,

another test we'll hear he aced. Remember

the Big Game: That happens in November.

Shannon Anthony lives in Minneapolis.

MARJORIE'S LIQUID SALAD

by Diane Elayne Dees

Antonio Banderas is the only gazpacho policeman 

we have ever known, and he still cuts a fine figure,

in or out of uniform. Perhaps Almodóvar

can call him to duty, for Marjorie has gone

far beyond the verge of a nervous breakdown. 

This time, Officer Carlos will have to stay sober:

The future of an entire nation depends on him,

as he sorts tomatoes and cucumbers and bell peppers 

for Nancy, and collects enough white bread

to thicken the soup before he spikes it,

and renders Congress near-unconscious—

yet how could we tell?

There is no need for spying—

the schemes and plots and crimes

are all on display in plain sight.

Officer Carlos and Nancy eat a cold soup

of anarchy, dishonored pledges, cult devotion,

and blueprints for total destruction,

while an entire nation—on the verge—awaits.

Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbook Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books) and the forthcoming chapbook The Last Time I Saw You. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women's professional tennis throughout the world.

CORONAVISION

by Judith Terzi




There they are—intimate backgrounds
for the news these COVID-19 days.
It's as if we were voyeurs into the lives
of those we watch & listen to. There they

are, right in their own living spaces. Fireplace
here, lampshade there. Bookshelves filled
with oeuvres that surely don't include any
of my poetry books. I see titles like I Am

That or Night Draws Near. I see games
like Yahtzee & Big Boggle. A stuffed lion
waits on one shelf. On another, a clay
hippopotamus. Dull brown pillows thrown

on a chair in a home for effect in one
interview. Or maybe it's an Airbnb rented
in haste for isolation. Probably so. The lamps
seem pretty Motel 6-like. Madame Nancy

stands in front of an abstract art piece. I love
the pastels, & her eye makeup this evening
is subtler than at her last interview. Different
lighting, perhaps. I've heard that a naked

man in a shower was accidentally on camera
thanks to a mirror not removed in time.
Someone has wedding photos hanging
in perfect alignment. She looks happier

in the black & white glossies. A former
Intelligence maven has six books on a table––
three lying down, three upright, but
upside down. Another hasty setup no doubt.

And a different maven has two copies
of Leon Panetta on a little table along with
Six Days of War. Grim, detailed reading,
for sure. Oprah has such a cool living room.

I love her comfy sofa, her unlit fireplace.
There is a low-fired turquoise pitcher
on someone else's shelf. Pottery—still no
poetry that I can spot. The avocado walls

of yet another background are rich,
as is the cranberry wall of the former
Ebola tsar. Gee, I'm dying to see the rest
of Madame Nancy's house. Aren't you?

Author of Museum of Rearranged Objects (Kelsay), as well as of five chapbooks, including Casbah and If You Spot Your Brother Floating By (Kattywompus), Judith Terzi's poems have received Pushcart and Best of the Web and Net nominations and have been read on Radio 3 of the BBC. She holds an M.A. in French Literature and taught high school French for many years as well as English and French at California State University, Los Angeles, and in Algiers, Algeria.

JINGLE BALLS

Susannah Greenberg is an independent book publicist at Susannah Greenberg Public Relations.  Since that terrible day in November 2016, she's turned to writing rhymed verse.

IN LINE OF THE DECLARATION

by David Stone

Pelosi stands
eclipsing Washington’s bust.
Pelosi stands
across from the men’s folded hands.
Her arm in point to T***p is thrust.
Her calm above his scowl is just.
Pelosi stands.

David Stone teaches English in Loma Linda, CA.  His poetry has appeared in Identity Theory, Shuf, and Inlandia: A Literary Journey as well as in Orangelandia: The Literature of Inland Citrus.  He contributes literary columns for the Southern California News Group.

WINNING OUR AFFLICTIONS

by Mark Williams





Dear Mister President,

My name is Austin Baggerly. I am 9 years old almost.
I am writing about the 4 brown women you told
to go back to the broken countrys they came from.
Mom says they cant go back. They came from here.
They are back. Or here. I am confuzed. Plus
Mom says that with you in the White House
our country is broken and the 4 brown women
should stay and fix it before they go any wheres.
Dad says he wishes they would go back
to where there Moms and Dads came from. Dad says
soon we will walk into for instants Chuck E. Cheese
and it will be filled with brown people
staring at our white butts. Moms and Dads
and my white butt Mister President. Mom says
no one would want to stare at yours. Anyways
since you became President our house broke to.
Dad sleeps with me in my room. He snores.
But since you told the 4 brown women to go back
things have gotten better for me in some ways.
Mom bought me a Perplexus Epic 3D Maze Puzzle.
Dad bought me a Ridiculous Inventions Science Kit.
Mom says that Dads gift is ridiculous cause
he does not believe in science. Anyways
I heard Mom tell Aunt Alice that when Dad
agreed with you about the 4 brown women
he crossed a dipping point. I asked Mom
what is a dipping point. She said ask your father.
I know what Mom and Dad are up to Mister President.
Thanks to you they are trying to win my afflictions.
It is working. I wonder who will buy me
a Fat Brain Toys Chaos Machine. Mom says
you must already have one. Is it fun?
Pretty soon I will have 2 houses to go back to.
If both Mom and Dad buy me a Chaos Machine
I will have 1 for each house. Sweet!

                                                            Yours truly,
                                                            Austin Baggerly

Mark Williams's poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, New Ohio Review, Rattle, Nimrod, Jokes Review, and The American Journal of Poetry. His poems in response to the Trump administration have appeared in Poets Reading the News, Tuck Magazine, and Writers Resist. This is his second appearance in TheNewVerse.News. He would buy a Chaos Machine if he knew it could be set in reverse.

AN AWKWARD AGE

by Wayne Scheer

Hugs were rare where I grew up,
reserved for mother/son greetings
and father/daughter consoling.
I don't recall seeing
either of my parents hugging
a friend or each other, for that matter.
To the day he died,
my father and I shook hands.

My wife, on the other hand,
probably hugged the doctor at birth.
And after years of standoffishness,
she taught me to open up
and hug friends, male and female.

Yesterday, at an art museum.,
we met a friendly young couple
who live a couple houses down from us.
My wife went in for hugs
while I shook the man's hand
and proudly moved to hug the young woman.

As I opened my arms
I saw she had extended her right arm for a handshake,
a member of Pelosi's straight arm club, I presume,
but it was too late,
and it resulted in an awkward half hug.

Now that I finally learned to hug,
I have to relearn, like Joe Biden, that hugs
aren't always welcomed,
that I need to wait, momentarily,
for the woman to signal
how much of her personal space
she's willing to give up.

As Joe said, I get it.
But please forgive the awkwardness
while I adjust.


Wayne Scheer is an old codger trying to stay relevant. He has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Nets. He's published numerous stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories. His short story, “Zen and the Art of House Painting” has been made into a short film.

TIT FOR TAT

by Tricia Knoll

She calls it. The government’s down for the count.
The structure is collapsing. That’s the State
of the Union, and she issues the invitations.
A move on the board, not unlike his moves, play
as you go. This knight rider woman
goes for the jump over. She’s has played
this game for decades. Knows all the moves.
Has played against the best. Calls the moves.
Three tilts make a match. We’re at two
and counting. Tit for tat


Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who is delighting in seeing a woman call Trump out.

WHEN THE GAVEL SOUNDS, MADAM SPEAKER . . .

by Marsha Owens

. . . impeach or not impeach may be the question.
The answer is Yes! Impeach his sorry ass
not because it will rid us of him
but because it will ridicule him
and become our only retributive act.

Begin slowly, pick off the scab
one layer at a time—
for every caged child
and homeless veteran
for the dark-skinned boy
and the Muslim parents
for Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford
and for each uncounted voter
for the Puerto Ricans
and for our pitiful planet

for all of us who feel trapped in the fetal position
anti-depressants scattered on bedside tables
fear streaming down our cheeks
desperation roped tight in the darkest places
tossed like shrouds around our collective shoulders.

Marsha Owens is a retired educator who lives and writes in Richmond VA. Her poems and essays have appeared at TheNewVerse.News, Huffington Post, TheWildWord, Rat’s Ass Review, and Streetlight Magazine. She is a co-editor of the anthology Lingering in the Margins to be released in the Spring.