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Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com.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.
Showing posts with label Rebecca Leet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rebecca Leet. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 10, 2021

LUXURIOUS FEAR

by Rebecca Leet


Source: We Do Geek


My head sinks into the pillow
and fear floats forward
like a ghoul set to stalk my dreams
 
so easy to keep ghosts
tautly moored when sun shines,
before night ingests hope.
 
I worry past the present pandemic
past the wild, sad souls ensnared
by visions of prurient perfidies
 
to a time closer than we dare declare
when swelling seas, infernos of forests,
acres of arid, fallow farmlands
 
push civilization to survival of the fittest
and my newborn grandchild, one day,
must claw over others or succumb.
 
Then morning comes and as I sip tea
news reports speak of children suffocating
from poison gas in Syria        girls kidnapped
 
by Boko Haram in Nigeria      a boy killed
in a random shooting five miles away.
And I realize my fear, today, is a luxury.
 

Rebecca Leet lives a stone's throw from Washington, DC.  Her collection Living with the Doors Wide Open was published in 2018.

Thursday, October 22, 2020

JOY IN THE TIME OF COVID

by Rebecca Leet


“Joy of Life,” a painting by Alexandra Romano.


Joy has deep, soft texture these days,
like going barefoot on a carpet so lush
you almost feel you’re walking on air.
Its sound is soft, too—no brass bands,
 
no clashing cymbals. More like sweet air
passing through spring leaves. Its color
is the wash of a water-color painting—
nothing bold. To claim joy feels slightly selfish
 
but how can I feel other when—as I write—
all whom I love are healthy and those dearest
I can hold with my eyes—un-Zoomed—
and with my arms. I cradle my granddaughter
 
and inhale her infant perfume, draw each daughter
hard against my breasts. Randomly, a quiver
of Covid concern causes pause until—
like warm sun on my face in winter—
 
time dissolves into the eternity of now
and I breathe in the joy of the moment.
 

Rebecca Leet has been writing poetry for five years since retiring from the media-policy-politics world of Washington, DC. Her first book of poetry is Living With the Doors Wide Open. She has been published in Canary, Passager, Bourgeon, and elsewhere.