LEAP DAY 2024

by Sally Zakariya

In the fourth year the calendar

cracks open and out leaps 

an extra day, neither winter nor spring 

but somewhere on the cusp, 

let’s say the cusp of March, 

itself a cusp of sorts 

somewhere between 

lion and lamb.

So say you have one more day   

this year, another day to add

to your store from birth to death 

over a lifetime, no strings attached, 

nothing expected in return. 

Outside a scurry of snowflakes dance

on the early crocus, neither winter

nor spring but somewhere on the cusp.

What will you do with your extra day?

Sally Zakariya’s poetry has appeared in some 100 publications and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her publications include All Alive Together, Something Like a Life, Muslim Wife, The Unknowable Mystery of Other People, Personal Astronomy, and When You Escape. She edited and designed a poetry anthology, Joys of the Table, and blogs at www.butdoesitrhyme.com.

THIRTEEN DAYS ON “THE NRA CIVIL RIGHTS CALENDAR”

by Gilbert Allen

Blood On Their Hands _ Anti-NRA T-Shirt by Sarana Mehra

January 1

If the world seems cold

to you, perhaps

you’ve already fired.

January 6

Stop

the Magnetometers!

Martin Luther King, Jr. Day

Guns don’t make the world

go round. Guns make

the rounds worthwhile.

Ash Wednesday

Praise the One before whom

thou needest no silencer.

April 1

We inherit our relatives, but

we can choose

our AR-15s.

Good Friday

It is more blessed to grieve

than to reprieve.

Memorial Day

Talk not of wasted

ammunition. Talk instead of those

you’ve wasted

July 4

Believe the worst

about everybody. That way

you don’t have to aim.

Labor Day

My bullets are Teflon.

My burden is light.

Halloween

Every boy

needs a blackbird

to shoot at.

Thanksgiving

Guns don’t kill turkeys.

Turkeys kill turkeys.

December 24

I am the ghost

of Kevlar passed.

New Year’s Eve

Some of us are like cannons: we don’t

like to be pushed, and we’re only happy

when loaded.

Gilbert Allen lives and writes in Travelers Rest, South Carolina. His most recent collection of poems is Believing in Two Bodies.

SIMILE ARIA

by Sam Barbee

                                 

Nothing at stake this Christmas morning. 

The grate glares cold ash. I sip coffee

and recall family visits and apparitions

demanding reprise. Holiday lights

warm cedar branches with efforts to stay jolly. 

 

Outside, snowflakes soothe, fresh confection

masterpiece balanced beyond our threshold. 

Chill peals across the snow. Narrow drifts

shiver from the boughs. Yard gnomes grin.

Birdbath idles, basin propped against the pedestal.

 

Our tiny saints sing rounds of Jingle Bells

and toss snowballs. My son slings boyhood

My daughter casts off little sister caution—

Sublime wintering, no need for Merry New Year. 

Icicles hang from soffits, false prisms for icy shadows. 

 

I sort glossy holiday cards. 2021 slumps by the day.

Silence graphs this past year, this dreadful year,

when smallness thrived. My holiday paunch

swollen by a year I etched as edible—

my holiday efforts to burnish shiny days

 

and belittle others until we shutter failings.

I petition for the New Year's messiah with strategies

to charm next year's calendar, already highlighted

with celebrations and pursuits. The moon wanes,

shudders with a gut punch.  Shall I toss the diary?

 

Put the fresh word-a-day calendar in a drawer?

Will I placate the next world with old tricks?

Or tease tonight's marrow. I dream of easy

installments: a bit strapped for cash, my angels

flap their wings and cheer my unraveling day.

 

I stir the hearth ashes. And imagine a single

perfect morning when carols dance in the chimney

and risk sleeps in. Admire art gifted to one another,

hung on stark walls like flawless bliss trying to take hold.

Merriness found in a new masterpiece revealing old joy. 

Sam Barbee has a new collection, Uncommon Book of Prayer (2021, Main Street Rag).  His poems recently appeared in Poetry South, Literary Yard.  His collection That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53) was nominated for Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best 2016 poetry collections; a two-time Pushcart nominee. 

COMES NOW

by Earl J Wilcox

Picture taken on March 23, 2018, shows a technician working on the clock of the Lukaskirche Church in Dresden, eastern Germany. (Photo by Sebastian Kahnert/DPA/AFP via Getty Images via AL.com)

That time of year

When we fall

Back

When time’s

Breath stirs

Our solitude

When nature’s

Calendar

Does not trick

Nor does our

Body fail

Though

Formidably

Confirms our time

Here changes

Course

Assuredly

As yesterday

Tomorrow

Forever remain

Unchanged.

 

Earl J. Wilcox has been writing for TheNewVerse.News through many turns of the clock.

LINES

by Diane Vogel Ferri

People lined up in their cars at a food distribution site in San Antonio, Tex., in April 2020.Credit...Credit: William Luther/The San Antonio Express-News, via Associated Press and The New York Times.

My wall calendar helps me to visualize

my life, the plans I hold dear, the people

I must see so they also see me

At first the lines were through the

scribbling on my calendar,  an oddity,

disappointing at most—a temporary month

Sometimes there were two lines,

an X-ing out, a permanent loss

I catalogued the failures in my journal

Then the lines were of standing humans

waiting to vote, car-lines of hungry children

waiting for the food school had denied them

lines circling the parking lots for tests,

lines at the border, lines at the shelters,

lines at the unemployment office,

lines in the streets to confront the wizard 

behind the curtain, asking when we will be normal? 

But he was a fraud, a canceler of science, of truth

Freedom was not taken by a government

freedom was not taken at all, only

innocent lives, their coffins in orderly lines

The lines are now for a miracle,

for we who are left, whose lives have not

been crossed out, who are free to live.

Diane Vogel Ferri is a teacher, poet, and writer living in Solon, Ohio. Her newest novel is No Life But This: A Novel of Emily Warren Roebling. Her essays have been published in Scene Magazine, Raven’s Perch, Yellow Arrow Journal, and Good Works Review among others. Her poems can be found in numerous journals such as Wend Poetry, Her Words, Rubbertop Review, and Poet Lore. Her previous publications are Liquid Rubies (poetry), The Volume of Our Incongruity (poetry), The Desire Path (novel).

CALENDAR GIRLS

by Julie Steiner

St. Agnes, stained-glass window in the parish church of St. George in Fritzdorf, Germany.

The head of an independent enquiry investigating church child abuse in France said Tuesday that there might have been up to 10,000 victims since 1950. Jean-Marc Sauve, head of a commission set up by the Catholic church, said that a previous estimate in June last year of 3,000 victims "is certainly an underestimate. It's possible that the figure is at least 10,000," he added at a press conference where he delivered an update on the commission's work. A hotline set up in June 2019 for victims and witnesses to report abuse received 6,500 calls in the first 17 months of operation. "The big question for us is 'how many victims came forward'? Is it 25 percent? 10 percent, 5 percent or less?," Sauve told reporters. —France24, March 2, 2021

January: Agnes—her name means “Chaste One”—
holds a lamb (a pun on the Latin agnus).
Note the flowing streams of her hair, which hid her
     twelve-year-old body,

naked, on parade to a Roman brothel.
Note the sword employed when her would-be rapists—
like the flames lit later—refused to touch her.
     Notice the palm branch,

signifying martyrdom. Note her crimson
robe, another emblem of Christian martyrs.
Patron saint of victims of rape, Saint Agnes,
     ora pro nobis.

*

February: Agatha—Greek for “Good Girl”—
bears her severed breasts on a plate, serenely.
Tortured for her chastity. Never raped, though.
     Virgin and martyr.

Spared the degradation of rape’s defilement,
though she died a sexual sadist’s plaything.
Lesson: God won’t tolerate rape’s pollution
     tainting a Good Girl.

*

Skip ahead. Miss May is Antonia Mesina.
Head and face smashed in in the nineteen-thirties.
Age sixteen when brained by a thwarted rapist.
     I was a teen, too,

when the Pope beatified her. Another
virgin-martyr patron of rape survivors.
Verified as virgo intacta—something
     ever-so-private;

something that her modesty wanted shielded;
something she had given her life defending;
something that her coroners broadcast widely.
     Waved in our faces,

alleluia. See how the Lord protects His
favored ones from genital violation?
Doctors’ probings proved that she’d kept her hymen.
     Proved she was holy.

*

Moving on: Maria Goretti, farmgirl.
Miss July. In 1902, a neighbor
stabbed her fourteen times when he failed to rape her.
     She was eleven.

How had I offended the Lord at less than
half her age—allowed to be raped, not murdered?
Even in my innocence, I was guilty.
     I was unworthy.

God withheld divine intervention, proving
I was not an Agatha, nor an Agnes.
I’d deserved what happened to me, like other
     rape-punished children.

*

Pray for us. And pray for a Church whose members
help abusers stigmatize rape’s survivors,
though Augustine’s City of God said virgins
     raped are still virgins.

Pray for us. And pray for a Church more heartless
now than when Aquinas affirmed that raped nuns—
even those impregnated—still are virgins:
     mind over matter.

Pray for us. And pray that our Church recalls that
Miss December—virgin and martyr Lucy—
claimed a second heavenly crown would honor
     those who’d been ravished.

How it would have helped me, to hear that virtue
wasn’t something stored in a telltale membrane
someone else’s lust could destroy, forever
     leaving you lesser.

How it would have helped, to have heard this message:
Virtue—male or female—cannot be graded
pass/fail, based on criminals’ choice to harm you.
     (Gruesome injustice!)

How it would have helped, to have heard Survival
isn’t proof of sinfulness. Share your burden.
Minus that, the upshot was Hold your tongue, or
     all will condemn you.

Rapists want the world to despise their victims.
Shame buys silence. Shout! Let the Church proclaim this:
Rape indeed does happen to blameless people.
     Calendar, update.

Author's references:

Stanza 13: Augustine, City of God, Book I (Chapters 16 and 18).

https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/120101.htm

Stanzas 14 and 15: Thomas Aquinas (with Fra Rainaldo da Piperno), Summa Theologicae, Supplement, Question 96, Article 5, Reply to Objection 4.

https://www.newadvent.org/summa/5096.htm#article5

Julie Steiner is a pseudonym in San Diego. Besides TheNewVerse.News, the venues in which her poetry has appeared include the Able Muse Review, Rattle, Light, and the Asses of Parnassus.

THE VISIT

by Devon Balwit

The first days pass in delight. Then
comes irritation, the rift between wish
and world, lacks that leave us too often
lamenting our birth. We are childish,
throwing tantrums because it feels good
to yell and kick our feet. That it disturbs others
is a bonus. It’s worse when it’s understood
that we, ourselves, are the problem, our mothers
and fathers not to blame for who and how
we are. Then, a glance at the calendar
shows the visit’s almost up. Now
a rush to reconcile. We grow fonder
of each other, of the ordinary good that surrounds
us, but there’s scant time to enjoy what we’ve found.


Devon Balwit's most recent collection is titled A Brief Way to Identify a Body (Ursus Americanus Press). Her individual poems can be found in here as well as in Jet Fuel, The Worcester Review, The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Apt (long-form issue), Tule Review, Grist, and Rattle among others.

ON THE DISAPPEARANCE OF RACHEL MITCHELL FROM THE KAVANAUGH HEARING, SEPTEMBER 27, 2018

by Patty Mosco Holloway

Is she still missing?
Another woman tossed away today,
only this time, not in a bedroom behind a locked door
with music blaring to drown out her cries.
This time it happened on national tv.
She just disappeared. Or was disappeared.
Never came back to question his honor,
this "lady assistant," expert prosecuting attorney,
hired by Republican Senators
to do their dirty work,
to make them look good
or at least, not so bad.
Behind her skirts they lurked
as she questioned the woman in question.
The  'Merican Publik never got to see
how they'd look, how they'd sound
grilling a "female" victim of sexual assault.

When they didn't like how the law-lady acted,
they threw her away,
took away her voice
muscled for the mic
outshouting each other,
sneering, jeering, puffing out chests,
doing the man-dance:
Who could be fiercest defending their boy?

They were no better than Kavanaugh's frat boys
"Finding," "Fucking," "Forgetting"
the girls they forced down onto beds
or stood in line to train rape
at their good ole "boys-will-be-boys-I-like-beer-
              I-liked-it-then-I-like-it-now" parties.

No, the Republican Senators never threw Ms. Mitchell down
under them onto a bed—they just used her awhile
then judged her useless,
took away her voice, tossed her away.
They might as well have tied her up in that chair
at the Hearing and stuck Kavanaugh's calendar into her mouth.
They made her invisible, shoved past her chair,
jockeying, ranting to rescue their boy.
Has anyone seen her?

Editor’s Note: “The outside prosecutor Senate Republicans [Rachel Mitchell] hired to lead the questioning in last week’s hearing about the sexual assault allegations against Brett M. Kavanaugh is arguing in a new memo why she would not bring criminal charges against the Supreme Court nominee. . . . Mitchell, whom GOP senators selected to handle the questioning in last week’s hearing with Ford and Kavanaugh, is a registered Republican who is chief of the special victims division of the Maricopa County attorney’s office in Phoenix. Although she asked Ford all of the questions posed by Republican senators, she asked Kavanaugh only two rounds of questions until GOP senators began speaking again." —The Washington Post, September 30, 2018

Patty Mosco Holloway is a writing teacher in Denver, Colorado. Her poems have appeared before in TheNewVerse.News and in Ekphrastic Review.

NEW YEAR'S EVE

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

Image source: Sessions College

Wars bleed
From one year to the next
Greed takes no holiday
Poverty and desperation spread
Like black mold
Across the pages
Of the calendar
I see no reasons to believe
That the coming year
Will be any better
Than the last and
Likely it will be worse
Nevertheless at midnight
I stand outside
In the shivering blackness
And feel myself elated
Once more
By the ancient tableaux
Of winter constellations
Settled into their familiar places
Among the icy stars . . .

No sound no sign
No flash of light
No message from heaven
No harps or bells
But a moment of beauty
On a winter’s night
And an old pessimist’s blind hope
That all will be well


Buff Whitman-Bradley is the author of four books of poetry, b. eagle, poet; The Honey Philosophies; Realpolitik; and When Compasses Grow Old; and the chapbook, Everything Wakes Up! His poetry has appeared in many print and online journals. He is also co-editor, with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley and Sarah Lazare, of the book About Face: Military Resisters Turn Against War.  He has co-produced/directed two documentary films, the award-winning Outside In (with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley) and Por Que Venimos (with the MIRC Film Collective).  He lives in northern California.

FOR THE REPOSE OF SOULS

by Carol Alexander

A Berkeley, CA vigil held to remember the victims and families of the Newtown, CT, massacre. Photo: Jeremy Pollack/Creative Commons

A pair of peafowl floats down from the trees,
the wan hen and florid cock picking their way
while the river slowly slips back in its banks.

The boy in his tall wading books creeps after,
licking rust from the muzzle of his gun.

The juddering of a turquoise fan perhaps will be
as close to flame of phoenix  as spirit will draw.
But we were born in fire, and to fire will come.

The woman with the small communion dress
rocks in her chair in her ordinary room
room with its proportions rudely skewed;
shocked feathers of the peafowls gently float down.

With their saintly calendar of woes,
country men and women walk in sober twos.

Still the shops stay open; trees blink red and green,
children dash across the street, cars swerve,
we hear the Morse code of the coming snow,
birds in starry park all the news that we can bear.

A pallid smoke in its helix twists and frays,
as if to question who to go and how to stay?
You mummers in a masquerade of death
shoot off your pop guns, begging cakes and ale.

Neither the country nor the quiet grave where we lay
our old ones down in the lightness of their years,
is this cold town where we have just begun to pray.

But unicorns and little maids remain entwined
(in sable trees an archer waits and strings his silent bow).


A writer for trade and educational publishing, Carol Alexander has authored numerous children’s books, served as a ghostwriter for radio and trade publishing, and taught at colleges around the metropolitan area. In 2011-2012, her poetry appears—or is scheduled to appear-- in literary journals and anthologies published by Avocet, Boyne Berries (UK), Chiron Review, Cave Moon Press, The Canary, Danse Macabre, Earthspeak, Eunoia Review, Fade Poetry Journal (UK), Fat Daddy’s Farm Press, Fried Chicken and Coffee, The Mad Hatter’s Review, Mobius, Numinous, OVS, Red Poppy Review, Red River Review, River Poets Journal, Sleeping Cat Books, The Whistling Fire, and Write Wing Publishing.