AND THEN

by Debbie Benson

The New York Times

then came bees the sizev cats- they

overtook the sky

2put a stop2 our, wherever it was we 

were going? 

they told us we’d failed 2 really see 

our world, 

dizzying us w/eyes like sharded glass.

they dove & purred, unruly w/ yellow, 

nonpoisonous 

if fearsome, aghast but all unwarring,

& w/ them hopes we’d been ignoring 

were dipping also soaring

Debbie Benson’s recent poems appear (or are forthcoming) in Indiana Review, Passages North, Bennington Review, Ninth Letter, and The Penn Review. Past awards include the Ann Stanford Poetry Prize, Vern Cowles Prize, an International Merit Award from Atlanta Review, inclusion in Best New Poets, and a “Best of the Net” nomination. She is a prior contributor at The New Verse News. She works as a clinical psychologist in NYC.

YOUR COUNTRIES ARE GOING TO HELL

by Diane Elayne Dees

Our country, on the other hand,

is a big slice of heaven, where 
 
a bag with different things in it
costs so much, we can’t afford

to buy clothes and medicine.
But things are bound to get better

because hundreds of penguins
have been hit with tariffs.

It will take time for us to see
the benefit of this, so our children

must have two dolls instead of 
thirty dolls, but no worries—

they won’t have to get 
vaccinated against anything,

and anyway, we’re all going to die.
Our children won’t be autistic

because their mothers, burning
with fever, won’t take Tylenol.

And—since they absorb everyting—
our children will rule the world 

once they are all saturated

in steak sauce. Having been spared 

the evil of windmills, they’ll be smart 

enough to bring down the plot to make

them all transgender. The bad news
is that there's no controlling 

the rampant spread of transgender mice
because the immigrants ate all the cats.

Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbooks, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), The Last Time I Saw You (Finishing Line Press), The Wild Parrots of Marigny (Querencia Press), and I Can't Recall Exactly When I Died (Kelsay Books). 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. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large.

THE CATS OF SPRINGFIELD, OHIO

by Gail White

The cats that live in Springfield
lie down secure to sleep,
for no one comes to hunt them
or slaughter them like sheep.

Around the cats of Springfield
no trappers lie in wait,
for they are not as humans
who rise to every bait.

Gail White is a formalist poet and a contributing editor to Light. Her most recent collections are Paper Cuts, Asperity Street, and Catechism. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, with her husband and cats. 

APRIL 5TH

by Terry Trowbridge

shirt available from amazon

Humidity casts a cold spell

over the Great Lakes.

When the spell is broken,

humidity continues to flicker

through the grasses and leaves.

The dampness of breath

and matted fur

attracts housecats

to the leaf piles

where mouse-casting Spring elementals

summoned little rodents into being.

 

At night, the mist turns heavy

and sinks to the ground,

exposing the orchards to starlight.

At day, water evaporates

into a quick-sky of quicklime grey.

The obscurantist Sun,

having chased away Enlightenment

comforts—too soon for lawn chairs—

into the barn workbench beer routine,

 

will remain invisible.

An eclipse is due in three days.

The cats might react confusedly.

The mice might emerge in daylight

And look up at the shadow of the Moon

darkening circle through the cloud cover.

Shadow weather defines a season of transitions.

Terry Trowbridge’s poems have appeared in many journals including, previously, The New Verse News. Terry is grateful to the Ontario Arts Council for his first writing grant, and their support of so many other writers during the polycrisis.

MY CAT AND I HAVE A CONVERSATION ABOUT TALKING WITH WHALES

by Matthew King

So now, I tell my cat, we talk with whales.
He yawns in pointed answer: it’s beneath
his dignity to suffer such tall tales.
His rough tongue flashes out across his teeth.
I ask him, well, should we use cats instead
to study alien communication?
Look, he says, you say what’s in my head
without the need for my participation.
You’re doing it right now! I haven’t said
a word, it’s all you, even this frustration!
Good luck, whales and Martians! Me, I’m fed
up with one-sided human conversation.
Oh, I tease him, don’t trust my translation?
Wait until you hear me speak cetacean.

Author's note: Some scientists believe they have successfully conducted a conversation with a humpback whale, and that this is good practice for communicating with aliens. My cat is skeptical.

Matthew King used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto, Canada; he now lives in what Al Purdy called "the country north of Belleville" where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighbouring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry. His photos and links to his poems can be found at birdsandbeesandblooms.com.

CATS & DOGS

by Scott C. Kaestner

My dog is a Socialist
and my cat a Capitalist.

My dog speaks of the pack 
my cat wants to be left alone.

My dog sleeps on the floor
my cat naps in a penthouse.

My dog wastes not an ounce of kibble
my cat scoffs at its gourmet food.

They are two different beings no doubt
and there is definitely conflict.

Like during the 2020 Democratic Primary 
my dog a Bernie Bro and my cat Ridin’ with Biden.

Or the time my dog’s Communist Manifesto
caught fire when my cat knocked over a candle.

Said it was an accident like when my dog
mistook the cat’s Wall Street Journal for a bone.

I have my suspicions as they both
like to poke and stoke each other’s fire.

Just when I think conflict is inevitable 
and a peaceful existence a pipe dream.

Come home and find the two of them
snuggled together on the couch.

Then I am reminded that differences 
make their union stronger.

Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, writer, dad, husband, and street taco enthusiast. Google ‘scott kaestner poetry’ to peruse his musings and doings.

TODAY

by Earl J. Wilcox

Today when I awoke it was very dark outside.

Today when I got up at 5:30 AM, it was cold.

Today I fumble putting in my hearing aids.

Today my glasses help little with macular degenration.

Today my bladder wants to empty before I arise.

Today I struggle to put on my pants, my shoes.

Today the cats wait patiently to be fed, petted.

Today I see dimly the coffee pot, the faucet.

Today I munch a protein bar, put on a mask.

Today I find my walking stick, unlock the door.

Today I stumble out the door, my knees resist walking.

Today it is still dark as I move toward the street light.

Today I shudder, cough and sneeze, wait for a ride.

Today I hear kids and cars and school buses pass by.

Today a friend stops for me. I hobble to his car.

Today I find his car is warm, his voice hopeful.

Today we ride to a community center across town.

Today I can barely hear or see the place we seek.

Today I wobble down the pavement, smile, anxious.

Today a friendly voice asks if I am “doin’ OK?”.

Today I walk inside a warm hall, hear low, calm chatter.

Today I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait.

Today I wonder if the line will open a slot for me.

Today I arise, my cane is calmer than I am.

Today I hand my photo ID to someone at a table.

Today I am helped to a small machine I barely see.

Today a friendly voice asks if I can see the screen.

Today I barely read, barely hear, barely stand.

Today I feel a rush of joy and peace.

Today my friend puts a small sticker on my sweater.

Today and tomorrow the sticker says I VOTED.

 

This week at age 87 Earl Wilcox voted.

WE AS CATS

by Brian Rihlmann

there comes a time
to sit in the sun
to sit in the sun
and do nothing
but take in the world
the sights, sounds, and smells
and then close your eyes
relax and breathe
feel the warmth on your skin

more of this
could be a revolution
quiet as an infestation of termites
could transform the world
more than any religion
any ideology or messiah
any new invention
more than any solution
we could think of

cats understand this necessity
the importance of inactivity
instinctively, they know this
they sleep a lot
they do just enough
and they are sane
they bring out their claws
when they have to
pad around on soft paws
the rest of the time
leaving no futile scars
upon souls, skin
or earth

Brian Rihlmann was born in New Jersey and currently resides in Reno, Nevada. He writes free verse poetry, and has been published in The Blue Nib, The American Journal of Poetry, Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, and others. His first poetry collection Ordinary Trauma (2019) was published by Alien Buddha Press.

ON FACEBOOK

by Anton Yakovlev

On Facebook, cats have been deemphasized.

We only see them from our closest friends.

You think they swarm you, but you’d be surprised:

on Facebook, cats have been deemphasized.

The bots climb trends. Cambridge has analyzed

our timelines dry. Here come the flaming hands.

Where are the cats? They’ve been deemphasized.

O, let me see them. Let them be my friends.

Anton Yakovlev is from New Jersey. His latest poetry collection is Ordinary Impalers (Kelsay Books, 2017). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Hopkins Review, Amarillo Bay, Prelude, Measure, and elsewhere. The Last Poet of the Village, a book of translations of poetry by Sergei Esenin, is forthcoming from Sensitive Skin Books.

WE BOMBED IRAQ SIX DAYS AFTER PARIS FASHION WEEK

by Clara B. Jones

New photographs show the Unites States Air Force preparing for strikes on ISIS targets at a secret military base in the Persian Gulf. Daily Mail, Feb. 26, 2016. Getty Images Photo via Daily Mail.

Climate crescented when Anthropocene
overwhelmed Antarctica, displacing
penguins whose food no longer swelled

the ocean, each year of our lives displayed
in glass cases cleaned every day, reflecting
a day-glow billboard sign selling scale

models of maps more detailed than the
landscapes they defined, so finely drawn
that cities looked like flies fixed in pixels.

The secret to my cat's success is her element
of surprise—clowns jumping out of bomber
jets, boreal birds barreling into bathrooms,

babies speaking sentences. In 2003, we
bombed Iraq six days after Paris Fashion Week.
Now we have drones to keep runways safe.


Clara B. Jones is a retired scientist, currently practicing poetry in Asheville, NC. She is a staff writer for the poetry journal, Yellow Chair Review. As a woman of color, she writes about the “performance” of identity and power and conducts research on experimental poetry. Her poems, reviews, essays, and interviews have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous venues.

PLUNDER

(for Cecil of Zimbabwe)
by Carolyn Gregory

This is the last known photograph of Cecil the lion (bottom) taken by Brent Stapelkamp before he was killed by the American dentist. Cecil is pictured with Jericho, a male lion who it is feared could kill the cubs of the pride fathered by Cecil. Source: White Wolf Pack.

1.

All day, he walks beside me,
his long bones slower indoors,
his gold sheen growing rich
with brown and yellow
walking past my fans.

All his life, he has taught sons
how to hunt in the savannah,
crouching and leaping
behind tall grass,
how to go for the jugular
and to strip the meat,
bringing it home to feed the family.

He has shared ancient stories
of his grandfather, the cave lion
living by his teeth and strength
five hundred thousand years ago.
Regal and triumphant,
he haunts me now.

2.

The dentist was bored
with his life of drilling and filling,
tired of his other trophies.

Africa called him back,
the roaring and howling of animals
luring him from suburbia,
pulling him away from snow
and malpractice.

One or two gunshots would be enough
to take down a great predator,
more satisfying than implants
and root canals,

a souvenir for the wall,
his ruff all groomed, the eyes
replaced with yellow glass.

3.

Shoot him with a bow and arrow,
finish him off with guns.
Make sure it's done
so the skin can be harvested
and turned into a rug.
Be sure to wield a heavy axe
to take off his head.

We want to put it on
its lacquered wall mount.
It will look fine
near the yellow afghans and throws,
terrific in our rec room.

When the fire overtakes our woods
and timber falls asunder,
when the lion calls out
his wolves and bobcats
to tear down this house of plunder,

we will not understand
the voodoo medicine big cats call
nor the end of trophies
and bragging rights
nature makes due.


Carolyn Gregory has published poems and music reviews in American Poetry Review, Cutthroat, Main Street Rag, Wilderness House Literary Review, Ygdrasil, Seattle Review. Her first and second books were published by Windmill Editions in Florida.

A CAT WHO LOOKS LIKE HITLER

by Chris O’Carroll

Image source: Cats That Look Like Hitler

Your kitten’s face is white with a black patch,
A toothbrush mustache, underneath the nose.
You named the little furball Adolf, natch.
(You could have gone with Chaplin, I suppose.)
Since cats cleave to no ideology
That one could label pro- or anti-Jew,
And are not really into irony,
What the name signifies depends on you.
It could be just a joke about a face
That seems as comical as monstrous now,
Could be a shout-out to the Master Race
That operated Auschwitz-Birkenau.
  The eponym enjoyed such baneful fame,
  It’s hard to know what’s in a namesake’s name.


Chris O’Carroll is a writer and an actor.  In addition to his previous appearances in The New Verse News, he has published poems in Angle, Folly, Light, The Rotary Dial, Snakeskin, and other print and online journals.

A COMPANION OF HONOUR

by Martha Landman





            “. . . the sign of a mind that is restless but not wandering.”  -- The Guardian


A farm girl, lover of cats,
started writing and never stopped
the controversy

from communism to feminism
a sharp contrarian
chanting slogans
a step away from lunacy

ran away from motherhood
into a household of adolescent
waifs and strays

“I will not”
written in her Bible

every pigeonhole declined
a curtsied “no” to damehood
in a non-existent empire

her visionary power captured
in a golden notebook on a
dinosaur typewriter
her novels and scepticism
travelled the world

she thought freely, independently
an irascible soul with little tact

an impenetrable icon of wisdom
a lover of Sufis and cats.


Martha Landman writes poetry in North Queensland, Australia.  Her work has appeared in various journals including Every Day Poets, Poetry 24, Eunoia Review, Muse.