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Showing posts with label covid. Show all posts
Showing posts with label covid. Show all posts

Saturday, July 18, 2026

FROM THE HIDEOUSLY SMOKY MIDWEST

by Elizabeth Kerlikowske




I love my Canadian neighbors but…
 
At least during Covid we could step outside.
I resurrect my masks and wear them now
to water the puzzled garden, get the mail,
drag in the dumpster. Ash on squash leaves
ages them as surely as gray hair. My throat hurts.
Eyes sting and I’m breathing filtered air.
Exhausted squirrels lay in bird baths.
Deer stagger through the yard.
We keep water out for them,
not to breed mosquitos, nosy neighbor!
Sun a muffled peach pit in both skies.
Moon, overcome with particulate matter,
hides her face, throws scarves of stars
over her mouth to filter pernicious smoke.
Just guessing, since we no longer see her.


Elizabeth Kerlikowske’latest chapbook is Falling Women, with painter Mary Hatch.



Saturday, June 21, 2025

WARNING SHOT

by Catherine Gonick


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


Health Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. on Wednesday named eight doctors and researchers, including four who have spoken out against vaccination in some way, to replace roughly half the members he fired from an expert panel that advises the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. —The New York Times, June 11, 2025


I go to CVS to get a Covid booster.

A pharmacy staffer prepares the injection.

Do you think we'll be able to get

these much longer? I ask.

Is this a political question? 

she shoots back.

We are strangers. I realize 

she might be asking 

if I'm MAGA. Maybe she

is. But if either of us were,

would we be here,

giving and receiving

life-saving help? Is this political?

I repeat inanely. Battle-lines wait

to be drawn, and I'm lost

in a small fog of war,

until she asks, Have you heard

what's happened to the CDC

and vaccines? Now I know

we're on the same side

and it's safe to answer, Yes, 

we're in a horror movie. She jabs

my arm and I flinch. You need

to stay still, she warns,

plunging deeper. When I leave

and thank her, she smiles.



Catherine Gonick has published poetry in journals including The New Verse News, Beltway Poetry QuarterlyPedestal, and Orchards Poetry Journal. Her work has also appeared in anthologies including in plein air, Grabbed, Support Ukraine, and Rumors, Secrets & Lies: Poems About Pregnancy, Abortion and Choice. Her first full-length collection, Split Daughter of Eve, is forthcoming in June from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions. She lives in the Hudson Valley, where she works in a company that slows  the rate of global warming.

Sunday, May 25, 2025

FIRST CONTACT

by Michelle DeRose

Detained Palestinian activist Mahmoud Khalil (file photo above) was allowed to hold his one-month-old son for the first time Thursday after a federal judge blocked the Trump administration’s efforts to keep the father and infant separated by a plexiglass barrier. —NPR, May 22, 2025



Tuck that baby in close. He needs
to hear your beats; you, to smell
his hair. Skin itching for touch,
building bonds by contact. Once,
an old man in a home pressed
palms to pane. His daughter prayed
along, her breath frosting the air.
Neighbors hung curtains on shared
lines, clasped amidst the plastic.
Twice in recent life they advised
no contact: to slow the spread
of a spiked virus and to wedge 
between father and his newborn son
an unwarranted block of ice.

 
Professor Emerita of English, Michelle DeRose lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Find her most recent publications in ONE ART, Panoply, One Hundred Poems for Hearing Dogs (anthology), and The New Verse News. 

Thursday, January 16, 2025

MUSEUM OF CUTTING-EDGE TECHNOLOGY

by Kenneth Arthur


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


When we paid the entrance fee
the sign promised “a glimpse
into the stable genius of our future”
but when the tour guide
led us into a room
dreary, dark and a little damp,
brushed away giant cobwebs,
expounded upon the macabre exhibit,
Kitty For Dinner in water colors,
I had my doubts.
When we were issued
rubber gloves
raincoats
knee-high boots
led deep down into the building’s bowels
I knew we’d been swindled.
As tour progressed through gallery
of beautiful asses and large breasts
with interactive display
a soft mewl crept into awareness.
Before I could discover its source
we were whisked away
to view the prison full of Mexicans,
then film of disabled with full laugh track
I wanted to cry
masked people shooting up disinfectant,
forest rangers raking leaves
I wanted to cackle
golden throne atop a hill of green land,
orange statue straddling a canal
I wanted to scream
then that sound again, a whimpering,
young boy crying 
chained to the wall
just beyond his reach a door and sign:
Now leaving Trump’s brain.
Sorry, Donny. I have to save myself.
I ran for the exit.


Kenneth Arthur is a queer minister with a background in computer science and who dabbles in poetry. Several of his poems have been published in journals including The New Verse News, The Skinny Poetry Journal, and Pensive. He is also the author of Out of the Ashes: Constructive Theology for Those Burned Out on Christianity and blogs at kenarthur.substack.com

Friday, January 10, 2025

COVER IT

by Ron Riekki


“Everyone keeps saying 'apocalyptic,' but that doesn’t begin to cover it.” —CNN’s Karina Tsui from Pacific Palisades, January 8, 2025

 


My sister texts me saying she is sorry

to hear about my long disease [sic] and I

think of the long history of fire, how often

our world wants to be held instead of this,

now, how it’s helled.  And in the military

they put me in the burn pits, not to help,

but for punishment, no mask given, and

 

forced to stand there with the ash now

that owns me, apical scarring, and this

is the world now, scaring me, the news

where I see fire in the Ukraine and fire

in Gaza and fire in Sudan and fire in

Myanmar and fire in Haiti and I look

online at a “current large wildfire map”

 

and it looks as if all of California is on

fire and I worked in California during

COVID, a disaster healthcare volunteer,

going to all the worst-hit cities, raged

by COVID and, always, driving in, I’d

see countless TRUMP signs [sick],

almost as if COVID went wherever his

 

supporters were, a nurse yelling one

time that the OR needed to have at

least two sets of negative pressure

respirators, and I remember a shift

where all of the staff was sick, how

nobody showed up but me, and, out-

side, the horizon was ablaze, rooms

 

packed with COVID patients, one

dying every other shift, and I could

go outside for my break, but couldn’t

take my mask off outside either, not

with the planes dropping fire retardant,

and a medic telling me that the UV

in L.A. was deadly, is deadly, and this

 

doctor screaming something about

a CT scan, and a COVID patient who

came in with no ID (we took him),

and an MP from a nearby military

base who died in his 20s, drowned

in the water of his own lungs, and

how someone came in and a nurse

 

was asking if the patient couldn’t

breathe because of COVID or be-

cause of the fires and the fires were

COVID and COVID was a fire, is

a fire, and my father is in bed and

he’s flicking through the news and

it’s orange-red on the screen and

 

red-yellow on the screen and it’s

yellow-orange, all these different

hells we create—bombings and

wildfire and a Republican’s pool

in his mansion backyard drowning

in flames and the fires in Burkina

Faso don’t make our news and

 

the fires in Cameroon don’t make

our news and the fires in Mali

don’t make our news, but fires

of the wealthy are all over our

screens and the mansions are so

quickly eaten by Hell.  My son

googles the words Who invented

 

fire? and the A.I. answers, Homo

sapiens and we invented all of

this, all of this ash and smoke

and I remember when I was

standing in the middle of my

lungs being destroyed for

the rest of my life and there

 

was fence all around me and

I thought of incarceration,

how we are getting so good

at war that we are turning our

whole entire world into a prison

and the only way out of this hole

is to stop everything we’re doing.



Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press).

Sunday, October 01, 2023

CAN WE SEE THE SUN?

by William Aarnes




Beth and I are wearing masks

and, as can happen on the subway,

 

the unmasked man across the aisle

raises his voice to everyone

 

in the car to tell us that wearing masks

and getting vaccines just shows

 

we’re brainwashed by the “slime”

of lies told by the government

 

and the media.  We’ve been tricked

into believing all kinds of fictions.

 

“Take the sun,” he says, his voice

rising.  “Yes, take the goddamned sun.

 

You’re telling me you can see something

that’s ninety-three million miles away?

 

Anyone who thinks for himself knows

his eyes can’t see that far! You’d need

 

a Hubble, though that Hubble’s

just another made-up lie. Anyone

 

who’s reasonable and thinks for himself

knows he’s not seeing the sun. Read

 

your Plato and stop looking up

at the useless sky. Don’t listen

 

to those swindlers that are telling you

any different. And stop going along

 

with the idea that something invisible

can make you sick. Or just go ahead.

 

I don’t give a damn. Why would anyone               

give a damn? You’re all just pathetic!” 


As we leave the train, we don’t dare

wish him well—what would he do?—


though we want to. Beth and I wear

our masks the two blocks home.


It’s a gloomy afternoon, light rain.

And the first thing I do in the door


is—trusting the internet—open my laptop

to look up the diameter of the sun.


Then how much light the sun gives off—

enough, I’m told, to leave you blind.



William Aarnes lives in New York.  He worries about what the conservative response to COVID has done to our thinking about public health.  And yesterday his appointment to get a COVID booster was cancelled because the pharmacy had yet to receive its supply.

Sunday, September 10, 2023

UNNATURAL TIMES

by Renee Williams


KFF


After the pandemic, it’s natural to come out of hiding

to share wine with friends at a photography opening

 

to hug and greet one another after years of trepidation

to see faces and smiles and to hear that delicious laughter of life

 

to be reminded that this is the stuff that makes all the toil worth it

to gather, to enjoy art together, to see depictions of our 600-year-old oak

 

that has lived through the Spanish Influenza and so much more during its time on this earth

and is still standing, as our photos show, from spring to summer and covered in snow.

 

Later the sniffles start, sore throats appear, and the slow headaches emerge.

It cannot be. It cannot be. Allergies, yes, sinuses, of course, but no, not that, not again.

 

The test shows the faintest line of positivity… and all doubt disappears. 

Another person from the group becomes ill, and another, and another. 

 

Once more we find ourselves communicating via text, email, or Facebook Messenger

sharing our lives in the most unnatural way possible once more. 



Renee Williams is a retired English professor, who has written for Of Rust and Glass, Alien Buddha Press, and Fevers of the Mind.