WHAT'S IN A NAME?

by Phyllis Frakt

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

Let’s call them all Department of War.

I love the power in that name.

It shows what America is truly for.

 

At DOJ, HUD, State, or Labor,

offensive goals are all the same.

Let’s call them all Department of War.

 

Power, dominance, mayhem, gore

to injure, disable, cripple, maim.

That’s what each department is for.

 

Commerce, Agriculture, Interior—

old labels are so woke, so lame.

Let’s call them all Department of War.

 

A Nobel for me (if not more)

when they see aggression is my game

and what America is truly for. 

 

Defense was War in the Great Before.

Let’s Make America Great Again!

Call them all Department of War

and show the World what we’re for.

Phyllis Frakt writes poetry in New Jersey. The New Verse News previously published seven of her poems.

WHERE WE ARE ALL FALLEN

by Chun Yu

 

“Give it back to me!”

I dragged the mugger and his bike

To the ground in a split second

Demanding firmly the return of

The device, an extension of my life

Snatched out of my hand from behind.

I was the last in a small crowd dashing

For an early evening downtown bus

Already shutting its door, pulling

Away from two blurry figures

Clashing on a late winter street

Beaten by cold rains and littered with

Random trash and nameless shadows.

 

“What are you doing?!”

The mugger yelled at me 

In disbelief of a muggee

Fighting for what was taken

His young eyes big and wide

Incredulous in black and white

Strong hand gripping my iPhone

Between our faces so close and

Have and have not newly switched

Veins popping and blood seething

In mutual desperation.

 

“I will give it back to you!”

He even yielded for a second

Under my unwavering stare

As my mind raced for the next move

But yanked away from my grip

With a force, sudden and resolute

And fled on his bike with

His prey and prize of the day.

I leaped up and chased after him

Like a sudden superwoman

In hope to right the wrong

(No runner or athlete

I had no idea where she came from.)

As far as I could on the darkening street

Soulless, helpless, and unnegotiable

Where he was lost, a fleeing shadow

So young and fit, full of

Heartbreaking and broken promises

Where I was lost, dragging my own shadow

Slight, alone, hands and heart emptied

A knee skinned raw.

 

“Don’t do that!”

My family and friends

Shocked and worried sick

Cried out in alarm, in synchrony

On two sides of the ocean

Hearing about my fierce fight

Fraught with danger

But keeping it from my parents

Too ill and frail to be informed

Having just pulled through Covid 

In their old ages, amidst dangers

Micro and viral, macro and epic.

 

“Don’t do that!”

I told myself that too, after:

Being petite at five foot three

Size extra small in America

Where weapons are legal and lethal

Deadly and deafening…

How I never learned Kung Fu

From Grandpa, who, having survived

Wars and revolutions, only wanted

His first granddaughter to focus

On school to become a scholar

Or better, a straight minded scientist

Safe, sensible, and disentangled from

The madness and messiness of the world…

 

But there was no time

To reason, not even with myself

For the do and do not

Being attacked and in defense

Being human, ancient and new.

 

After filing the police report

I couldn’t help but point out that

The corner, where I was mugged

In our beautiful City by the Bay

Beloved by the world

And us, with aching pride

Was dimly lit, and perhaps

Could be brightened, for safety

And for the sake of us all.

 

The officer, chill and seasoned

By the cold winds and fog

Blowing and billowing

On our golden high hills and

Through our dark low alleys

Summed it up, loud and clear

Almost with a laugh:

“This is the United States.

Nowhere is safe!”

 

I cleaned the blood off

My injured knee

Brought to the dim ground

Where we are all fallen.

 

I covered it with soft gauze

Which I wish I could apply

To the open wounds

We all carry

 

And prayed for the dawn

When we wake up

To find our way

To stand up

As one.

Author’s note: My poem is based on my experience of being mugged recently for my iPhone, much like these recent victims in the news reported by ABC News: San Francisco women targeted by teens in violent cellphone robbery spree. The incident took place at a bus station in downtown San Francisco back in March. As a petite Asian woman of 5'3", I may have appeared to be an easy target based on assumptions. However, to the mugger's surprise, I managed to tackle him to the ground with his bike and engaged in a brief exchange, during which he almost returned my phone. Unfortunately, he ultimately managed to escape with it. Writing this poem has been a profound process which allows me to reflect on the stories behind the incident from all sides, find healing and peace of mind as a victim while seeking possible solutions in the city I have chosen as my home, and which I deeply love, as a first-generation immigrant, a scientist turned bilingual poet, and a community connector.

Chun Yu, Ph.D., is an award-winning bilingual (English and Chinese) poet, graphic novelist, artist, scientist, and translator. She is the author of the memoir in verse Little Green: Growing Up During the Chinese Cultural Revolution (Simon & Schuster). She is a Library Laureate 2023 of San Francisco Public Library and an awardee of YBCA 100 (2020). Her work is taught in world culture and history classes.

SKUNK HOUR

by Martin H. Levinson

 

His lawyers inept,

meandering, defending

the indefensible dimly

and dully, doing everything

they can but talk about the

constitutional question of

whether an out of office

president can be tried for

inciting insurrection, as the

Senators sitting in judgment

suffer their ambling, rambling

arguments made in response

to the House Managers logical,

precedent-based contentions

that a carny US Chief-of-State

can be punished for stirring up

mob violence and an invasion

of the Capitol that a video

montage has detailed in all

its nauseating horror.

Martin H. Levinson is a member of the Authors Guild, National Book Critics Circle, PEN America; the book review editor for ETC: A Review of General Semantics, and a contributing editor to The Satirist. He has published nine books and numerous articles and poems.

TWO DEGREES

by Ralph James Savarese

Murder hornet photo tweeted by @Elvis_Trump

                                                                                           
Let us now praise the Japanese honey bee, Apis cerana,
which alone cannot defeat the much larger

and more vicious “murder hornet,” Vespa mandarinia.
Just one or two of the latter can destroy an entire hive,

moving in like winged, up-armored Cossacks.
After decapitating the honey-makers, they stuff

their yellowish-orange mouths with larvae and pupa.
Yet a miracle, not so much on ice as in the oven,

sometimes occurs. The honey-makers practice a technique
called “bee-balling,” which involves swarming

their attacker and collectively cooking it alive.
The bees move their flight muscles to generate heat;

they can withstand temperatures two degrees higher
than the hornet…. How about we try this with that predator

in the White House? Surround him with human warmth;
kindle him, you might say, with kindness? Of course,

the American honey bee hasn’t yet developed such a defense,
perhaps because it’s insufficiently eusocial and maybe

even indifferent to the fate of the hive. (“I’m not gonna
wear a mask, and there’s nothing you can do to make me!”)

As the seas rise and infection marauds the planet,
can you not hear the soft buzzing of wings, the earth balling

to save itself?

Ralph James Savarese is the author of two books of prose, Reasonable People and See It Feelingly, and one collection of poetry, Republican Fathers, due out in October.

WHITEWASHED

by Betsy Mars

Ahmaud Arbery falls to the ground after being shot.

When you want a commodity, a spokesman,
team spirit, sales soaring, think fast,
think brawn, think black.

Think pounding pavement. Think
of those hard-earned calves jumping
on command. Think of a casket.

I mean a basket. A hoop, rope
hanging from its neck.
Think of a shot, circling the rim,

going down as the buzzard, I mean
buzzer, ends the game. If you train off-court
or just enjoy a runner's high, I'm sorry.

Be prepared to run, to shoulder the blame—
a steal from behind—as your muscles
strain, push off on defense. Find the hole,

cut inside. Man-to-man or zone, you don't
stand a chance. They've got the big guns,
the refs in their pocket.

Betsy Mars is a prize-winning poet, educator, photographer, and recent publisher whose first release, Unsheathed: 24 Contemporary Poets Take Up the Knife, came out in October 2019. Her work has appeared in Kissing Dynamite, The Blue Nib, Poetry Super Highway, and Rattle (photography), to name a few, as well as in a number of anthologies. Her first chapbook Alinea (Picture Show Press), came out in January 2019. Her father was a professor and her mother was a social worker, and their progressive beliefs as well as her childhood years in Brazil deeply influenced her values. Her passions are language, travel, and animals; the latter two often conflict as her pets prefer she stay at home.