ARRANGED MARRIAGE

by Lavinia Kumar

Pluto and Charon. (Getty Images) “…researchers reported that in the early stages of formation Charon and Pluto came together and orbited as one, swapping some materials before separating. They call this cosmic dance a “kiss and capture” event…” —Yahoo! News, January 9, 2025

It was no secret Charon and Pluto

had an arranged marriage.

Neither knew the other

before the aunties agreed

stars and family were aligned.

 

Charon brought her dowry,

and with much ceremony

they were wed, the entire

Kuiper village at the nuptials

 

But, alas, it was a fraught marriage—

Pluto, unhappy, decided to undo 

this union. Naturally, he decided

to keep the dowry brought by Charon, 

those valuable diamonds,

that cache of ice.

 

Then, unfortunately, the divorce 

was not agreed to, was discouraged,

by families on both sides. And so, 

for eternity, these two unhappy beings 

are together. And apart.  

Both unhappy.

 

They had no children.

See Lavinia Kumar’s three food stories in Issue Five of Ruby Literary Press, The Monsoon Rain winning a 2024 Pushcart nomination.

I AND THOU, CHATGPT

by Barbara Simmons

Shutterstock AI-generated image in response to “trapped in darkness” line created by ChatGPT 

Can you write poetry?
                Free verse or form?
A sonnet on aging?
                Sure, here’s one that rhymes~
the words that show your golden hue
can stay aglow, even with wrinkles
that start to show.
 
Your words come quickly, resonate, too,
reminding me that aging carries its grace
I’m glad my sonnet resonates with you, I’m glad
I’ve helped express your thoughts. Anything else you’d like to have me write about?
 
Loneliness abounds in this post COVID world, 
so would you write a poem helping me to deal
with it?
 
I try to fill the void with noise,
But it echoes back with disdain,
I try to find joy in simple things,
But it feels like a never-ending strain
I fear my loneliness smothers
And I’ll be trapped in this darkness, enthralled
But then I remind myself
That I am not alone in this fight
 
Again, my thanks, dear ChatGPT, 
you seem to understand humanity’s plight,
so now I ask you for more help:
how to write about a marriage’s ending?
Would you? For my son?
 
Farewell, my dear, we part
Our love was true, but now it’s dark
The memories we shared the vows we spoke
Will linger forever, a permanent cloak.
 
I understand the lines, though not all ring true, 
the breaking bringing darkness of its own
to what had been the marriage’s light.
 
My poem was one perspective on letting go,
and may not resonate with all.
Let me add this is a process, not always easy,
important to focus on good memories, moments
of happiness, learning from past ones to be able 
to move forward. 
Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.
 
I know my generative pre-trained transformer, ChatGPT,
generates human responses in its tool-trained ways, but
for that moment, I feel a virtual hug, feel someone
in this universe of merged moments cares, 
a universe responding when my own world’s cursor 
frequently is still.
 

Barbara Simmons, a Bostonian and Californian, says both coasts inspire her. An alumna of Wellesley and Johns Hopkins’ Writing Seminars, and a retired educator, she savors life, envisions, celebrates, and understands with words.  Some publications: Boston Accent, The New Verse News, Soul-Lit, Capsule Stories 2022: Swimming, and her book, Offertories: Exclamations and Disequilibriums.

COUNTRY SONG FOR MY BASEBALL TEAM

by Earl J. Wilcox

Photo by Jeff Curry/USA Today via Sports Illustrated.

I know I can divorce you,

being unfaithful and untrue.

 

This late June—barely real 

summer yet—you tease me

with a rare afternoon win,

heat up the Division for a day

or so, cause me to sweat &

and swear I will never leave you.

Lately, tho, you break my heart.

I feel deceived when you bring up

players from the farm team, send

down better hitters you’ve been

flirting with. Last week, I

almost went to seek a lawyer

 

when you simply rolled over

for a bush-league, slutty team.

What happened to our spring trainin’

plans, hopes, and dreams, that you’d be

 

faithful this season, give me your

best, not waste scarce money on

 

players like that stud from out west--

You know the one I mean—look what

 

it got us. Hank Williams was right

about cheatin’ hearts, they do tell

 

on you, make us feel so lonesome

we could die. I’m getting’ in my truck,

 

pick up some brewskis no matter what

some say, there’s a lot of crying in baseball.

 

Growing up country in the American South, Earl Wilcox thrives on Cardinals baseball, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and some Elvis.

NOW THAT ALEX TREBEK IS DEAD

 by George Held

Yes, this might be my last autumn

And yes, I love the fall leaves

In their annual resplendent beauty

 

A deadly fall, when Coronavirus

Has surged, again bringing mobile

Morgues to house the superabundant dead

 

In El Paso, on the Rio Grande, the Chicano

City to which I drove in 1967 for my divorce

In Ciudad Juarez, where quickies were then

 

Institutionalized: you paid your

Hundred dollars and the Cesar Romero

Judge gaveled your once-great marriage over

 

In 1967, when Alex Trebek was still

Canadian, a host for CBC,

And I was in the middle, Canada north

 

And Mexico south, and now we’re all

In the middle, T***p still in the White House

And Joe Biden the President-elect

 

No one knows where it will end, the COVID,

The Transition, a life, but Alex Trebek

Is dead

George Held is a longtime contributor to TheNewVerse.News.

FEBRUARY

by Rick Mullin





I read the news today O Lyle Mays
who died of an unspecified disease
not 70. Somewhere a piano plays,
electric resonance in mystic keys,
no chart imparted to the prima donnas.
It is middle February. Leap year, too.
No telling what an extra day might pack.
No swelling, terrors, cough or turning blue.
At this point there’s no point in turning back.
The third month of a new coronavirus
apparently designed to stay the course.
It’s only February, damn it. Long.
The neighbor’s kid has filed for divorce.
So much to do. So many can go wrong.
One judgment day too many is upon us.

Bosch: laatste oordeel

Rick Mullin's newest poetry collection is Lullaby and Wheel.

TARZAN HAS A TAN

by Alejandro Escudé 

During a faculty meeting icebreaker, when I raise my hand to volunteer the song I’ve had stuck in my head, one man yells out: “Ahh. Sing it!” in front of my colleagues. I hear his voice as brassy, sarcastic-toned. Simultaneously, I think of the photograph on the news site today

of the three people (a family?) witnessing the nuclear explosion in Russia—the fire cloud off in the distance, like a huge, rotten orange. 

There are moments when 

you realize you’re job is like that too, a rotten orange. Only you’re stuck inside of it, pushing up against the rind. Or, maybe your job is like Russia and its oligarchs. And sometimes, you and your colleagues are like that family watching the explosion of a missile pregnant with a nuclear reactor. A whale carcass. A room with bones for support beams. Hanging flesh. 

We were asked, at the faculty meeting, to recall a song we had stuck in our heads this summer. And I said I had the Tarzan camp song repeating in my head; that call and response song I had to lead my second graders with— when I was a twenty-year-old camp counselor. 

“Tar … zan,” it began, and they repeated. “Swinging on a rubber band … Tar … zan … fell into a frying pan.” 

I sang it again with my daughter, seven years old, now that she’s in summer camp. The words have changed, slightly. But I think once more of that colleague who sarcastically yelled out that I, sing the song, 

as if I were telling some untruth, or trying too hard impress the room. 

Maybe, later on, someone informed that man that I had kids. That I’d just gotten divorced after seventeen years of marriage. That my kids visit me on weekends and it feels as though half my soul were missing from my body and I only become whole again when I am with them. 

But I don’t think 

anyone told him. He probably thought I was just trying to be cute. I guess, I’ve always tried to be cute. I guess the Russians are trying to be cute as well, installing nuclear reactors inside of missiles that have the ability to reach Alaska, and beyond. 

“Fell into a frying pan,” my daughter repeats. 

“Now Tarzan has a tan. Now Tarzan has a tan.”

Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.