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Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com. No simultaneous submissions. Use "Verse News Submission" as the subject line. Send a brief bio. No payment. Authors retain all rights after 1st-time appearance here. Scroll down the right sidebar for the fine print.
Showing posts with label fast food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fast food. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 07, 2021

LEFT BEHIND IN AFGHANISTAN

by Tricia Knoll


“Taliban Try to Polish Their Image as They Push for Victory: The insurgents are trying to rebrand themselves as effective governors as they capture new territory. But there is more evidence that they are unreformed.” —The New York Times, July 6, 2021. Photo: Members of the Taliban in Laghman Province in eastern Afghanistan last March. Credit: Jim Huylebroek for The New York Times.



American stuff. Artificial Christmas trees. Humvees. 
Boots that mark the Afghan soil with the treads
of Americans. Little shops sell discards
like aluminum mugs. No longer sell the body armor. 
They do sell Jif peanut butter, alarm clocks, 
backpacks festooned with swooshes, 
instant coffee, exercise stretch ropes, 
hand sanitizer and tea bags. 
 
Bagram first the pulverized Soviet airfield, 
turned burgeoning American stronghold
with Pizza Huts and Subways, field hospital
and a prison gifted to the Afghan defense ministry.  
 
Then the women left behind. What will they be asked
to wear, to think, to learn? What will divide urban
women from rural? Will medical care advance?
What happens to the voices of the poets, activists,
radio DJs, victims of domestic violence? What music
will they hear? What input to the terms of peace? 
Will electricity return as swiftly as sharia justice? 
When women hold up half the sky,
never leave behind the hope of soaring.


Tricia Knoll is a feminist poet who never takes for granted the freedoms she has enjoyed while advocating for the role of women in our world. Her poetry appears widely in journals and anthologies. 

Thursday, February 13, 2020

THOUGHTS OF THE FORMER PRESIDENT

as He Languishes with Dementia 
at Age 83 in the Year 2030




by Albert Haley

                            
Disgusting. Corrupt. Liars!
Who is Melania?
Really, Junior, again?
Tower, tower, tower.
Haters. Where’s Vlad?

Make America grate?
Gold plated and Colonel KFC.
How to spell anything.
Perfect. Ivanka. If she weren’t
my daughter.

Was a time I could have shot someone.
Right in the middle of Fifth!

Wall, we were going to have.
What happened Tim Apple?
Gold plated wall. Good!

Have I said “pussy” yet?
Where’s my phone? Sad.

Me, me, me, my country tis of me. 
Do you like this hair?
In the middle of Fifth.
Put a tariff on it.
Put a businessman in 
the White House and acquit him.
They rip babies out of mothers
and smother them. Bullshit!
Sharpies predict the weather
better.

But who is this Mitch? Why do I miss
him. Lyin’ Ted sure knew how to lie
down with the lion. Good crew,
kept their heads off the pikes.
  
Greatest hits. Rallies                                                  
and media is enemy of the state.
Some people say. Snow falling. 
Told you it was a hoax. 
The earth’s cooling—me too?

If they’d only respected
the Second. Right in the middle of Fifth. 
Might have spared me 
(A-l-z… how you spell?) this.

The focused hot blowtorch
of hatred so carefully cultivated. 
Main act in the middle of their circus.
Cancel the failing show
with a ratings bang.

Obama? Birth certificate?
Never saw it. Get him out of here!

Highest form of love
a man like me can ever know.


Albert Haley's poems have appeared previously in New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, and Rattle. He lives and teaches in dry, dusty Abilene, Texas, which at present seems far away from any refreshing blue waves. Haley's poems have appeared previously in TheNewVerse.News, Poets Reading the News, and Rattle. He lives and teaches in dry, dusty Abilene, Texas, which at present seems far away from any refreshing blue waves.

Friday, September 05, 2014

SPLIT SHIFT

by Michelle Marie


Protesters demand higher pay at the Tenleytown McDonald's. (WTOP/Savannah Simons)


this poem is sick but
goes home without pay

the bleach bucket, no
time for a scrub, scrub clean

these working conditions. scrub
this median wage of $10 per/hr
tips included//

this poem makes 44% less
than most poems, turn your head, scrub

clean that busted look on your
face & those
anxious demands

what it's about//the customer?
that can afford to eat out/ but
not tip? that busted

institution, the restaurant industry

your demands aren't better pay
benefits
pensions
citizenship

       but a different table
       lemon slices
       this poem's favorite thing on the menu
       an extra side of _____
       a raspberry vinaigrette
       the check, faster

though you couldn't have
eaten slower


Michelle Marie is author of countless protest letters archived at americanlemon.blogspot.com and a weird piece called "Fucking" in Bluestockings Magazine Issue 4.