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Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com.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 gilded. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gilded. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 14, 2023

LIKE GOLD

by Karen Olshansky


This image, contained in the indictment against former President Donald Trump, shows boxes of records on Dec. 7, 2021, in a storage room at Trump's Mar-a-Lago estate in Palm Beach, Fla., that had fallen over with contents spilling onto the floor. Justice Department/AP via TIME.


In front of deep yellow drapes
on the stage of the gilded ballroom
stacked in haphazard rows
in the marbled powder room
under the crystal chandelier
behind the commode
piled high like cardboard towers
in a storage closet near clothing 
wrapped in cleaner’s plastic
spilled like a garbage can ransacked 
by raccoons in cartons overturned
with scattered yellowed 
newspapers and photos:
precious papers,
secrets that protect, that keep 
us safe, that the braggadocio
hordes for his own pleasure and profit,
a man protected by
slavish minions
and deplorable citizens 
in thrall to an UnAmerica.


Karen Olshansky lives in Marin County, California with her husband and a well fed Koi named Pickle Face. She writes poetry in order to maintain her sanity. Her work has appeared in The Literary Nest, Tuck magazine, The News Verse News and the anthologies Lingering in the Margins, Unsealing Our Secrets, and Unspoken.

Monday, December 03, 2018

THANK YOU, STORMY

by Peggy Turnbull 




You know how to manage power,
dressing like an offensive weapon,
steering through men, creating
a wake where dicks stir, leers creep,
implanting images
into strangers’ wet dreams,
your iconic self melting
into unknown imaginations,

smiling to evoke volt-filled fun,
teasing that leads to a luxe room
where naked Donald
awaits, stone-faced on the bed,
erection quivering beneath
the belly of his junk-food appetite,
a devilish abyss
gilded with pyrite,
where nature smokes, razed,
all gentleness cropped
like a mountaintop.

Grimacing, you absorb
his distilled contaminants.
Sorrowful angels
send you compassion.
A bouquet of cut roses
nods in recognition.
We all have bad days.

But the aftermath’s best.
You, refusing silence.


Peggy Turnbull lives in Wisconsin near Lake Michigan.  Her micro-chapbook Rocking Chair Abstract was  recently published by the Origami Poems Project.