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Showing posts with label healthcare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healthcare. Show all posts

Thursday, November 13, 2025

WE’RE RIGHT, BEHIND YOU

by Steven Kent




"Europeans recognize Zohran Mamdani's supposedly radical policies as 'normal'" —The Guardian, November 6, 2025



It's Communist, beyond the pale

Of all our freedom-loving norms,

To look at European forms

So goshdarned guaranteed to fail.


Free healthcare? Transport? Daycare, too?

We ain't about to spring for those,

Since everybody 'round here knows

They can't succeed--oh wait, they do?



Steven Kent is the poetic alter ego of writer and musician Kent BurnsideHis work appears in 251, Asses of Parnassus, The Dirigible Balloon, Light, Lighten Up Online, The Lyric, New Verse News, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Philosophy Now, The Pierian, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry, Snakeskin, and Well Read. His collections I Tried (And Other Poems, Too) (2023) and Home at Last (2025) are published by Kelsay Books.

Tuesday, April 15, 2025

SPRING (RUDE) AWAKENING

or HANDS OFF MY SHOWERHEAD

President Trump, who has waged a long-running battle against low water pressure, signed an executive order that redefined a common bathroom fixture. —The New York Times, April 10, 2025


by Ann Weil

after Louise Glück’s “October (section I)”
 

Is it Spring again, is it green again,
aren’t we a field of four-leaf clover,
aren’t we coming up posies, 
 
weren't we promised,
aren’t we deserving,
aren’t we special, 
 
wasn’t he strong,
tougher than bullets,
 
didn’t he vow a phoenix nation,
to clean the shop
of waste and scum,
isn’t he bold, isn’t he clever, not telling
the half of his plans 
for ’25—
 
I remember our weakness, our shameful
kindness, our brotherly love, our lead-by-example,
didn’t those values drag us down,
drown us in our Gulf of America,
 
I can’t remember 
which government bloat 
I’m supposed to hate more—
park rangers or cancer researchers,
 
I no longer care
about clean air and healthcare, 
but, man, those egg prices
keep me up at night—
 
who needs allies, free-trade, or 401Ks,
who needs hurricane warnings
or Judy Blume books, 
 
down with DEI, up with ICE,
when was I young there were no illegals, 
no signs in Spanish, my grandparents spoke
only English, swept their Yiddish 
under the rug,
 
when did the taco trucks takeover
and bubble-tea shops spread like a rash,
when did a skirt 
give a guy a free pass
to the ladies room—
a scourge more worrisome 
than measly measles,
 
I blame the Fathers’ faulty foundation—
the Constitution’s lunatic creed,
 
didn’t we thrive without due process, 
without free-speech and fair elections,
 
wasn’t it great
when we were subjects
subject to
the whims of a king,
 
didn’t so-called progress
lead us to this towering cliff,
 
aren’t we jumping, won’t we bounce,
bounce back better like he said,
 
yes, we’re jumping,
isn’t it Spring?  
Yes, it’s Spring, 2025.


Ann Weil is the author of Lifecycle of a Beautiful Woman (Yellow Arrow Publishing, 2023) and Blue Dog Road Trip (Gnashing Teeth Publishing, 2024). Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Best New Poets 2024, Pedestal Magazine, RHINO, Chestnut Review, DMQ Review, Maudlin House, 3Elements Review, and elsewhere. A four-time Pushcart nominee, Weil lives with her husband in Ann Arbor, MI, and Key West, FL.

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).

Saturday, June 08, 2024

DON'T BLAME IT ON THE SHRIMP!

by Gordon Gilbert


Angry that your favorite Red Lobster closed down? Wall Street wizardry had a lot to do with it. Assigning blame for company failures is tricky. But some analysts say the root of Red Lobster’s woes was not the endless shrimp promotions that some have blamed. (See The New Verse News, June 1.) Yes, the company lost $11 million from the shrimp escapade, its bankruptcy filing shows, and suffered from inflation and higher labor costs. But a bigger culprit in the company’s problems is a financing technique favored by a powerful force in the financial industry known as private equity. —NBC News, May 25, 2024


It was not the little shrimp alone
that took their giant lobster cousin down.
Oh no!
 
Red Lobster was the victim of a larger predator.
Private equity’s the one to blame.
Oh yes!
Golden Gate Capital it was
that stripped Red Lobster of its hard-shell assets,
its molting soft-shell vulnerable to any and to all.
In the end, the little shrimp were just the last and latest,
all it took to do Red Lobster in.
 
So let’s not blame it on the shrimp!
 
Leveraged buyouts often do drive corporate defaults.
Private equity's a graveyard where 
too many good companies go to die:
Sears, Mervyn’s, Shopco, other retail chains;
Steward Healthcare, Manor Care
and other hospitals and nursing homes;
and now, most recently, another food chain:
Red Lobster.
 
Senator Edward Markey says beware!
Already they are coming for your healthcare!  


Gordon Gilbert is a writer living in NYC's west village.  During the pandemic, he often found solace and an inner sense of peace by taking walks along the nearby Hudson River.  

Sunday, April 30, 2023

BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS

by Ann E. Wallace


The swift punishment brought down on Zooey Zephyr, a transgender lawmaker in Montana, began over words that others in American politics have used without hesitation or consequence: saying opponents have “blood” on their hands. The governor of Texas. A GOP congressman in Florida. A city councilwoman in Denver. Just in the past few years, they are among the elected officials who have chastised colleagues in government with the same pointed rhetoric almost word for word — accusing them of bearing responsibility for deaths — over everything from immigration policy to gun laws. None faced blowback, let alone retribution. But not Zephyr, who on Thursday began legislative exile after Montana Republicans barred her from the state House floor a week after saying those who voted to support a ban on gender-affirming care would have blood on their hands. —AP, April 27, 2023


This was her warning,
the cost of the ban 
on affirming healthcare 
for trans kids.
 
They would have blood
on their hands,
she said.
 
The words, or her body, labeled 
a breach of decorum,
they removed her,
silenced her voice
with a majority, 68 to 32. 
She may watch,
voiceless, may cast
her singular vote 
out of sight and from afar.
 
Hers is a body they do not want 
to see. And they do not want 
to hear about their own hand 
in doing harm, about the toll 
of bloody-handed legislation 
on kids, or on the adults 
like her who once were kids 
in need of votes and affirmation.
 
They removed her from their sight.
They will wash their hands 
with blood.
And her voice, 
it will grow stronger.


Ann E. Wallace is the Poet Laureate of Jersey City, New Jersey. Follow her on Twitter @annwlace409 or on Instagram @annwallace409.

Wednesday, August 17, 2022

LEGAL AND SAFE IN DULUTH MN

by Jess Morgan


DULUTH, Minn. (AP) — On the top floor of a modest two-story brick building near the shore of Lake Superior, the executive director of northern Minnesota’s only abortion clinic flits from room to room, checking in patients, fielding phone calls from people seeking appointments and handling billing questions from those struggling to pay. In the waiting room at WE Health Clinic in Duluth, patients from Wisconsin and Texas sit among Minnesotans — the leading edge of an expected uptick in out-of-state patients following the Supreme Court’s removal of the federal right to abortion. Photo: A clinic escort outside WE Health Clinic in Duluth, Minn., awaits the arrival of patients, Thursday, July 7, 2022. The clinic escorts protect patients from protesters as they approach and enter the clinic. (AP Photo/Derek Montgomery)


We mosh to punk in a shower of bubbles
and beer at house shows on Saturday
in my city where abortion is legal and safe.

Decked out in tin foil and wearing fish heads,
we flail and wail in the annual Smelt Parade
in my city where abortion is legal and safe.

Our earrings are handmade, we drink coffee
brewed downtown and our music is Homegrown
in my city where abortion is legal and safe.

An underground art collective hauls a piano
onto Lake Superior for improvisation opera
in my city where abortion is legal and safe.

We plow out each other’s cars in negative
thirty-degree temperature snow storms
in my city where abortion is legal and safe.

Our lake is as big as the sea. She is grounding,
healing and as comforting as living 
within a city where abortion is legal and safe.

Pro-choice protestors sing the child I babysit 
happy birthday and feed him cupcakes
in my city where abortion is legal and safe.

Indigenous land protectors chant and bring 
their drums when we rally for choice
in my city where abortion is legal and safe.

A surprising amount of us are queer or trans,
and my non-binary heart feels right at home
in my city where abortion is legal and safe.

I’d like to own goats on the outskirts of town,
and will only raise a family or give birth
in a city where abortion is legal and safe.

My co-workers and I work together to provide
patients with gender-affirming healthcare
in my city’s clinic where abortion is legal and safe.

Patients kiss my hand after a suction abortion,
thanking me for holding theirs during their procedure
in my city’s clinic where abortion is legal and safe.

Too many Duluthians make a poverty wage and rent 
isn’t cheap in my city where abortion is legal and safe.

And each day we must keep fighting for the culture,
clinic and city where abortion is legal and safe.


Jess Morgan is a nonbinary poet in Duluth, Minnesota where they juggle many hats. Their jobs include (but are not limited to) working as a wedding DJ, sound technician, patient educator for abortion services at WE Health clinic, hobby photographer, and occasional goat-sitter. They are a fiscal year 2022 recipient of a Creative Support for Individuals grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board. Poems they've written have been included (or are soon to be included) in The Nemadji Review, Prøve Art Gallery's Zine titled Emerge, and the Wisconsin Review. Jess shares a Tik Tok account with their partner called @ColdLakeHotPoets to capture their poetry adventures around Duluth.

Thursday, June 30, 2022

SCREE

by Akua Lezli Hope




The five-justice Supreme Court bloc that overturned a half century of women's abortion rights on Friday had coalesced less than two years. But they had found their moment and they seized it. 
CNN, June 25, 2022


This is insane, jackboot, psychic rape
The Supreme Court struck down Roe v. Wade
another way the inane U.S. of A
reminds it's not for most of us
already thrown under the careening bus
of a twisted, hegemonic, male patriarchy
 
We’re flattened again into oppressed dust
made to adhere to perverted needs
the worst of pornographic politics
their insatiable soul-robbing greed
to control another’s body
There's no daycare, scant maternity leave,
 
and yes, human trafficking is on the rise… 
 
They are on the take, ensuring innocent’s demise
States have their say over our reproduction
 
Those who don’t give a damn, limit our care
already so much less than what is fair
I pay 5 grand a year for nothing,
fight each and every month for access
to protective gear, bandages, dressings
 
Regressive, life threatening government decisions—
we feel the genteel violence of head in sand inaction
the incessant roar of entertainments’ self-indulgent distractions
who cares if one multimillionaire berates another
 
They build on sliding mountaintops and buy
their own fresh water, their own fresh air
their wild caught this and free range that
we communicate instantly these mounting tragedies
ever less and less and less free


Akua Lezli Hope is a creator and wisdom seeker who uses sound, words, fiber, glass, metal, and wire to create poems, patterns, stories, music,  sculpture, and peace.  A paraplegic, third-generation New Yorker, her honors include the NEA, two NYFAs, SFPA, Rhysling and Pushcart Prize nominations.

Saturday, October 24, 2020

JEREMIAH 2020AD

by Julie Kramer


Immigrant families wait in May 2019 in Los Ebanos, Tex., to be searched and taken to a U.S. Border Patrol station after they were caught illegally crossing into the United States from Mexico. Credit: Jabin Botsford/The Washington Post, October 23, 2020


“Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” —Matthew 19:14
 

You put them in cages
    and arm their enemies with AK47s
You take away their food
   and say that it is for their own good
You dirty their air and water
   and point to it as progress
You make their world uninhabitable
   and call their cries a hoax
You let your police
   murder them in their beds
   and say they deserved it
You punish their governors
   for standing up for them
You take away their families’ health insurance
   and say it’s in service of freedom
You beat them in the streets
   because they challenge your authority
You promise them relief
   and present it to the rich
You insult their allies
   and sell out their friends
You sit by as they die of a dread disease
  saying it will just... go away
You defile and debase
   the halls of their government
   with petty criminals and yes men
You make their lives less sane, less safe, and less free
 
You think that their God is sleeping
   do not be deceived
God will bring about his justice
   through the least of things
Including teenage TikTokers
               small dollar donations
                                absentee ballots
                                               and subpoenas.
 

Julie Kramer is a molecular biologist, lay minister, marketer, and mom of three teenagers living in Madison, Wisconsin.  In 2012, she made the unforeseen and disconcerting discovery that she is also a poet. Her themes include family, religion, #me too, and current events. She has had previous work published in the Journal of Women and Religion, and the Wisconsin UCC Conference newsletter.

Sunday, January 19, 2020

TASHONNA

by Nadia Farjami




black. healthcare. matters.

she died from
their silence, from

sealed lips and silicone gloves that
pushed

her aside—her
pulse would have kept pushing,

but they put her
on pause.


Nadia Farjami is a poet from California. Her work has been recognized by The New York Times, Cathexis Northwest Press, High Shelf Press, The Esthetic Apostle,  Prometheus Dreaming, Polyphony LIT, Youth Poet Laureate, Body Without Organs Literary Journal, Marmalade Magazine, Cagibi Literary Journal, The Athena Review, & more.

Sunday, September 08, 2019

WRECK AGE

by Alejandro Escudé





“The public needs to prepare for unimaginable information about the death toll and the human suffering.” —Bahamas Health Minister Dr. Duane Sands.


You shall prepare for the unimaginable.
The unimaginable tree that you will use
To construct a boat. The lighting that will strike
You as you’re falling into the pit. What pit?
You imagine that too, though it’s unimaginable.
Food can’t be imagined, unless one is a child.
And neither can healthcare, again,
Unless one remembers playing doctor.
You can’t imagine another planet, can you?
Another President with larger, more capable hands?
A car is a figment of the imagination, a flying car
To rescue you from your home, as it floats
Upon the sea. Wreckage is medieval marginalia—
You can use wreckage to make a poster,
As you might use macaroni to make art.
Can you imagine a stronger heart
To support the death you can’t imagine?
The death that begins on the unimaginable horizon,
Where dark clouds meet the rising sea,
Whispering, then shouting, then screaming
For help from the unimaginable authorities
Flying in on their helicopters, which are nothing
More than dragonflies, hovering above
A shallow pond, and the inundated world below.


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.