DREAM OR NIGHTMARE

by George Held

1.

 

Is this dream or nightmare

from which we awaken?

 

Do we live still in the age of Frost

or T***p? The answer is debatable,

 

But our destiny is unknown: do we have

the strength to preserve our ever-

 

challenged democracy, the republic

for which "Old Glory" stands?

 

2.

 

The old, glorious words Hemingway

declared dead in The Great War

 

need renewal or replacement,

but how replace “honor,” “integrity,”

 

“truth”—just uttering that word

in the Senate after the Insurrection

 

earned Romney applause— when “disgrace,”

“fake,” and “disaster” still ring in our ears

 

and lesser poets fill Inauguration Day

with shibboleth and cliché?

3.

 

“The Gift Outright,” while not the poet’s best,

still provides us food for thought—

 

“The land was ours before we were the land’s…”—

 

as we waken from the four-year dream

or nightmare.

George Held is a longtime contributor to TheNewVerse.News.

KEEP

by Janet Shainheit

We keep our eyes peeled, our chins up, our fingers crossed. Feet
planted firmly on the ground.  We keep our heads.  Keep noses
to their respective grindstones.

We earn our keep.  Keep it safe.  Keep body and soul together.
Keep busy.  Keep up the pace.  Try to keep ourselves and those we
love from harm.  We keep at it.  Keep going.
Keep our upper lips stiff.
Keep on truckin’.

We keep secrets, memories, friends.  We keep in touch.
Keep watch on the world, up with the news.  Keep tabs on
what’s what and who’s who.
Keep score.

We keep our word.  We keep strong in troubled seas.
We struggle to keep the flame of truth
on an altar of honor.


Janet Shainheit lives and writes in Worcester, MA. She is a happily retired school librarian, and the grateful friend of poetry and poets.

THE IMMIGRANT BOY'S LAMENT

“President Donald T***p wants America to know that his plans to remove government officials deemed insufficiently loyal to him is actually for the country’s own good.” 

—Talking Points Memo, February 25, 2020

Photograph by Oleg Ver.

George Salamon entered the USA as a 13-year-old immigrant in 1948, after a decade as a refugee from Austria in Switzerland during World War Two. The first play he saw, in early 1949, was Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire.

BILLIE JEAN KING'S GLASSES

by Diane Elayne Dees

I want to wear them because I want
to see what she sees—not a yellow
ball dropping lightly over a net,
just out of reach of an opponent—
but a world in which there are
no opponents, only others
with whom I have yet to cooperate.
I want to see righteous anger
as constructive, not reactive.
I want to see my rage start a fire
that purifies and transmutes
violence and injustice instead
of burning down a village.
I want to see women and men
side by side, each honoring
the energy of the other, not lobbing
accusations and calculating faults.
This is the vision I desire, the vision
I do not yet possess. This is why,
if only for a little while, I want
to wear Billie Jean King’s glasses.

Diane Elayne Dees’s chapbook I Can’t Recall Exactly When I Died is forthcoming from Clare Songbirds Publishing House; also forthcoming (Kelsay Books) is her chapbook Coronary Truth. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

OUR FLAG SPEAKS

by Sister Lou Ella Hickman

A homeless man on a park bench in Brooklyn. Credit Spencer Platt/Getty Images via The New York Times.

how many have I seen fall     countless
as every flag has carried into battle
yet you have not asked me
how I should be honored because of them
so I have remained silent  until    now
honor    the word  the thought  the ideal
that raises everyone to something greater  noble   true
however trite that may sound
so I would have honor in other words
those that give voice to the silenced
to speak for the few, the different . . .
even those who oppose your own heart’s path
I am only cloth and color    the value I have is from you
and when you Pledge  make  those words real
for I fly not just for those countless lost or maimed
but also for those whose living defeats them
for everyone whatever stripe or shade of flesh
standing is but a moment   a song  a brevity
let all this honor be your life time  your daily gratitude
for those I saw fall and die

Sister Lou Ella Hickman has been an all-level teacher and a librarian. Presently she is a freelance writer and a spiritual director. Her poems and articles have been widely published in numerous magazines. One of her poems was published in the anthology After Shocks: Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events edited by Tom Lombardo. Her first book of poetry she: robed and wordless published by Press 53, was released in the fall of 2015.

IN THESE DESPERATE TIMES

by Joan Mazza 

Image source: WikiHow

I’ve taken desperate measures.
In my bedroom, I’ve hung a horseshoe
to prevent nightmares. Perhaps
I should take down the feathered
dreamcatcher gifted by a right-winged

lover. In these times, I say rabbit each day
on waking, consult the oracle
at the east end of the pond. It hops
away on Basho’s splash. I’ve taken up
a forked stick to walk the property
and search for water. It dips

everywhere. Pointing to the four directions,
I’ve drawn the number 8 in the ground,
added pebbles to the grooves—insurance
of good luck. Time to replenish my stock
of supplies. I’ve eaten through

my stash of dry and canned goods bought
when I feared Ebola, used up the sprays
for killer bees. I’ve dumped all the pots
with collected water for mosquitoes
breeding Zika. On my head, I plan

to make a nest to wear a ferret or a rat,
train it to defend my chastity and sacred
honor. I wear clothes inside out, careful
not to break a mirror, know empty vessels
rattle loudest. I drink quiet to calm down.

Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, seminar leader, and has been a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. Author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam), her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Kestrel, The MacGuffin, Mezzo Cammin, Slipstream, and The Nation. She ran away from the hurricanes of South Florida to be surprised by the earthquakes and tornadoes of rural central Virginia, where she writes poetry and does fabric and paper art.