THE FIRST 100 DAYS

by Akua Lezli Hope

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

I rebuke calm voices sitting around tables 
decatastrophizing recontextualizing, 
explaining this inexplicable harm
incalculably mounting, betraying trusts, alarming allies
banishing wards, destroying safeties, conscripting civilities
this insanity this madness, this indifference that grabs
that disrupts, that destructs as if our prior state flawed
as it was somehow merited this manic monstrous mayhem
that peace we knew 100 days ago,
somehow called to be smashed and spat upon
as if any of what was wrong then,
called for the dismantling of all our frameworks
leaving us frail exposed unprotected unprotected,
this dire daily detonation of assistance, food banks,
literacies, the hows of how we made do, made it through,
assured ourselves our air would be clean and the hungry
could be fed and access gained and opinions expressed
and why are the town criers, these well-fed talking heads
not running screaming through the streets
with hair on fire and why are these transgressions
relayed piecemeal in calm tones
bit by disassociated incoherent bit
without anyone saying it’s all torn up
it’s all torn down, you may not see the whole
but it’s falling down yes yes the sky is falling
by eccentric emergency, executive fiat
by a rapacious, murdering, lying, orange clown
and now rush out dearies to hold the exploded
earth, the shattered reality, floating away in this
inverted gravity, hurry citizens to grapple with these
fragments and hold them, before all is lost, hold them
hold them down.
 

Akua Lezli Hope is a paraplegic wisdom seeker who uses sound, words, fiber, glass, metal, and wire to create poems, patterns, stories, music,  sculpture, adornments, and peace whenever possible.

THE LOST ONES

by Jean Varda

Candido Portinari: Dead Child (Criança morta), 1944, oil on canvas.

This is for the lost ones
hiding and shuddering in
broken down cars and tents
without heat, sleeping 
under tarps next to 
shopping carts in the rain,
walking all night down
city streets to stay warm
then searching through 
dumpsters for breakfast.
This is for the refugees in
back rooms erasing them
selves, quitting their jobs
so they don’t get caught.
This is for the hungry
the cold the sick, the
victims of war, for the 
broken families at the
borders begging to get
in, to cross over.

Jean Varda is a poet and artist residing in Chico California. Where she lives in government housing next to the city bike path. She started out as a street poet in Cambridge, Massachusetts in the days before computers and cell phones.

TO A CHORUS OF TEARS

by tom bauer

It seems inevitable his eyes would look like that
singing that song, effulgent with yearning
for things lost, as the river weaves towards
the past. Reminds me of cartoon eyebrows,
pointed in an inverted ‘V’, like a tent,
anguished peaks over wounded disks, singing
what might be the saddest song ever made.

An invisible step leads to this next question,
on foot, an actual physical object
moving in space, in the moment of space,
not merely that moment witnessed onscreen,
a moment now in the past, outside this one,
this moment here with the keyboard, the echo,
the cat on the radiator nesting his head.

Are we free? As time waves out, are we free?
Free of the pain, the breath, the trees and light?
For it seems we are not free on earth, to choose
to run or fight, to give or take, we are
in moments welded to our choices,
fixed outside freedom, choosing what we must.

So are we free, then, when we die? Is that it?

tom bauer lives in montreal with his sons and plays boardgames.

WITNESS

 by Amy Shimshon-Santo

I am the person formerly known as _____ _____ - _____.

Now she is the bird left behind from the flock.

She is the figure weeping in the sand.

A witness, witnessed only by the sea.

I am not a war correspondent or a social media expert. 

I am not a documentarian of suffering.

Don’t worry. I have nothing to teach you and nothing to say. 

I’m just skipping words like stones along the water, 

knowing they will bounce and then sink down.

The birds laugh at us.

Birds side eye sonic jets and helicopters. 

Maybe they will tell the trees what’s going on — what they see and feel.

Last week I was a writer.

Today I am a barnacle on the belly of a whale. 

I am moaning like an underwater animal.

When did time stop? When will it start back up? 

Will it? Is this the new time, 

the timeless time, lost in unknowing?

I am not a flag.

I am no longer really a woman, I just gave birth to life.

I am not a faith, just faithful.

Oh broken bones and heavy stones

How far will you tumble?

How far down will you fall?

Six days ago was the sabbath. We gathered 

with 29 members of my family across four generations. Cousins with cousins. 

Sisters with sisters. Brothers and children and grandparents.

Six days ago was a Friday.

Today is six days past a moment of miracles, six days past the bomb.

24 hours x 6 ago there was a night where we could all lay down and hope to sleep.

If I am going to sit with the page I have to say that I don’t want to say

I want this to not be true.

Before I speak, I want you to know that I am wrong. 

Not because I know nothing but because everything is wrong. 

Not every thing but the big world of powers that evaporate worlds. 

I don’t want to remind my mind and relive what has become a beginning.

I don’t want to state the facts because the facts are a mush of kindnesses and disasters.

I am the person formerly known as a self.

I melted into the Mediterranean, sonic booms above our heads. 

My tears salt the water and make everything sting.

I want to tell you about the weeping. 

The mother collapsing onto her belly like a conch shell whose life has departed. 

She is the throw away, the detritus of those left behind.

Author’s note: I have been in three cities in Israel during this past week. I am from Los Angeles. My mother was born here in 1932 as a Jewish person under the British Mandate Palestine. I am a mother, a teacher, and a culture maker. I am deeply opposed to murder, torture, war, and intergenerational harm. War is the loss of lives and infrastructure and dreams and time. Torture and war are the worst uses of human energy and potential.

A GRIM FAIRY TALE

by Lynn White

Dozens of asylum-seeking children have been kidnapped by gangs from a Brighton [UK] hotel run by the Home Office in a pattern apparently being repeated across the south coast, an Observer investigation can reveal. A whistleblower, who works for Home Office contractor Mitie, and child protection sources describe children being abducted off the street outside the hotel and bundled into cars. “Children are literally being picked up from outside the building, disappearing and not being found. They’re being taken from the street by traffickers,” said the source. —The Observer, January 21, 2023 PHOTO: Hove, where unaccompanied asylum-seeking children have been abducted, according to a contractor working for the Home Office. Credit: Andy Hall/The Observer

When I was a child 

my mother told me 

that Never Never Land

Is where the lost children go,

those who can’t find their way home.

My mother told me that

they stay children for ever

and can play all day long.

It sounds like a fairy tale

and perhaps 

that’s where these children have gone,

stepped into a fairy tale

or perhaps

they’ve been taken into one

by a monster

straight out of Grimm.

And now they wait.

And there’ll be others

waiting.

Waiting,

for someone to find them.

Perhaps they’ll put up a sign

hoping someone will see.

And they’ll sit by the sign

waiting for rescue,

waiting for the fairy tale ending

that can never come.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes. 

AN ODE TO SILPHION

by Maryanne Hannan

This miracle plant was eaten into extinction 2,000 years ago—or was it? Silphion cured diseases and made food tasty, but Emperor Nero allegedly consumed the last stalk. Now, a Turkish researcher thinks he’s found a botanical survivor. Photo: Professor Mahmut Miski cups a handful of flowering Ferula drudeana near Mount Hasan in central Turkey. The scholar of plant medicine believes the species is silphion. —National Geographic, September 23, 2022

Oh you slice of yesteryear 

Stalk of ferula drudeana

Last seen dribbling down

Nero’s chin, he of Roman

Emperor fame, wildly

Pursuing immortality 

To enhance his lifetime

Omnipotence appointment.

Now a thousand miles away

And two thousand years later,

You sway alone and majestic

In a field, high above your

Gnarly root, insects feasting

On your pearly sap.

And loving it, they say.

Could it be you, and if so,

Where have you been 

All this time? When we too

Needed your balm, the way

You cure baldness, epilepsy,

Maybe even cancer. When

We too needed to season

Our lentils, our fish sauce.

Look deep, to the earth, 

You say, the hidden fields, 

To the dirt, the goats, 

The lowliest. 

What was lost, now found?

More like, you say 

What’s old is ever new-ing.

A retired Latin teacher, Maryanne Hannan lives in upstate New York and has been writing poetry and watching the world evolve for many decades. 

THE MAN OF THE HOLE

by Joanne DeSimone Reynolds

The Man of the Hole was the last of an indigenous group living in the Tanaru indigenous area in the state of Rondônia, Brazil, which borders Bolivia. The majority of his tribe are believed to have been killed as early as the 1970s by ranchers wanting to expand their land. In 1995, six of the remaining members of his tribe were killed in an attack by illegal miners, making him the sole survivor. Brazil's Indigenous Affairs Agency (Funai) only became aware of his survival in 1996, and had been monitoring the area ever since for his own safety. It was during a routine patrol that Funai agent Altair José Algayer found the man's body covered in macaw feathers in a hammock outside one of his straw huts. Indigenous expert Marcelo dos Santos told local media that he thought the man had placed the feathers on himself, knowing that he was about to die. —BBC News, August 30, 2022

O! Sole man –

60ish   50ish

Thatched huts

Holed – 3ish by

10ish foot deep –

4 (or 2?) footed traps

Spiked   Did you

Hide?   Hold up?

Did you know?   O!

Macawed Carnival

Romancer –  

Web-womber –

Eons lost   You –

One with the Whole

Joanne DeSimone Reynolds has published poems in The New Verse News, Salamander, The Ekphrastic Review, Sanctuary Magazine, Ibbetson Street, Wilderness House Literary Review, Lyrical Somerville, and other journals. She has also written reviews for Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene. During the first spring of the pandemic she wrote a collection of ekphrastic poems for 2020 Art Ramble in Concord, Massachusetts.

YOU WALKED OUT OF MY LIFE

by Susan Terris

You   my mother's cousin

Single    were like another mother

 

We talked   read   played games

Knitted scarves   until you met

 

Davy   age 10   Down Syndrome

Son of David   widower who proposed

 

I was 13   needed you   but you said

Yes   became Davy's mother

 

And I never again saw you

Then   today   looked   found only

 

Obituaries   David's from '88

Davy 1994   you    25+ years ago

Susan Terris is a freelance editor and the author of 7 books of poetry, 17 chapbooks, 3 artist's books, and 2 plays. Journals include The Southern Review, Georgia Review, Prairie Schooner, Blackbird, The New Verse News, and Ploughshares. She has had poems published both in Pushcart Prize and in Best American Poetry. Her most recent book Dream Fragments won the Swan Scythe Press Award.

CHROMOSOME

by Darcie Whelan-Kortan

We heard no sound

as they jumped

from a hundred and more

flights up

Just a simple

 

toss

 

of body into air

 

And from our vantage point

below the smoldering towers

through the lens

to somber houses

across thousands of miles

as they fell

they all looked the same—

 

no clothes

no faces

no fear

 

Just a black outline

two arms and two legs

joined in the center

like the wiggling X

of a chromosome

a single, unseen, unnamed

living piece in the code

of who we are

lost forever

Darcie Whelan-Kortan has published in Motherwell and wrote the column Beyond Broken for Literary Mama. She is a featured writer on Medium. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College.

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

An athlete, who cleared hurdles with great ease,

Got ready for the most important race

Of his career by streaming melodies

On board a bus to take him to the place

Decided on. But he relaxed too good!

Soon he was miles from where he should alight

And, if he took official guidance, would

Miss any chance of setting matters right.

And then a Good Samaritan appeared,

Re-routing him and stepping in to pay ...

In life, for certain hurdles to be cleared,

The stranger's kindness proves the only way,

As this man, with Olympic gold to own,

Now tells. He did not win his gold alone!

Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus at Florida State University. His acrostic sonnets have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Daily Mail, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, The New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly.

ECHO CANYON

by David Chorlton

 

When you call into Echo Canyon

and your voice gets lost

not even the sky will hear it ask

for directions. Only the heat climbs this far

on a day like today

when the thrashers are calling and the hummingbirds

sparkle. It’s beautiful

among the rocks

where cacti smile through their needles

and mesquite keep a foothold

on the steepest slopes. There’s a broad

vista from trail’s end, but

it takes water to reach it and only

the coyotes know

where to find it. If waves of light

suddenly distort everything

around you, forget the long journey that brought you

here, never mind the fare it cost or

the promise of a good time from the man

you came to meet in person, who

so casually climbs beyond your reach: turn

back. If you’re lucky

a lizard will show you the way.

If you’re lucky.

David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems often reflect his affection for the natural world.  A new book of older poems, Unmapped Worlds, is out from FutureCycle Press. He recently took up watercoloring again, after twenty dry years.

BEFORE EARTH IS LOST

by George Salamon

“In Conclusion” by Peter Kuper at The Nib

"Humans have become as great an influence on the planet as the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs," Anthony Barnosky, Stanford University biologist, quoted in The New York Times, July 30, 2021

Paradise was lost long ago,

now it's the turn of Earth,

where humans have assumed

privileges and rights for themselves:

this island belongs to us, one

nation claims, another the right

to inhabit space.

We're mammals, denying the

prehistory of our origins, the

story of how our ancestors

turned the earth's jungles into

today's fortress of machine

and stone.

We've moved too quickly past

the awe for earth's order, left

behind in the wild, playful

nature of the child, now that 

we are beginning to feel the

coming storm.

George Salamon lives and waits, hoping for the best, in St. Louis, MO.

AS TIME GOES BY

by DeWitt Clinton

 "A sigh is just a sigh."    

—lyric by Herman Hupfeld

Some of us may have made it, or we at least pretend

We have made it, though all of us know we’re just

Kidding ourselves, but what else is there now that

A few of us can fill our lungs without stinging bats

That somehow did not find their way down into us.

We could also take the next hour (day) (week) (year)

To remember all those who have fallen, who did not

Know what in the world was inside of them, but it

Was inside them, and many who were nearby have

Also fallen down, some in the most hopeless places

Of the world, and as well, some in the most luxurious

Rooms not everyone could dream about, but still,

It might do us all some good to just remember what

None of us could ever imagine happening just like

That.

DeWitt Clinton taught English, Creative Writing, and World of Ideas courses for over 30 years at the University of Wisconsin—Whitewater. He is a student of Iyengar Yoga, and occasionally substitutes as a Zoom yoga instructor for seniors in The Village of Shorewood, Wisconsin. His four collections of poetry include The Conquistador Dog Texts, The Coyot. Inca Texts (New Rivers Press), At the End of the War (Kelsay Books, 2018), and By a Lake Near a Moon: Fishing with the Chinese Masters (Is A Rose Press, 2020). A fifth poetry collection has been accepted by Word Tech Communications.

LOOKING FOR AMERICA

by George Salamon 

I looked for the American character,

and I saw the contours fading, the

words to sing of it sour or drab, I

seek refuge in old photo albums, 

capturing dignity and pride, coming

together in many kinds of work and

fulfillment, revealing what we had or

what we thought we had, now that

we're seeking the causes of our loss

as if our minds had shut down and our

hands and feet were bound, yet no

cause is so deep it cannot be found.

George Salamon live in the heartland of America, St. Louis, MO, and contributes to The Asses of Parnassus, One Sentence Poems, and The New Verse News.

EARLY IN THE MORNING, DECEMBER 2020

by George Salamon

Credit: Brian Stauffer illustration for Foreign Policy.

"The world is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was, is lost." —opening words of Lord of the Rings, cited by David French, "Yes, America Could Split Apart," The Dispatch, September 20, 2020.

Woke up in the dark of morning,

looking out the window I saw

street lights competing with the

light of the stars, but across the

way in the office building where

men used to come and go, not

even the lights for cleaning

women were burning, and I

recalled "man is in love, and

loves what vanishes," closed

the window and wondered if

that was still so.

George Salamon, after teaching German in five colleges, reporting business news, editing a military magazine, and writing in corporate public affairs, is "retired" and contributes to The Asses of Parnassus, Dissident Voice, One Sentence Poems, and The New Verse News from St. Louis, MO.

THOSE WE'VE LOST

by George Salamon

Those We’ve Lost include (clockwise from top left): Terrence McNally, Hailey Herrera, Alan Finder, Dave Edwards, Lorena Borjas, Joseph Migliucci, Jenny Polanco, Dez-Ann Romain. The New York Times

The coronavirus pandemic has taken an incalculable death toll. This series is designed to put names and faces to the numbers. —"Those We've Lost," The New York Times, updated on July 29, 2020


What do we see when
We stare at the faces,
A few culled from many?
When we turn away, does
The moment linger, while
We seek light to banish
Darkness, even as the
Dying proceeds, each
Death meant to diminish
Us, to confront pain we
Deny, plunging us back
Into moral ignorance in
Which we are born?
Days later, when  we see the
Photo of a girl who survived,
Standing by her grandparents'
House amid fields of corn, do
We glance upward, above the
Girl, to the barely visible layers
Of Blue, hiding the sky, the sky
No longer giving us answers we
Don't know how to hear.


George Salamon has recently contributed to Dissident Voice, The Asses of Parnassus, One Sentence Poems, and TheNewVerse.News from St. Louis, MO.

EXODUS: A HISTORY

by Carol Alexander 

People wandered streets with net bags of oranges,
spooked by the lonesome traffic lights. Each grew a compound eye.
Birds waxed tenacious. God willing they sang.
Apartment houses feigned cataracts with china pugs, ormolu
(gilded in desired shapes) while dog-walkers walked alone.
No one trusted fingers, floats of fleshy cut flowers; there were little crimes.
Sometimes they dreamed of the lost, how a coffin should gleam
when an unwilling heart was shocked into submission at last.
Seven o'clock marked an anniversary of quarantine and temperature.
The remains of the day—they held each other wordlessly, lawlessly
and on mild days the infection spread, over narcissus and forsythia.
Wind blew through the firehouse. Park benches said remember them.

Carol Alexander (on her fifth week of Covid infection, as is her husband) is the author of Environments (Dos Madres Press), Habitat Lost (Cave Moon Press), and Bridal Veil Falls (Flutter Press). Her poems appear in various anthologies and in journals such as The American Journal of Poetry, Chiron Review, The Common, Cumberland River Review, Hamilton Stone Review, One, Seattle Review of Books, Southern Humanities Review, Sweet Tree Review, and Third Wednesday. She is a past contributor to TheNewVerse.News.  Recent work is forthcoming this year in Denver Quarterly and Raintown Review.

SURVIVOR

by Pepper Trail

Nearly 30 years after its last documented sighting, a silver-backed chevrotain was spotted by a camera set up in the forest of southern Vietnam. (Southern Institute of Ecology/Global Wildlife Conservation/Leibniz Institute for Zoo and Wildlife Research/NCNP) —NPR, November 11, 2019

Delicately, it steps into the frame,
an animal living its life, seen only
by the camera, no larger (we are told)
than a rabbit, called (we are told)
the Vietnamese mouse-deer, and
also the silver-backed chevrotain,
the world’s smallest hoofed mammal,
suddenly returned from the dead.

In the image, it makes its ordinary way,
slender limbs rising from the dry leaves,
clean white belly and throat, flanks buff
and silver, alert pink ears, large dark eyes
seeming to look inward, slight smile
on the narrow muzzle, as if remembering
an amusing incident from the night before,
unaware that it is, to us, a miracle.

Discovered (shot) by scientists in 1907,
then no trace for 83 years, then one more
seen (shot) by scientists in 1990, then not
again, and so declared a species “lost,”
perhaps (probably) extinct, another fatality
of human appetite, but now, in 2019, seen
(seen) by hidden cameras, walking quietly,
thinking private thoughts, this survivor.

Yesterday it was an entry in a ledger,
nothing but a name in spidery black script,
Tragulus versicolor, written off,
the dusty book closed, not to be re-opened.
Today I gaze and gaze at its photograph,
seem to hear its quickly-beating heart,
smell its warm scent, and I see the world
it makes (still is making) with its life, alive.


Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

GUIDED DREAM TOUR

by Cody Walker

On Monday, Trump hosted a 2020 strategy meeting with a group of advisers. Among the topics discussed was whether Mike Pence should remain on the ticket, given the hurricane-force political headwinds Trump will face, as demonstrated by the midterms, a source briefed on the session told me. —Gabriel Sherman, Vanity Fair, December 5, 2018

Cody Walker is the author of three poetry collections, all from the Waywiser Press. He lives and teaches in Ann Arbor.

NOMINATING HIGH RISK

by Margaret Rozga 

“Top of the Ticket” cartoon by David Horsey / Los Angeles Times, June 2, 2016.

Imagine a rabbit, running, late.
Imagine a rabbit no earlier
on the ground than under.

Alice locked out of the garden
too big, too small, never right
as much on the ground as under,

uncertain of direction,
advised only to take the road
that gets her where she wants to go,
as if she knew, either on the ground or under.

Even at tea, her place changes,
is changed, exchanged, until
she’s displaced, no rhyme nor reason
either on the ground or under.

At the queen’s command an unruly hand
of insubstantial and un-gamely subjects.
At risk anyone, everyone’s head,
no less on these grounds than under.

What time is this, what times are these,
rude, rough, incomprehensible
how a rabbit’s world surfaced,
and calm picnic grounds went under.

Alice, you just dreamed you fell and didn’t
know when, how, or where you’d stop.
Now that dream is playing out
on our ground,
not under.

Margaret Rozga is a poet, essayist, and author of a play, March On Milwaukee: A Memoir of the Open Housing Protests.  Her new manuscript of poems focuses on Jessie Benton Frémont (1824-1902), who actively campaigned in 1856 for her husband  John Charles Frémont, the first Republican candidate for president on an anti-slavery platform.