CALL TO ARMS

by Ellen Jeri

When truth is trampled far and near,

and all around is hate and fear,

then I’ll fight back with all I have:

my voice, my pen, my vote.

 

When waters rise and forests blaze,

injustice stirs your righteous rage,

then muster through the moral haze 

your voice, your pen, your vote!

 

Ghosts of those who went before us

surely mourn what might have come 

from battles bravely waged and won 

with their voice, their lives, their vote.

 

It’s ours to persist—no!—to insist—

to demand, protest, resist—

now is the hour; seize our power:

our voice, our pen, our vote!

 

Author's note: September 14 was National Voter Registration Day in the United States. As noted in historical analyses like those by David Blight in The New York Times (Op-Ed 11/5/2018): In his “Sources of Danger to the Republic,” in which he skewered Andrew Johnson as an “unmitigated calamity of a president under whom, for now the nation must stagger,” Frederick Douglass expressed this maxim regarding political institutions and republics: Our government may at some time be in the hands of a bad man. When in the hands of a good man it is all well enough. But we ought to have our government so shaped that even when in the hands of a bad man we shall be safe. Blight concludes his op-ed with the statement: Our only weapons: our voice, our pen and our vote.

Ellen Jeri’s poems are often prompted by the world around her—animal, vegetable, or political. 

SECTION 106: A PLEA FROM A POET ARCHEOLOGIST

by Kim Malinowski

The Advisory Council on Historic Preservation (ACHP) on Friday a voted to advance a notice of proposed rulemaking that would defang Section 106 of the National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA), one of the few laws that requires the federal government to consult with Tribal Nations before approving federally funded or permitted projects. New rules proposed by the ACHP would make Tribal consultation and public participation largely optional, and would drastically limit the law’s scope to historic properties that are geographically compact, excluding rivers, mountains and other Traditional Cultural Landscapes that are core to the history and identity of many Indigenous people. The proposed changes require further review and a 30-day public comment period before becoming final. —Earthjustice, July 27, 2026

Beat the drums of war.

They stole history at sunset,

went against their rules,

against their own Federal law,

voted against protecting

cultural heritage—fancy way of saying

knowledge of our past.

 

Beat the drums of war, even those who do not understand

Section 106. Because loves, 

not many of us study this law into our marrow. 

I might be one of the last.

It didn’t stand in the way of progress. It protected it.

Sacred sites were gone around, archeology was done before 

the neighbor’s pool was dug in the historic district.

The dead were found before they were uncovered.

 

Beat the drums of war for me.

For the tribal leaders that can write a public note

but not be consulted sovereign nation to sovereign nation.

Cemeteries and homesteads,

historical buildings and archeological sites endangered,

all for “progress” that could still progress

just with careful documentation.

All those places George Washington stayed at aren’t safe.

A strip mall might be more useful than a mansion.

 

But that’s what Section 106 was for. 

It wasn't perfect, but we sought

collaboration, review,

public comments, outreach, 

that now forbidden knowledge.

 

Beat the drums of war my friends.

Not just for the archeologists and historians, 

but for your history. 

Bloody and messy truth.

I don’t want massacres paved over in books or in soil.

 

My trowel begins at sunrise. 

My pen at midnight. 

Beat the drums of war.

Today, we fight for our history.

Kim Malinowski is a lover of history and words. She is the author of six poetry collections and is currently earning her Master's Degree in Cultural Heritage Resource Management (Archeology).

THE CLIMATE SCIENTIST

by Ash M. Corvo

AI graphic by Nightcafé for The New Verse News

My morality is not pretty
Not gartered in roses or smelling like honey
It is iron and snapping teeth
Demanding and loud and spitting on money

And I'll be honest: I hate gilded pulpits and podiums
From where I should beseech gods or powers that be, giving tithe
My authority is nameless in the bitter autumn wind
I know spring blossoms follow the scythe

Look at me and judge: my nobility isn't an eagle, soaring
Even the vulture must eat
Head naked and bent over what is rotten
Clear-eyed, swallowing mouthfuls of pungent meat

They all argue, pen or sword? What does it matter?
I have written words for so long, there is a season for each
A time to inscribe law, a time to rend flesh
And a time for discretion to teach

So yes, my morality is hideous
I endeavor for factual hands to mold it
It does not promise flowery hymns, nor to caress the ear
And we have precious little time for bullshit

Ash M. Corvo is a novelist of dark adult fantasy and science fiction. She writes for readers who want stories to break them—and piece them back together. Her novels confront impossible moral dilemmas, conflicting loyalties, and the gruesome aspects of human nature we prefer not to examine too closely. She holds a Ph.D. in biology, and has seen firsthand the effects of humankind on the natural world.

HOPE FOR THE NEW YEAR

by Barbara Schweitzer

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

There is no rodeo feat to lift history.

History is the slain bull bloodied for sport 

with his blood scoured into the concrete.

 

It is obscene to pick up a pen

on the day disaster flies in

but if not, the next day and the next 

days will keep us dumb to our ways.

 

We have physics and light: we know 

dark cannot exist when filled with light,

that speaking corrals our common plights

and even pigeons know how to take flight

and we are not night. We will not be night.

Barbara Schweitzer writes poems and plays and sundry fiction from upstate RI. She is the author of 33 1/3: Soap Opera Sonnets. She is the creator of Cyjoe Barker, detective extraordinaire of stage and flash fiction. Feeling Plankton, a 10-minute play can still be viewed in its entirety here.

DEMOCRACY WITH SCISSORS AND LOOPHOLES

by David Lee

Original cartoon of "The Gerry-Mander.” This is the political cartoon that led to the coining of the term “gerrymander.” The district depicted in the cartoon was created to favor the incumbent Democratic-Republican party candidates of Governor Elbridge Gerry over the Federalists in 1812. Public Domain. —Wikipedia

They call it redistricting,
like moving furniture for better feng shui.
But the map on the table
looks like it’s been drawn by a toddler with a sugar high
and an eraser for a conscience.

The district snakes down one block
just to loop around a donor’s backyard.
Three neighborhoods vanish into
a comma-shaped voting island
where ballots get counted
only if the tide’s out.

Meanwhile, in the Capitol,
the same lawmakers who swear
the system is “by the people”
are day-trading defense stocks
before breakfast,
and exempting themselves
from every law they praise in speeches.

When asked why the rules don’t apply to them,
one Congressman grins like a cat on a warm hood
and says,
“Well, the pen is mightier than the ballot box,
especially if you own the pen.”

David Lee is a physician, poet, and occasional troublemaker who moonlights as a satirical commentator on the absurdities of modern politics and culture. His poems have been called “provocative, playful, and just unsettling enough to make you think twice before laughing a third time.”

THE BALLAD OF JD VANCE

by Peter Nohrnberg 

Cartoon by Clay Bennett for the Chattanooga Times Free Press

How might a lowly hillbilly 

Rise up to fame and glory? 

Well gather round and listen close 

And ye shall hear his story. 

 

His will was such, that early on 

This lad would not be thwarted.

True grit the little zygote had—

Thank God he weren’t aborted!  

 

He hunkered down in cozy womb 

To think on matters deep:

For birth was child’s play compared 

to being born-again as Veep!  

 

A miracle it seemed to some 

To others simply weird,

But when JD came into the world  

He sported a full beard!  

 

Wiser than his years he was, 

This savant wearing diapers.

Alas, his homelife he did ken 

A pit of hissing vipers! 

 

“My Ma’s a mess, Stepdad’s a jerk,

I’m really up the junction…

I’ll put this in a book one day,

A dirge to white dysfunction!” 

 

Against this lot he dreamed to have 

A stable life, serene: 

Come graduation off he shipped 

to Iraq as a Marine. 

 

Hard as nails, or cask strength scotch,  

He readied for the battle.  

But instead of a gun they gave him a pen:

Like a baby with a rattle!  

 

Reporting on the enlistees   

He learned to be a man.  

But a career in the armed forces was

Not part of the plan.  

 

Who says a little learning is 

such a dangerous thing?   

For learning little our feisty bro 

To Ivy League did bring! 

 

In New Haven he studied law—

the spirit and the letter.  

He made queer friends he’d later shun

‘Cause he liked power better.  

 

He changed his name, Hamel to Vance—

You could call it a transition—

And then he up and left the law 

To fulfill his sacred mission. 

 

He set out West upon his steed 

(a 747),

And made his way to Menlo Park: 

Venture capital heaven.  

 

A Wizard strange young Vance did seek;

Weird Wizard he did find.

In awe did he marvel at 

Liber-Crypto-Christian Mind.  

 

JD did query subtle Sage,

Asked would he be his mentor,

Instruct him in dark Startup arts
And Partnerships to enter?    

 

From Silicon throne the Wizard rose,

And shook his staff in vigor.

Fittingly he quoth Saint George: 

“I’ll be your father figure!”  

 

“Hot Damn!” Spake Vance, “Well don’t you know

I been lookin’ for a daddy!

The last two Pappies that I had 

drove off in their Caddy.” 

 

Like learned Alchemists of old

Who now in peace are resting,

Vance commixed averse elements:

Charity and Investing.

 

As Noah rescued all God’s creatures 

He’d save the folks back home;

Raise funds to start a future farm 

Built under a great glass dome. 

 

A lifeline to those left behind—

With profits too to capture!—

Jobs for Evangelicals while 

They waited for the Rapture.  

 

Alas, the locals they all quit

That Hot House of Disorder; 

The only folks who’d do the work 

Came from south of the border! 

 

Like Babel Tower did Vertical Farm 

Collapse under piles of debt;

But if you suppose that brought Vance low

You ain’t heard nothin’ yet!  

 

For who should appear but Wizard Wise 

With a spell to quell defeat:

“It’s time you answered the nation’s call  

And ran for a Senate seat!”

 

Now far and wide his fame had spread 

For he’d become an author. 

But words can’t buy a Congressional race;

He’d need the Wizard’s coffer… 

 

Spake Wizard, “What cash you can raise

From hicks in Appalachia,

Lookie here at my bank account 

Boy, I can surely match ya!”

 

In tears replied the Wizard’s ward

“I just wanna give something back!” 

(What that was he did not say

But he gladly took the check.)

 

Now around this time an Orangeman 

Had risen up to power.

He was full of piss and vinegar 

And things even more sour.  

 

At first our hero he demurred:

“T---p’s cultural heroin.”

But when the call went out for Veep

No problem lied therein.  

 

Like Saul of Tarsus transformed to Paul 

Changed was his demeaner;

His beard grew thick, beady his eyes, 

Just like Donald Junior.  

 

Social collapse he prophesied, 

This born-again MAGApostle. 

He owned the libs with clever memes;

His homilies weren’t docile.

 

“Why is it that some old maids love 

Their cats more than us men?

And here’s another pet peeve of mine—

The immigrants who eat ‘em!”  

 

The hateful nonsense that he spewed 

Ensured that he’d advance.  

Quoth T---p, “He’s got to be my Veep,

My mini-me is Vance!”  

 

An Ohioan who was like his kids...

T---p knew it was a sign! 

Proposed he to Apprentice Vance, 

“Put your tiny hand in mine.” 

 

All hail this Proud Boy of the Folk,

More famous than Hannibal Lecter!

Born to be Veep, and if not, well…

There’s always the private sector.  

 

For whether T---p should win or lose—

Or rather, is robbed once more!—

Of the two running mates, Vance 

May end up free, less poor.   

 

Destined to one day top the ticket,

So bigly JD’s gift.  

Who could stop his rapid rise...

Apart from Taylor Swift?

Peter Nohrnberg is a poet, cultural critic, and literary scholar, whose poems and articles have appeared in Southwest Review, Notre Dame Review, Public Seminar, and James Joyce Annual, among other publications.

A MOUNTAINEER CAN BE A POET AND STILL FIRE A MUSKET

by Kim Malinowski

Hundreds of West Virginia University students wearing red T-shirts and bandanas to symbolize their connection to striking coal miners a century ago staged protests Monday against an administration proposal to cut 9% of majors amid a $45 million budget shortfall. —AP, August 22, 2023

I write WVU into the stars, blue and gold constellations,

my pen shimmering faculty names, even as the administration’s slash

tenure positions, promises, dreams.

I learned that my pen is a magic wand here. 

It has not been so long ago that even mountaineers could be poets

and still shoot muskets and pretend that they had a home.

I met a freshman today that I will paint as glinting diamond,

fourth day confusion, standing on the side with professors,

telling me he is the transition and the PRTs still don’t work.

But he doesn’t cower, ready to swing full into engineering and life.

My mentors are battle hardened past the traditional 10 on the Mohs scale,

fighting, worrying, fighting more. Not able to tell their stories.

I told the university’s president that I could write WVU into the skies,

either as diamonds or as coal, because each are rocks 

on their way to becoming another rock. That freshman, those faculty

can fight and worry and fight.

I can write the stories they are not allowed to.

But we have a choice if we want the story to be about diamonds or coal.

Kim Malinowski is a poet and a mountaineer. She will have six books by the end of 2024 and credits much of her success to her instructors at West Virginia University. She wore red at the August 21, 2023 Protest, lives five hours away, and fights for those that fought for her.

THE AMERICAN BOOK OF THE DEAD

by Harold Oberman

“Radical Approaches to Social Distancing” by Carolita Johnson, The New Yorker, March 22, 2020

X.  April 10, 2020 16,690

Ars Poetica

I feel guilty for writing something beautiful.
I try to tone it down,
Replace the lilt with hard t’s,
Crash consonants like cars,
Try to remember what landscape is, or was
In this still life.
There are few active verbs
On this couch.  No
Sensible line breaks as I go insane
In isolation.
Hiss.
I swear if I ever get to a bar again
I won’t have a pen and I’m going
To touch my face, shake your hand
And share a shot.
Is there deep meaning in that?
Death to metaphors.
“Live your life as if you’re already dead”
Said Charles Wright, quoting Che Guevara
Or a Japanese coin.
As I was, I wish I could.

Harold Oberman is a poet and lawyer writing in Charleston, S.C.  The above is excerpted from a longer work which may, or may not, ever see the light of day.  He has appeared in TheNewVerse.News and The Free State Review.

PRIMARY RANT

by Harold Oberman

Graphic via Nikki McWatters

At this exact moment
It is time to put your sonnets
      On hold.
No lyric musings
Until the Republic is secure,
Until the Senate gains sanity,
Until Justice does justice,
Until November.

“There is a criminal in the White House
Who bullies foreign powers to frame his political rivals”
Does not fucking rhyme with anything
So don’t even try,
At least for now.
“There is a criminal in the White House
Who pardons his cronies who fixed the last election”
Is not a simile, not even a metaphor,
So don’t get clever with it
At least for now.
“There is a criminal in the White House
Who foments hate for political gain”
Is not in iambic, nor even trochaic, so just say it,
At least for now.

Pick up your pen
And jab it in the back of someone’s hand
Goddammit
If they say, “I’m not going to vote on that day,
November Third.”
Pick up your pen
And jab it in the back of someone’s hand
Goddammit
If they say “It just doesn’t matter.”

Scream before you write the lyric.
Howl before you write the sonnet.
And whisper truth to your neighbor.

Harold Oberman is a lawyer and writer living in the midst of the South Carolina Primary. His work has appeared in the TheNewVerse.News  and in the Free State Review.

APOSTATE ONLY AM I TRUE

by Peleg Held

“We are shocked and deeply saddened by reports that Mohammad Bashir al-Ajani and his son Elyas were murdered by the militant group Islamic State which had accused them of ‘apostasy’. The deliberate murder of civilians during an armed conflict is a war crime and both those who commit them and those who order them must be brought to justice. We call on all actors involved or with interests in this conflict to use all diplomatic means possible to ensure that no more civilians – including writers – are killed.” —Salil Tripathi, Chair of PEN International’s Writers in Prison Committee.

For Mohammed Bashir al-Aani executed with his son

outside Dier Ezzor in March 2016.

They tear at the strings
and a dew falls into the bright
of the lower skies.
I hear a singing under the blue:
cisterned voices,
thickening amber, welling new
in the combs behind dropped eyes.
There is a weaver this night—
working steady, working through,
weaving strands of the silenced,
binding many to the few.


Author's note: The title is taken from a line of Paul Celan's "Praise of Distance".

Peleg Held lives in Portland, Maine with his partner and his dog Emitt. There is also the semi-feral cat, Smudge. And a kid or two. pelegheld(at)gmail.com.

CREDO

by Rasma Haidri

“At least 12 were killed in an attack at the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo. Four cartoonists are among the dead, including editor and cartoonist Stephane ‘Charb’ Charbonnier, seen here defiantly holding one of the magazine’s covers. The magazine was fire-bombed in 2011 for publishing a cartoon of Muhammad and is know for its provocative satire. The Guardian has live updates here of developing events.” --Ann Telnaes, editorial cartoonist for The Washington Post, 7 January 2015.

I believe in One Art
Father of Cartoon
Begotten of the Pen Almighty
Maker of heaven and earth
I believe in Drawings
Visible and Invisible
Born not made
Being of one Substance
The Ink, the Pen and the Lead
I believe that Art,
Giver of Life, Begotten of man
Came and dwelt among us
Suffered and was buried
So the multitudes would rise
Take up Arms of Pens,
Draw Cartoons a Thousandfold
In world without end.


Rasma Haidri grew up in Tennessee and now lives in the Norwegian arctic where she is a newspaper columnist, textbook writer and teacher. Her poems and essays have been widely published and are forthcoming in Songs for a Passbook Torch, an anthology of poems about Nelson Mandela and Veils, Halos and Shackles, an anthology about violence towards women.