JUST A COOKOUT WITHOUT HISTORY

a glosa with a nod to Jemar Tisby 

by Rachel Landrum Crumble

AI graphic created by Nightcafé for The New Verse News

You whom I could not save
Listen to me.   
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.   
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.   
—Czeslaw Milosz from "Dedication"

If I could write history with sparklers
in the newly dark air, light cherry bombs of truth, send bottle rockets
of lament to arc the unbelieving sky,

the sky that says: "Not this again!

​​Can't we just have a nice family meal without politics?"​
​​​I wonder, "Whose politics?" For the sake of 'peace', I cave.

​"The hotdogs are ready. Who wants a hamburger?

​Let's give thanks for the Founding Fathers' faith."
​​​If God is holy, why did they enslave?
​​You whom I could not save.

​​​I'm still the youngest, so experience doesn't count

​​​though I've been married to a Black man for forty-five years.
​​What about 300 years of slavery?
​​Then decades of terror and Jim Crow?
​​Where does all that sorrow and anger go?

​​​It bleeds into the bank accounts of Industry.

​​​Broken Black and brown bodies pave the way.
"Now that's all behind us. Our future is bright."​
​​​"Yeah, for the land of the rich where some arefree."

​​Listen to me.

​​Silenced by inattention, 

​​I am again the youngest at the family table.

"Did anyone bring that peach cobbler I crave?"​

​​Why blame the victims with a little wave   
​​so the flies of understanding never find landing?

A voice canonizes the Founding Fathers--it's my brother.
​​​Most were slave holders, 

​​​who wrote that "all men were created equal."
​My siblings channel the politics of my blue-blood mother,
​Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.

​By now, I'd settle for cap-gun sparks of recognition. 
​My husband, veteran of fireworks, stayed home from this failed mission. 
​He is a tired conscientious objector in this war.
​Weary of the White noise of indifference, my grown children won't engage.
​​I write with sparklers, but I need a torch.
"Fireworks are beautiful, but they kill birds."

Land of the free. ​But how free, and who are 'we'?"
Heads together, they discuss the State of Things.

​​I love them, but this feels absurd. 

​I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words. 

Rachel Landrum Crumble 

is a life-long poet and a retired teacher. She has published in The Porter House Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Common Ground Review, among others. Sister Sorrow (2022 Finishing Line Press) is her first book of poetry. Her second is In Praise of Detours (2025 Main Street Rag). She is working on a novel. She lives with her husband of 45 years, a jazz drummer. Find her on http://substack.com/rachellandrumcrumble or at poetteachermom.com.

CANVASSING

by Mark Williams

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

If a man’s home is his castle,

he reluctantly lowered his drawbridge. “Is she

a Democrat or Republican?” he asked us.

 

Manicured lawns, foot-high grass.

Porches with fishing rods, feral cats.

“She had three litters before she was fixed.”

 

A woman on oxygen. A man with a cane.

A woman using a walker

who agreed to put up a yard sign.

 

“I always vote Republican.”

“I vote straight Democrat.”

“I’m not registered.”

 

We were offered water, beer;

given thanks, directions, advice,

even hand-wipes. We learned

 

of dogs who’d been rescued, the price

of a condemned house. One woman’s grandson

is studying classic literature in Italy.

 

As for the king of his castle, he said,

nay, shouted, “Get off my land!” which,

as far as he was concerned,

 

wasn’t made for some of you and me.

Mark Williams's poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, Writers Resist, as well as The Southern Review, ONE ART: a literary journal, New Ohio Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of the collections, Carrying On and Life. He and his wife, DeeGee, live and canvas in Evansville, Indiana. 

DARE TO BE HAPPY

by Chen-ou Liu

The neighborhood is a hush of humid air and mown grass. Time feels suspended, marked only by the rhythmic pulse of water hitting the driveway. For a moment, this white picket fence world is nothing but light and motion, before the next headline arrives—red banners scrolling, digits flickering upward.

on the front lawn

the sprinkler ticks like a clock

throwing silver arcs...

his toddler's laughter

chases a beagle's bay

Chen-ou Liu is the author of five books, including Following the Moon to the Maple Land (First Prize, 2011 Haiku Pix Chapbook Contest) and A Life in Transition and Translation (Honorable Mention, 2014 Turtle Light Press Biennial Haiku Chapbook Competition). His tanka and haiku have been honored with many awards.

A TRUMP SUPPORTER

by Ralph Dranow

ANGRY POET. SUMMER 2008. From a cycle "ART FAIR AND ITS INHABITANTS" Print by Yuri Kachkin Ukraine

"Why do you like Trump?" I ask.

It's his first term.

Bill's pale forehead furrows,

bespectacled eyes twin fires.

"He's a strong leader and a successful capitalist.

I happen to like capitalism."

After a poetry reading at night,

we're drinking beer in a pizza parlor,

amidst a hum of conversation

and clatter of glasses and dishes.

We go on talking politics,

our voices civil

despite disagreeing on every issue.

But troubled, I wonder:

How can a nice, intelligent guy like Bill,

who's treated me tonight,

embrace a monster like Trump?

We part, shaking hands,

like two diplomats from countries

somewhat wary of each other,

neither friend or foe.

Later, at home, a detective in search of clues,

I reread Bill's poetry book,

and some of the lines cry out to me,

like forlorn children:

"Rage burns deeply inside me.

It always has."

"Alone and miserable.

Maybe I deserve it."

Politics fades away.

My heart opens its gates,

as I give Bill a long distance hug.

Ralph Dranow is an editor and poetry teacher.

A FABLE

by Howie Good

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

Someone is shouting, “Freedom!” 
or maybe “Free them!” The shouts
 
echo through gray, empty streets 
and die. I don’t follow the news. 
 
I’m not into politics. I walk down 
a street lined with soldiers and tanks. 
 
I turn up a street named for a tyrant.


Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book The Dark is available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.

BURN ME, I TELL THE TRUTH

by Amy Wolf 

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

Burn me, I tell the truth.

In the hardwood floor, pine cool green painted wall calm

Of the yoga studios of Seattle

A battle rages.

Some say, “I am having my sound baths. I am going to reiki circle

I will not talk about politics . I am on a FAST from news media.

I am taking care of my mental well being.

I am not letting THAT MAN take another thing from me.”

Some, in the self-same yoga studios, aware of their skin color to the point of pain,

Say, “I am engaging in mutual aid. I am marching on Saturday. I am standing

Between my neighbors and ICE.

We all have a responsibility. First they came for the immigrants

And trans people

And I know how that poem ends so I fucking did something.”

The two sides do not meet. They do not speak. Mostly because the self-care

Sound bath socially reclusive “my mental health” crowd will not speak.

Fingers in ears, loudly chanting La la la la la at need,

They watch the ICE cars go by.

They watch their neighbors lose jobs, and hormones, security, and housing.

But they are secure in their soymilk organic mudbath facepeels and they do not despair.

“My guru tells me self-care is the very best thing I can do for the planet,

So Monday I leave for Sedona,” they say.

While Vanessa travels to the prisons to teach yoga to inmates

And Jack packs sandwiches and handwarmers to hand out to the people in tents under

the freeway

And Martha learns how to advocate for the undocumented and takes a few into her

house, her huge house, and hides them.

Amy does little but express herself to all the people who could lock her up if they so

chose,

For disparaging the regime, for insisting on rights , not just hers but other peoples.

And in the yoga studios of Seattle, the battle rages on.

Mostly in silence

Because they leave, when we tell them that the world around them is their business

And we none of us have this luxury at this time.

These are the days we spoke of, when we asked, “why didn’t the ordinary people of

Germany stop them?”

If you ever wondered what you would have done then,

Ask yourself what you are doing now, and you will have your answer.

Writers, healers, poets, musicians, humans: take care of yourself

But like the buffalo, face into the storm

Running and hiding will not protect you.

Not this time.

We will remember, when it is over, who fought

And who did not.

You might not wish to face that chill reception.

Amy Wolf is an LMT and energy worker who resides in Seattle, WA, and is studying writing.

PRESIDENTIAL CAMPAIGNS

by Anita S. Pulier

The campaigns are almost over.
The talking heads are on rerun.
I feel a strong urge to mop the bathroom floor.

Things are far from perfect 
and I am not sure
where the fix should start.

The ads have worked. The politics of fear grip me.
Clearly we are not who we were,
but I am not sure who or what we hope to be.

Wide awake I dream of raw power,
calculated intolerance and wrenching violence. 
Surely things were easier

before technology wired the globe,
when the world was vast,
unknowable, exotic.

Wasn’t life once lived day to day
by gut instinct, luck of the draw
take it as it comes?

A parade of bogus claims
line the mantle of my mind cluttered
by endless campaign puffery.

Do I understand so much more now,
about truth, deception
and the fickleness of time?

Still, I yearn for order,
for comfort, truth,
for simple decency,

for the strength to bother
caring, the naivete to believe
a single political promise and
 
the grit to mop the bathroom floor
at midnight, clear my head,

grapple with the paralysis of deep REM sleep.

Anita S. Pulier’s chapbooks Perfect Diet, The Lovely Mundane and Sounds of Morning and her books The Butchers Diamond and Toast were published by Finishing Line Press. Paradise Reexamined came out in 2023 (Kelsay Books). Her new book Leaving Brooklyn is due out in Jan '25 from Kelsay Books  Anita’s poems have appeared in many journals and her work is included in nine print anthologies. Anita has been a featured poet on The Writer's Almanac and Cultural Daily.

FEMA AND MY DEAD PARENTS

by William Aarnes

FEMA was authorized in 1979

 

Lately, it seems raging storms have gotten worse

and the news about people hunting FEMA agents

has me thinking of my parents, my father

dead six years before FEMA got funded,

my mother dead ten years after FEMA

began helping clean up Love Canal.

My mother voted Republican.

My father voted Democrat.

                        

When our house blew away in 1957,

FEMA didn’t exist, so my parents

                              

had no thought of receiving $750

to help them recover from our loss.

The window wells filled in a millisecond.

Lifted out of the garage, the Bel Air landed in the front yard.

Somehow the piano stood alone in the living room.

Only my bedroom retained all its walls.

                              

Neighbors we barely knew and lived

—their home untouched—a block away

offered a place to sleep (as if my parents slept).

The day after a volunteer van arrived, women

dressed as nurses offering to sell

egg-salad sandwiches. I was ten

and now don’t recall how long

it took my parents to contact

their insurance agent. The tornado

left us little. Picking through debris

my parents laughed empty laughs.

They could do nothing else but rent

an apartment while having our home rebuilt.

They could have used $750

(or whatever the equivalent

might have been back then). My mother

would have hated taking a “handout”

but would have claimed a little extra

as “rightfully” ours. My father

would have diligently filled out the forms

to apply for any additional funds

a federal agency might grant

to help cover some of any shortfall.

My mother, worried about her brothers’ farms,

continued to vote Republican. My father, in favor

of teachers’ unions, kept on voting Democrat.

If alive now, my mother wouldn’t understand

the telling and repeating of hateful lies.  

If alive, my father wouldn’t mind, too much,

being told he tends to condescend.

My mother would now vote for candidates

who support tax breaks for small businesses.

My father would vote for candidates

who support improving ventilation in every school.

They’d agree to give something to Planned Parenthood.

There’s rubble and there’s rubble; they’d agree

to contribute to the children in the Ukraine and Gaza.

They’d worry about where best to donate hurricane relief.

My parents would have welcomed FEMA’s help.

But lately, it seems, raging storms have gotten worse.

William Aarnes lived in Fargo, North Dakota in 1957. He now lives in Manhattan.