THE SWEETEST WORD

 by Gil Hoy

The sweetest word

I've ever heard

Rhymes with:

Scene, Queen

and Tangerine

Rebellious Teen

and Jimmy Dean.

Lean, Mean

and so Obscene

Gulping down 

some more Caffeine.

Gene, Spleen

and Submarine

Very few 

and far Between.

Keen, Glean

and coffee Bean

Riding in

a Limousine.

The sweetest word

I've ever heard?

Vaccine.

Gil Hoy is a Boston poet who studied poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy's poetry has previously appeared in Rat’s Ass Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Ariel Chart, Right Hand Pointing, Indian Periodical, Rusty Truck, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change,  The Penmen Review, Misfit Magazine, Chiron Review, and elsewhere. He is a regular contributor to The New Verse News. Hoy previously received a B.A. in Philosophy and Political Science from Boston University, an M.A. in Government from Georgetown University, and a J.D. from the University of Virginia School of Law. He served as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman for 12 years and is a semi-retired trial lawyer.

THE ROOM WHERE IT HAPPENS

by T R Poulson

I wish all emergencies could take place like this:

a theater in the city, stage guns made of rubber

and metal to withstand so many drops and hits

in rehearsals, forgotten lines and flubbers.

The line: I am not throwing away my shot,

as the killer creeps in—Lord show me how

to say no to this—that flutter, why not

here among the songs? The heartbeat now

slows, the patron falls, as Aaron Burr’s pistol

pops. Dying is easy, young man, living

is harder. It plays out as in a crystal

ball. Gun! No prayers, thoughts, forgiving

this time. If only hearts could always feast

on rhymes, as the attack of living lurks, looms,

the gunman a mere actor, a ghost deceased

long ago. I want to be in the room 

where it happens, where everything is just

musical, where lights give me an eyeful,

where words spoken, though fiction, I trust,

and paper walls surround non-shooting rifles.

T R Poulson lives in San Carlos, California.  Her work has appeared previously in TheNewVerse.News, as well as in Rattle’s Poets Respond, Verdad, J Journal, and others.  She enjoys basketball, windsurfing, and going to plays, including a recent performance of Hamilton in San Francisco, which took place the day before the performance in which there was a false shooter alarm.

ODE TO THE EMOTIVE RODENTS

by Agrimmeer


                                           Singing Mice Learn New Tunes--National Geographic


  Hear Mice Sing by cdellamore


Mice white as icing can’t recall their lines.
Nor can they handle Shakespearean rhymes,
the cage their stage without admission fees,
in ad-lib scenes, they let loose as they please.
Needle teeth chatter, as they self-flatter,
“I sing, therefore I am,” and similar blather,
without thinking, they keen, upon their wee knees,
a hymn or a croon for that moon of cheese.


Agrimmeer grew to adulthood in the New Haven area but through the winds of time has put down roots in Texas, where he works in energy and real estate law, and where he sometimes gets in hot water for writing poetry about those areas, but keeps doing it anyway.