THE NEW NORMAL

by Lawrence J. Krips 

This morning I tossed an empty toothpaste tube

into the toilet bowl instead of the basket.

 

Later, the just simmered Marinara sauce

went from the stove into the everything drawer.

 

You see, the system I relied upon, 

has taken an unapproved vacation.

 

My friends insist dictators will save the world

and that being independent is an unnecessary burden.

 

My children are beginning to wonder not at the barking 

but by the preternatural scratching with my left foot.

By overwhelming minority opinion, The Supreme Court

declared the United States null and void.

 

The stairs took me up to the basement, while 

the dump sink in the attic overflowed to the roof.

 

The President has ordered all new maps 

eponymously rename the Western Hemisphere.

 

Who knew vaccinations cause fleas or 

cameras can substitute as hearing aids?

 

From now on, men’s votes are the only ones counted

in all the elections we will no longer have.

 

For as a woman seweth so does a man reapeth,

the oceans tideth and space-time discontinueth.

 

Nothing does lead to something 

and a stitch in mine is yours in time.

 

I no longer need to study all those tedious details for elections,

the decisions have been and will be made for us.

 

Do not fear this upheaval.  The old normal 

is just the new normal calling a time out.

Lawrence J. Krips is an evolution coach  and poet.  A founding member of Ocean State Poets and contributor to the Origami Poetry Project, Larry's poetry has appeared in such publications as Tifferet, Writers' Circle, Rhode Island Writers' Circle Anthology, The Open Door, 50 Haikus, New Verse News, The Best of Kindness II Anthology and Under the 13th Star Anthology.  His poem, Yahrzeit, received a Pushcart Prize nomination.  Mr. Krips' first book, A Soul's Way . . . Soulspeak, was published by Hallowed Abyss and is also available as a cd.

YOUR COUNTRIES ARE GOING TO HELL

by Diane Elayne Dees

Our country, on the other hand,

is a big slice of heaven, where 
 
a bag with different things in it
costs so much, we can’t afford

to buy clothes and medicine.
But things are bound to get better

because hundreds of penguins
have been hit with tariffs.

It will take time for us to see
the benefit of this, so our children

must have two dolls instead of 
thirty dolls, but no worries—

they won’t have to get 
vaccinated against anything,

and anyway, we’re all going to die.
Our children won’t be autistic

because their mothers, burning
with fever, won’t take Tylenol.

And—since they absorb everyting—
our children will rule the world 

once they are all saturated

in steak sauce. Having been spared 

the evil of windmills, they’ll be smart 

enough to bring down the plot to make

them all transgender. The bad news
is that there's no controlling 

the rampant spread of transgender mice
because the immigrants ate all the cats.

Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbooks, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), The Last Time I Saw You (Finishing Line Press), The Wild Parrots of Marigny (Querencia Press), and I Can't Recall Exactly When I Died (Kelsay Books). Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large.

NEW YEAR RESOLUTION

by Geoffrey Philp

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) has issued level 4 and level 2 travel advisories for Jamaica which sees them strongly warning against travel into the country due to several factors including Covid-19 and violence which has plagued some areas. —YardHype, January 12, 2022. See also CDC, January 10, 2022

The CDC has updated their travel advisory

to Jamaica due to crime, the spread of Covid,

and a lack of police presence in the county.

 

They’ve suggested avoiding public buses or secluded

places and added to statistics of robberies and break-

ins, a rising positivity rate. Fully vaccinated,

 

boostered, and up-to-date on flu shots I’ll take

my survival odds on the island this winter.

You see, America, I need a long-deserved break

 

from my daily rehearsal of answers to policemen

with the tiresome, “Who are you? Why are you here?”

usually by some rookie hoping to make his bones

 

with an exotic trophy in the trunk of his squad car

where he’ll pose with his first kill of the New Year.

Geoffrey Philp is the author of five books of poetry, two collections of short stories, three children’s books, and two novels, including Garvey’s Ghost. His poems and short stories have been published in The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse, sx salon, World Literature Today, The Johannesburg Review of Books, The Oxford Book of Caribbean Short Stories, Bearden’s Odyssey Poets Respond to the Art of Romare Bearden, Rattle: Poets Respond, and Crab Orchard Review. A recipient of the Luminary Award from the Consulate of Jamaica (2015) and a former chair for the 2019 OCM Bocas Prize for Poetry, Philp’s work is featured on The Poetry Rail at The Betsy—an homage to 12 writers that shaped Miami culture. His next collection of poems, Archipelagos, is forthcoming from Peepal Tree Press.

PANDEMIC PANTOUM

by Catherine McGuire

KALISPELL, Montana — The October death by suicide of the ninth local teenager in 16 months prompted offers of counseling, training for teachers and visits from national suicide prevention experts. But it also whiplashed into partisan recriminations, as residents lashed out in public forums against the superintendent of schools for failing to impose dress codes and discipline, against parents for not securing their plentiful firearms — used in several suicides — and against the supporters of masks and other pandemic restrictions for stifling teenagers. An issue the valley might have rallied around, in another time, risked dividing it yet again. Photo: The Flathead Republican Party float drives on Main Street in Kalispell. (Tony Bynum) —The Washington Post, October 25, 2021

It started in panic, pulling in—

closed doors, empty roads,

huddling—unseen killer abroad!

Whole towns went still.

 

Closed doors, empty roads,

displayed by drones, at first.

Whole towns went still with

the novelty of crisis

 

displayed by drones, at first.

We drank in urgent news,

the novelty of crisis,

but weeks smudged together.

 

And we drank, as urgent news

became the same old: needles into arms.

The novelty of crisis

morphed to anger at refuseniks.

 

And now the same old needles into arms

became a rallying cry,

morphed to anger at refuseniks:

“How dare you endanger me?”

 

The same rallying cry,

spread like a virus on both sides:

“How dare you endanger me?”

revealing a comorbidity

 

that spread like a virus on both sides:

or like a wildfire flaring from a spark

to reveal a morbid comity:

we’re right; no sympathy for them!

 

And like a wildfire flaring from a spark

that falls on parched, unhealthy ground

this drought of sympathy for “them”

ravages communities more than virus did.

 

Self-absorption is parched, unhealthy ground.

How will we explain to grandkids that what

ravaged our towns more than virus did

was the climate that turned townsfolk into enemy?

How will we explain to grandkids that what

had us huddling—unseen killer abroad!—

was the inner climate that turned townsfolk into enemy?

It starts in panic, pulling in.

Catherine McGuire is a writer and artist with a deep concern for our planet's future. She has four decades of published poetry, four poetry chapbooks, a full-length poetry book Elegy for the 21st Century (FutureCycle Press), a SF novel Lifeline, and book of short stories The Dream Hunt and Other Tales (Founders House Publishing).

AN ALL-AMERICAN INCENTIVE

by Clyde Always

At last the rates of jabs are up

in states where were the leasest

which are, coincidentally,

the ones that rank obesest.

 

Miraculous. Perplexing though…

what reason for could this be?

It seems they upped the bribe a bit:

two kremes and both are krispy.

Clyde Always is an accomplished cartoonist, poet, painter, novelist and Vaudevillian entertainer. His writings and/or illustrations have been printed in the Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Light, Slackjaw, Scarfff Comics, etc. etc. You can see his storytelling act, live and in-person, any Friday evening, at the Scott Street Labyrinth in San Francisco, CA.

AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL 2.0

by Paul Smith

Cartoon by Nick Anderson.

Amid a widening partisan divide over coronavirus vaccination, most Republicans have either stoked or ignored the flood of misinformation reaching their constituents and instead focused their message about the vaccine on disparaging President Biden, characterizing his drive to inoculate Americans as politically motivated and heavy-handed. —The New York Times, July 20, 2021

O beautiful for spacious skies

America I speak no lies

Although I wish no harm to none

He who holds his arm back

dies

 

O beautiful for pilgrim feet

that tread upon the soil that’s blue

a thoroughfare

for arms that ache

while you over there

vacillate

prevaricate

until

real soon

it’s just too late

 

You who claim our fruited plain

is really red

and complain

and caterwaul

that this hoax is live

and science is dead

woe be to you

in twenty-two

 

You’re going to those halcyon skies

twice as fast as us guys

your electorate

is shrinking faster

than a speeding myth

count the votes

do the math

your crimson retreats

are no longer alabaster

 

In twenty twenty two or four

there will be more of us than you

your votes have shrunk

so go get drunk

and raise a toast

two years hence

or maybe four

our purple mountains

will all be blue

sad but true

sad for you

your selfish gain no longer stains

from coast to plain to turquoise coast

Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has traveled all over the place and met lots of people. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. His poetry and fiction have been published in Convergence, Packingtown Review, Literary Orphans, TheNewVerse.News, and other lit mags.

WAITING ON TRUDEAU

by Bill Garvey

Editorial Cartoon by Graeme MacKay, The Hamilton Spectator, April 9, 2021.

What would I do without Little Sito,

Her kibbeah, lubbeah and tabbouleh

Or the marinara sauce from Sugo drizzled over a meatball

The size of a softball, or Gus’s beef burrito

Wrapped as tightly as a newborn,

Or the sweet Albanian couple who stuff my donair

With the soul of true communism

And a healthy dollop of Halifax?

I’m waiting it out in Toronto

For Yakitori Don from Coo who

Opens for Take-Out-Only at 5

Behind a plexiglass partition

And a frown from the chef who

Hates that I’m American, I think,

Or just despises the stink of fear that wafts from Bloor

Or maybe the sewer.

I’m waiting for my mask to dry on the windowsill,

For the door to open, the sun to shine,

For the table I reserved for family

Or friends. I’d even sit with the danger of strangers.

I’d kill for linen napkins. A waitress with a bottomless smile

And a bottle of sparkling water.

I’m waiting for the man

On the street to stop veering from me

As if I had leprosy or some ailment far worse

Like, well, you know.

I’m waiting on Justin Trudeau

To answer his phone, to knock on my door,

To come to my rescue

On a horse, maybe, like the RCMP, with a syringe

And champagne.

Published in The New Verse News many years ago, Bill Garvey’s poems have been also published in Margie, The Worcester Review, 5AM, Slant, Diner, Concho River Review, New York Quarterly, and, recently, Nixes Mate Review. Finishing Line Press published his chapbook The Burden of Angels in 2007.  He and his wife live in Toronto for six months and in a tiny fishing village in Nova Scotia the other, warmer six months. Bill is a dual citizen of Canada and the US and has lived in Canada since 2010.

A YEAR IN

by Ilene Millman

Source: The New York Times, April 22, 2021

in a blue funk in    sunk in    a fly in amber   a pig in a poke

no walk in the park  this tempest in a teapot  this stitch in time

a brick in my hand    its foot in my door   like a fox in the henhouse

plugged in   unhugged in   in what, more than a year in?

a woman’s place in   in the homein    inthehome  a man’s place inthehome

inthehome the child   cuckoo in the nest   sitting in the catbird seat

couched in down in     drawn in and done in   carved in stone, no exit.

                   at this juncture/moment/ point in time

oh, to be out in left field    back in business     full swing in quest of

caught in the act of     caught up in        in cahoots with

to be in contact      in contact with     in good company

in touch     in touch with     walking out and about in

and in view of      knee deep in     teeth in    zhuzhed up laughing in the aisles

out in      all in   in awe of

 

 

In addition to writing poetry, Ilene Millman is a speech/language therapist currently volunteering as tutor, tutor trainer and assessor for her county Literacy Volunteers organization. Her poems have been published in a number of print journals including The Journal of New Jersey Poets, Nelle, Connecticut Review, Paterson Review, Passager,  The New Verse News, and anthologized in several volumes including the recently published Show Me Your Papers. She is an associate editor of The Sow’s Ear. Her first book of poetry, Adjust Speed to Weather, was published in 2018.  

IT'S THE QUICK PRICKS

by Tricia Knoll

You lament we’ve missed so much

theater, solstice estivals, state fair curly fries,

Aunt Moo’s 75th birthday at the river

 

but I’m thinking of what I don’t miss

    yellow fever       polio       lockjaw

          flu         hepatitis       diphtheria 

 

because I learned a thing or two

     from   mumps     measles    chicken pox

                whooping cough

 

see I’m old enough to have had those

      but not the firsts because I got the shot

 

and I’m old enough to have had

       my two COVID quick pricks

 

so I don’t miss holding my new grandson

       on the way, seeing our plays unfold

       on a stage with open curtains. 

       Amen and thank you.  

Tricia Knoll just got her second COVID shot. She took the "quick pricks" from Naomi Shihab Nye's poem "Dear Vaccine." Knoll's new chapbook Checkered Mates is available from Kelsay Books and Amazon.

SECOND SHOT

by Tracey Gratch

Crocuses through morning frost feign hope

that even in this time of gloom, as Cambridge

bars are shuttered tight and on Mass Ave.

foot traffic’s light, and yet, and yet it’s barely

spring, despite the losses reigning in—

The moment for a second shot; resilience

grit, on second thought.

Tracey Gratch lives south of Boston with her husband and their four children. Her poems have appeared in publications including Post Road, Mezzo Cammin, The Literary Bohemian, Annals of Internal Medicine, Boston Literary Magazine, TheNewVerse.News, and The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine. Her poem "Strong Woman" is included in On Being A Doctor, Volume 4, from the American College of Physicians.

THE YEAR IN REVIEW

by Bonnie Naradzay

Detail of cover of book by Bearded Doctor.

after Ilya Kaminsky

we lived happily, forgive us, 

we survived, even thrived, 

the way we slunk into the mud

beside the walkways, gave in, 

turned our eyes away, gestured 

with gratitude, wore masks, 

our eyeglasses clouding over, 

vision blurred, happily seeing

hypocrites roll up their sleeves, 

watch them all jump the lines, 

pull rank, Pence with his naked 

flabby arm, bravely showing 

how it’s done, we stood aside,

read about the one pardoned 

for ordering her police dog

to savage a homeless man 

backed against the wall,

showing how it’s done, 

war criminals pardoned,

mercenaries, paid with 

our taxes, gunning down

children with impunity, 

the nakedness of our nation,

we bowed in obeisance, 

sidled by, raised our hands,

excused ourselves, waved 

a note from the teacher,

we lived happily (forgive us)

                     the long year, is it over yet?  

     

Bonnie Naradzay's recent poems are in AGNI, the American Journal of Poetry, New Letters (Pushcart nomination), RHINO, Tar River Poetry, EPOCH, Tampa Review, Kenyon Review Online, Potomac Review, Xavier Review, and One Magazine. For many years she has led poetry workshops at a day shelter for the homeless and at a retirement center, both in Washington, DC.   

NEW EXCLUSIVE LISTING FOR ANTI-VAXXERS

by J. D. Mackenzie

Image by Scott Bateman

My imaginary, quasi-libertarian
real estate brokerage
has an island to sell you

It’s cheap, it’s expensive
and you’ll have it all to yourself
save for a few other
self-destructive chumps

Caveat: when the note comes due
it will cost you everything

You, and those you love

So go there now
and remain there together

Bask on the non-existent beaches
but stay out of our gene pool
for all of your dying days


J. D. Mackenzie writes poetry and short fiction when not writing budgets, grants, and faculty appraisals as a college administrator. A 2011 Pushcart nominee, his work has appeared infrequently since he often misplaces submission guidelines and forgets to check email. He lives with his family in the foothills of Oregon’s Coastal Range.

HIS NAME

by Andrea Marcusa

Image source: Mansfield News Journal

The most pointless thing of all was how he wasn’t allowed to have his name stitched on his school knapsack – strangers can steal a child that way.  So were those vaccinations against diphtheria, meningitis, polio and the morning vitamin he hated – a chewable pink bear.  Or that car seat he was made to sit in on rides to school, even though most of his friends no longer had to use one, so futile. But there was something about his name – he’d taught himself to write it all by himself when he was two. Wanted everyone to use his full name. Not a nickname, not a shortened version. A good strong one for a boy.  Greek, after an apostle, after a king, and his grandfather in Alaska.  But that morning in the classroom with them all scattered around--there was no way to tell--no trace of it anywhere on him. But inside the neck of his too big, long-sleeved striped jersey, a strange, gloved hand peeled back the collar where he was found limp and face down, and that’s when they spotted it -- in black markered script. Dear child, in those first minutes, even your name was gone, displaced by the one on a hand-me-down from your brother, now a fourth grader in a classroom on the other end of the school, where he was crouched trembling, hiding in the closet.

Andrea Marcusa's  work has appeared in The New York Times, The Christian Science Monitor, The Ontario Review, The Antigonish Review, Copper Nickel, NewSouth, and other publications. Her work appeared in the essay collection, In the Fullness of Time (Simon and Schuster). She was a finalist in the Ontario Review’s 2007 fiction competition and winner of the Antigonish Review 2008 Fiction competition. She divides her time between literary writing and working in the areas of health care and sustainable agriculture.  She lives in New York City with her husband, two sons and pet cockatiel, Turko.