TAX THE RICH

by Virginia Aronson

Legislators and governors in many blue states are preparing a range of new taxes on the wealthy. At the same time, many red states continue to cut or eliminate income taxes. —CNBC, January 30, 2026

Why is the sky
the limit for them
the gold bars
the shiny cars
the luxury this
exclusive that

starts with a penny
turns into a pound
of toys 
of gold 
of flesh
accumulation
without constraint
changing character
dirtying hands
using up resources
polluting our cities
changing our climate
socializing risks
privatizing rewards
paying for leadership
to hoard their gains:
it's socialism 
for the rich
and capitalism 
for the poor
it's golden visas 
for the rich
and deportations 
for the poor
it's cold streets 
for the homeless
shivering in misery
while the rich sleep well
on their beds of money
while the world burns down
under a blackened sky.

Virginia Aronson is the director of Food and Nutrition Resources Foundation and the author of many published books. New poetry collections include Collateral Damage(Clare Songbirds Publishing), Whiskey Island and Whiskey Straight Women (Cyberwit Press).

I LIVE IN A COUNTRY

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

"Oil and Distraction" by Ann Telnaes

I live in a country
Proud to invade
Proud to destroy
Proud to kidnap and murder
The leaders of other sovereign nations
 
I live in a country
Too brutal
Too lacking in a sense 
Of our shared life on the planet
Too impatient and inarticulate 
To negotiate its aims
So it vociferates instead
Using bunker-busting bombs.
 
I live in a country 
With an embedded elite
That controls massive amounts of wealth
And leaves millions
Lacking in the wherewithall 
Necessary for a decent 
Productive and creative existence.
 
I live in a country without leaders
Only capos
Without a vision of a better world
Only hackneyed slogans
And faded old Batman comics
Without the music of hope
Only the cracked ballads of despair
Played on one-string shoebox guitars.
 
I live in a country
That fervently worships
Only itself
Mad with the fear
That it is rapidly losing its place
As the hegemon
A country that is 
Flailing away hysterically
Demanding that the rest of the world
Keep paying tribute and obeisance
And endlessly fawning
Like a Hollywood lacky
Assuring the fading star
“You are still beautiful.”
 
I live in a country whose mountains
And prairies and woodlands
Rivers and lakes and streams
Are beautiful
Whose ordinary citizens
Are still mostly good and kind
But whose leaders
Are a pack of craven 
Crooks and scammers and parasites
Who use their positions and powers
To bully the populace
And upholster their own pockets.
 
I live in a country whose leaders
Make it a very difficult land
To love
But let us all keep standing 
With our neighbors against
The cruelty and criminality
The self-absorption and toxic greed
That prevails in high places
And raise another banner on the flagpole
The banner of universal humanity.
 

 Buff Whitman-Bradley podcasts his poetry at thirdactpoems.podbean.com

AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL

by Kay White Drew

In this time of mad kings and sycophants
run amok, when suffering a(n orange) fool
feels like an everyday sucker punch,
it almost seems natural that men dripping
with petroleum wealth should g(r)ift
said fool with a solid gold airplane,
even as air traffic safety itself wears as thin
as a garment over-worn and over-washed—
its overworked, under-slept guardians picking up slack
for colleagues capriciously fired by clueless
boys and their billionaire boss—unsung heroes  
who must summon reserves of strength
and calm they no longer possess
and may never know again. 

Kay White Drew is a retired physician whose poems appear in various anthologies and internet outlets including The New Verse News. She’s also published short stories and several essays, one of which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and a memoir, Stress Test. She lives in Rockville, MD with her husband. Spending time in nature helps her stay sane in these difficult days.

DEAL

by Margaret D. Stetz

Illustration: Nicola Jennings/The Guardian

that future wealth between her legs—
how much will you
snatch?
 
the territory of her arms—
where will you
amputate?
 
those children clutching at her breast—
will you drag them
away?
 
in the history of auctions
another shameful sale
you feel you own
and now will barter
with another Master
on his terms
 
this body
this Ukraine

Margaret D. Stetz is the Mae and Robert Carter Professor of Women's Studies at the University of Delaware, as well as a widely published poet. She is also a Ukrainian American, proud of her heritage.

A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE

by Shira Dentz

Source: Jacksonville Today

Red sunset interspersed with Saharan sands 

that wind carried over the Atlantic, 

red like the Creature’s ear grazed, 

up top, against its white sunlit shirt. 

Red like tycoons billowing 

buffoons flying high on greed. 

A storming sky and ocean 

are identical twins so your nostrils stir 

to take in salt spray from a lone sky. 

You want to linger in the horizonless dolphin silver 

away from what’s constructed, like time, 

stationed at this light signaling red. 

Shira Dentz is the author of five books including Sisyphusina (PANK Books), winner of the Nassar Prize 2021, and two chapbooks including Flounders (Essay Press). Her writing appears in many venues including Poetry, American Poetry Review, Cincinnati Review, Iowa Review, VOLT, New American Writing, Brooklyn Rail, Lana Turner, Gulf Coast, jubilat, Pleiades, Denver Quarterly, Black Warrior Review, Diagram, Colorado Review, Idaho Review, Allium, Court Green, New Orleans Review, Puerto del Sol, NELLE, Nat. Brut, Apartment, Annulet, Poem-a-Day, Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, Poetry Society of America, and NPR, and she’s a recipient of awards including an Academy of American Poets Prize and Poetry Society of America's Lyric Poem and Cecil Hemley Awards.

SPEAKING OF LEGACIES

by Devon Balwit

King Charles III built his own empire long before he inherited his mother’s. Charles, who formally acceded to the British throne on Saturday, spent half a century turning his royal estate into a billion-dollar portfolio and one of the most lucrative moneymakers in the royal family business. —The New York Times, September 13, 2022

Your average Brit pays to inherit. Not he.

King Charles gets his tax free,

 

the pelf of the Commonwealth studiously invested.

You’d think working folk would grow disgusted

 

at the granting of titles to Saudis for cash, the off-

shore holdings, the real-estate profits,

 

that they’d line up with fists raised rather than phones.

Why should HRH earn 28 million

 

last year alone when inflation’s at 10%?

Are we really so suckered by pageantry?

 

Imagine the Crown Estate and the Duchy of Cornwall

liquidated, the money put towards ending global

 

warming. Now that would be a worthy legacy—

one to send cheering crowds into the streets.

Devon Balwit walks in all weather. Her most recent collections are Rubbing Shoulders with the Greats [Seven Kitchens Press 2020] and Dog-Walking in the Shadow of Pyongyang [Nixes Mate Books, 2021].

WHAT WE DON'T TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE

by George Salamon

“Installation 3, Lance-tooth Crosscut Saw” by David Ellingsen.

Daily the inhabitable world gets
Smaller by the length of a wheat field,
Soon millions will make do with
The corner of a bed, scrape by and endure,
Dream of guard dogs betraying the master.


George Salamon has endured one convention but is not sure he can do two. He lives in St. Louis, MO.

LAMENT OF THE HOMELESS

by Earl J. Wilcox

“Trump has ordered aides to figure out a sweeping plan to address staggering increases in homelessness in Los Angeles and other cities, particularly in California. One option being considered is relocating homeless people from “skid row” to the unused FAA facility in Hawthorne, government officials have told The Washington Post. One government official involved in the planning questioned the feasibility and legality of the relocation plan. ‘It is the stupidest idea I have ever heard,’ said the official, who spoke on the condition of anonymity to avoid professional repercussions.” —The Washington Post, September 17, 2019. Photo: The "skid row" area of Los Angeles in January 2018. (Mark Ralston/AFP/Getty Images via The Washington Post). See also “Donald Trump Knows How to End Homelessness” by David A. Graham in The Atlantic, September 19, 2019.

He who gurgled in a gilded womb,
was born in a Manhattan mansion,
grew up and lived in splendor,
was schooled in every grace
of wealth a millionaire’s family
could provide.

He who has spent seven decades
in a lavish lifestyle—towers and
trinkets and  trivial pursuit of money
and fame.

Supposes, proposes, disposes himself
to pronounce a funky solution for us
who sleep on heating grates,
who use supermarket carts for valets,
who cook and copulate under bridges,
who hunger in pain 24/7 in doorways
beneath rag-tag quilts.

Earl Wilcox’s poetry first appeared in TheNewVerse.News in December, 2006. Since that time, his poems have regularly found a home here and in various other print and online journals. In his 87th year, he continues to observe the world from South Carolina.

T***P'S INAUGURAL ADDRESS:AN ERASURE

by Floyd Cheung

Cartoon by Mike Luckovich

America,
transfer power
to a small group

not your victories
not your triumphs
little to celebrate
across our land

this moment
belongs to

historic
crucial
Americans

demand a righteous
system flush with
carnage
pain
one glorious destiny

The oath I take today is
For industry
armies
borders
and
wealth ripped

a decree to
power

a vision
America First
ravages

I will
with every breath
let you down

understanding the right
interests first

impose our way
for everyone

old alliances
will eradicate the Earth

the bedrock of
our country,
prejudice.

The Bible tells us, "How good and pleasant it is when
America is totally unstoppable.”

fear
miseries
national
divisions

black or brown or white,
salute the American
child

be ignored again

Thank you. God bless you. And God bless America.

Author’s note: Erasure poems preserve the order of words in the original text but delete many in order to create a new work, in this case a distillation of Trump’s inaugural address as it might have been heard by some.

Floyd Cheung has taught American literature at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts, since 1999. His chapbook Jazz at Manzanar was published by Finishing Line Press in 2014.

GYRATIONS ON THE NATION-STATE: A MOVEMENT IN STRINGS

by Diane Raptosh


 

Any man who stands

                  near a place the U.S. bombs

                                    is straight off

                                                      Enemy Combatant :

                                                                        One might call this

                                                                                          standing while war.

                                    Still I have yet to speak

                                                       of this in any classroom, yet to speak

                                                                        of nature recently freshened

to Brand: Wilderness™

                  as new world currency;

                                    I’ve yet to point

                                                      to the system

                                                                        of criminal justice

                                                                                          as so many schemas

                                    evolving in tandem;

                                              yet to point

                                                          to higher ed as host

to new mall cities,

                  not to mention

                                    the privatization

                                                      of all that used to be part

                                                                        of the Commons :

                                                                                          schools, public works

                                    parks, fire

                                                      departments  :   soon enough

                                                                        the postal and ambulance service,

Medicare / Medicaid.

                  The making public

                                    of the formerly private :  the orderly

                                                      outsource of chi

                                                                        to handheld devices,

                                                                                          the offshore of memory

                                    to the machine—

                                                      the shower, last bastion of solitude.

                                                                        They don’t have ears

and yet spiders

                  will shake

                                    their strings, reframing

                                                                        vibrations other

                                                                                          arachnids feel

                                                                                                            when leaves

                                                      they’re standing

                                                                           on quiver.  Whatever :

                                                                                         Thoughts glide in

on rhythmic pulses,

                  nothing like

                                    linear-sequence flows

                                                                        we’ve been taught

                                                                                           to instill   drill in   construct

                                                                                                            and there’s something

                                                      mugged about all

                                                                        the states’ answers—somehow

                                                                                          violence-airbrushed,

thesis statements sticking

                  to their guns.

                                    To take in scenes

                                                                        like stands

                                                                                    of weeping birch trees

                                                                                                      asks for a wholeness-synthesis-

                                                         simultaneity, so here

                                                                          I’ll smuggle in

                                                                                          a smithied image:

 pinnate leaves—

                  ridged like vaginal walls

                                      to fetch the attention

                                                                        of winds. Still listening?

                                                                                          I’m a little down

                                                                                                            about every system

                                                         of ranking, down on

                                                                        the quantification

                                                                                          of no end of thing     ~~    quick

name the quotient

                  of a cubed human squeeze  ~~

                                    down about

                                                                        the billionaires’ balls-out-incursion

                                                                                    into food/earth. Water/air.

                                                                                                      Furrowed vaginas. Against that

                                                      junta of generals

                                                                        hunched in power’s tower

                                                                                          graphing the next class war/

world war what-have-you.

                     And while I’m on a roll,

                                    might I gently suggest

                                                      the conscious uncoupling

                                                                                          of market from self? Of big-league

                                                                                          fake from the real?

                                                      This is to say that if over all

                                                                        I seem at a hard bloodboil

                                                                                                      against most scenes like state

-by-state financial cleansing, or floored

                        by the foreground status

                                    of the mock-up self—the world-scale

                                                                        rape of hallowed, heaving truth;

                                                                                          the statutory frack

                                                                                                            of commonplace terms

                                                like entitlement,

                                                                        political correctness   liberal bias;

                                                                                          states’ rights   law and order

sexual preference;

                      Shariah Law   illegal alien

                                     and food stamps  ~~ as if welfare

                                                        meant actual transfer

                                                                        of wealth to minorities. It’s mostly due

                                                                                          to the ways reigning narcissists

                                                      vivisect language

                                                                        to more or less moon you.

                                                                                          This sort of act’s

moral errancy actually lifts them,

                  how the Fed early

                                    this month huddled in

                                                                        to hoick up its rates.

                                                                                          Which brings us

                                                                                                            to the housing crisis,

                                                      the files of rank poverties

                                                                        birthed by nation-state’s neglect,

                                                                                          the Reichwing crew busy

blading their hands in a bid

                  to remake Magnate Nation more openly

                                    vampire-wan. I think

                                                                        I was saying that if I seem

                                                                                          not entirely myself

                                                                                                            you’ll have to forgive.

                                                      I’m pretty sure

                                                                        my sole choice now

                                                                                      is to become an expat

                  of the exterior.

                                    Step into here.

Diane Raptosh’s fourth book of poetry American Amnesiac (Etruscan Press) was longlisted for the 2013 National Book Award and was a finalist for the Housatonic Book Award. The recipient of three fellowships in literature from the Idaho Commission on the Arts, she served as the Boise Poet Laureate (2013) as well as the Idaho Writer-in-Residence (2013-2016), the highest literary honor in the state. Her poems have appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies in the U.S. and Canada. A highly active ambassador for poetry, she has given poetry workshops everywhere from riverbanks to maximum security prisons. She teaches creative writing and runs the program in Criminal Justice/Prison Studies at The College of Idaho. Her most recent collection of poems Human Directional was released by Etruscan Press in Fall 2016.