CLIMATE CHANGE

by Michael Gould

Copyright (and/or) © 2025 Earthday.org. This work is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

In a forest, sitting on a fallen log
with my best pal, my gal, my dog
at my side, on constant alert
for any sign of harm or hurt
that might come our way
we’re having fun, so much
on this sunny day
feeling like life has just begun
the air is fresh, spring’s just sprung
and the leaves are newly green
meanwhile city life is dirty and mean.
 
Trees and streams inspire our dreams
so too the sounds of buzzing bees and birdsong
here, far from the smog, I’m breathing
in sync (!) with a dog; lost in thought
fully being who we are
not trying to be what we are not
and I say, we came for the good air
and so that you could wag your tail.
 
Oh, nature
serene and sweet
your perfect scheme has become obsolete
earth’s climate is changing, and here we sit
wondering when the shit will hit the fan.

Michael Gould is a gay Canadian New Zealand writer whose poetry has appeared in publications, academic and popular, in Aotearoa New Zealand, Australia, the United Kingdom and the United States. In 2021, at the age of 71, he was awarded by the New Zealand Society of Authors as an emerging poet. He is also the author of Surrealism and the Cinema: Open-eyed Screening (1976), one of the first English language books on that topic. He lives in Wellington (NZ).

MY EX-HUSBAND CALLS TO TELL ME OUR SON HAS BEEN SHOT BY POLICE

by Susan Vespoli

Adam Peter Vespoli

I answer my phone after worrying all day

about my son, finding his 4:27 a.m. voicemail:

I’m freezing, two people beat me up, please help,

and my ex-husband mews like he is crying

around his words,    Adam    is    dead

and I wail like an animal in labor, NO NO NO

into the air above my 6-year-old 

granddaughter, who is crouched behind

the leather arm of a sofa. 

I hang up and pull her close to me, 

say over and over, it’s okay, it’s okay,

squeeze her so tight that she will later tell

people I hurt her.       I go outside to make calls

so she won’t hear me, but her face appears 

as my words,        The police shot him, 

leave my mouth and her eyes are wide 

as I point to the door, Go back inside,

and John will show me headlines

on his phone, say, It’s on the news, 

and I will call my sister, and I will call 

my friend from Parents of Addicted 

Loved Ones who I had called earlier

when I couldn’t reach Adam, 

when I was worried sick about him again

when I had said to her, This must be even

worse than death, this cycle of worry,

but I was so so so wrong about that.

Susan Vespoli writes from Phoenix, AZ.  Her son, a gentle person who struggled with addiction, was shot by a 25-year old policeman who shot someone else 11 months earlier. Gun violence upon gun violence leads to more gun violence. Every human life is precious, including the homeless addict sleeping on a city bus to stay warm, as my son was. Every bullet shot from a gun breaks more than the being it kills.

Editor's Note: Susan Vespoli’s poem "Before I Knew Adam Had Died" appeared in The New Verse News a week after the shooting. Adam also appeared here in many of Susan's poems, including "Chicken" and "Alex's Teeth" (Alex = code name for Adam).

CLOUD COVER

by Mary K O’Melveny

At first, there was just a single cloud.

It wasn’t even very large. One might 

have missed it altogether. Like a cataract.

But it grew bigger, began to darken.

Before long, it had multiplied into

several cloud patches. Each shifted

to a different corner of the sky,

staked out a position. Refused to

move. Dared other clouds to approach 

at their peril. The once-azure sky

vanished. Instead, shadows loomed

overhead like prehistoric birds of prey. 

At first, we did not worry. We knew

shadows needed some light to survive. 

But the shade expanded. Umbras were

everywhere. People queried What can we do?

Thoughts were exchanged. Silhouettes

were measured. Statistics recorded. Talks

faltered, flailed, failed. Prayers met silence.

Candles were lit. Flashlight sales grew.

Batteries grew scarce. Campfires flickered

throughout day and night. Their smoke made

it harder to breathe or see. Night vision goggles

were issued to all eligible households.

 

Soon, the sky was so thickened that memories

were numbed.  Books picturing seacoasts,

flowers, forests sold out. Libraries had

waiting lists for stories of people whose lives

were bathed in sunshine. We struggled to

recall days at ocean’s edge, feet splayed

in wheat-colored sand, a beloved’s hand

dappled with light. Sunburned shoulders

from garden parties and protest marches

soon paled to ghostly reveries. Last to fade

was a vision of a playground filled with

children, sneakers aglow with sparkling lights.

Mary K O'Melveny is a recently retired labor rights attorney who lives in Washington DC and Woodstock NY.  Her work has appeared in various print and on-line journals. Her most recent poetry collection is Dispatches From the Memory Care Museum, just out from Kelsay Books. Her first poetry chapbook A Woman of a Certain Age is available from Finishing Line Press. Mary’s poetry collection Merging Star Hypotheses was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2020.