INTO THE DARKNESS

by Karen Marker

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

If this isn’t the end, I don’t know what is.

I didn’t always wake up feeling this weary, 

feeling the pain of the wound in my chest

like I held a dead child. Like someone 

had stolen my sword and the light

of the grail was gone. I used to sleep 

through the night, trusted the widening gyre 

was leading me out of the dark.

 

If this isn’t the end, I don’t know what is 

after he flat out said he’s sending the military 

into our cities because he’s sick of the mentally ill, 

addicted, disabled, veterans, the hungry, unhoused, 

that he’s sick of those who come in needing shelter, 

jobs, a better life, that he’s sick of protestors.

 

I didn’t always wake up this worried

that if the Department of War blows up ships 

in the Caribbean they say are carrying drugs,  

ignoring all laws, it won’t be long before 

they’re waging war on us to make the world safer 

for the billionaires, sending off the unwanted

to concentration camps in the desert.

 

If this isn’t the end, I don’t know what is 

after the government shut down goes on and on

while the thugs on the streets get paid

to carry out “the Lords’ work.”

 

If this isn’t the end, I don’t know what is

except a comet coming straight at the Earth 

and all of it exploding.

Karen Marker is an Oakland, CA. poet activist who has committed to  writing a poem a day of protest and hope in response  to current events. Her first poetry book Beneath the Blue Umbrella came out recently with Finishing Line Press and explores family mental illness, stigma and healing. 

ON THIN ICE

by Anne Gruner

"[Thwaites], a massive Antarctic glacier, which could raise global sea levels by up to two feet if it melts, is far more exposed to warm ocean water than previously believed, according to a [newly published]study...." —The Washington Post, May 20, 2024.

We knew you were sickly but hoped you'd recover,
not believing you were on your deathbed.
Then we x-rayed you from space, just to be sure,
and like many x-rays they brought bad news.
 
As your shining face peers at the sun,
a deadly disease eats away your soft underbelly—
an affliction we don't fully grasp—
understanding its cause, but not its progression.
 
Warm, salty water seeps into a gaping wound
with every breath of tide you take, 
rising and falling, an eroding necrosis,
accelerating without notice until it's too late.
 
We thought you would live thousands of years,
but now fear your death in decades—
with consequences so dire
we call you "Doomsday."

 
A Pushcart-nominated writer, Anne Gruner's poetry has appeared in over a dozen print and on-line publications, including Amsterdam Quarterly Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Written Tales, and Humans of the World. Anne lives in McLean, Virginia with her husband and two golden retrievers.

DECLAIM

by Mark Svendsen

for the children

PBS, March 8, 2024

Standing at the crossroads, black with traffic

Waiting for the little green man to tell me I could go

When a child, quick as a nightmare, broke from its mother’s hand

Ran beside me, looking back at her, shrieking, into the road.

Without thought I dived, catching at the child

Bringing it to me and to its mother,

Just as you in my place would have done.

Sometimes, my people, your child becomes my child

Your love becomes my love

Your blood is mine.

But now! What are we thinking now, my people?

For years the children have played, been pushed

Into the middle of the road

And we have turned our face away.

But now, when we are forced to see them

When we are forced to see

We turn our face again?

What are we thinking my people?

Let tears wound our cheeks

For what we’ve done.

Let fear wound our minds

That we think so.

Tell me you love them my people, or I am lost.

Show me you love them my people, 

Or all we are together is gone.

Mark Svendsen prefers concrete to other more porous materials with which to pave his mind but, even then, cracks eventually appear and poems, like weeds of the mind, take root and must be dealt with summarily. He lives in Zilzie, Australia with his partner. There, she writes music, and he writes things – in an attempt to maintain homeostasis.

WHERE WE ARE ALL FALLEN

by Chun Yu

 

“Give it back to me!”

I dragged the mugger and his bike

To the ground in a split second

Demanding firmly the return of

The device, an extension of my life

Snatched out of my hand from behind.

I was the last in a small crowd dashing

For an early evening downtown bus

Already shutting its door, pulling

Away from two blurry figures

Clashing on a late winter street

Beaten by cold rains and littered with

Random trash and nameless shadows.

 

“What are you doing?!”

The mugger yelled at me 

In disbelief of a muggee

Fighting for what was taken

His young eyes big and wide

Incredulous in black and white

Strong hand gripping my iPhone

Between our faces so close and

Have and have not newly switched

Veins popping and blood seething

In mutual desperation.

 

“I will give it back to you!”

He even yielded for a second

Under my unwavering stare

As my mind raced for the next move

But yanked away from my grip

With a force, sudden and resolute

And fled on his bike with

His prey and prize of the day.

I leaped up and chased after him

Like a sudden superwoman

In hope to right the wrong

(No runner or athlete

I had no idea where she came from.)

As far as I could on the darkening street

Soulless, helpless, and unnegotiable

Where he was lost, a fleeing shadow

So young and fit, full of

Heartbreaking and broken promises

Where I was lost, dragging my own shadow

Slight, alone, hands and heart emptied

A knee skinned raw.

 

“Don’t do that!”

My family and friends

Shocked and worried sick

Cried out in alarm, in synchrony

On two sides of the ocean

Hearing about my fierce fight

Fraught with danger

But keeping it from my parents

Too ill and frail to be informed

Having just pulled through Covid 

In their old ages, amidst dangers

Micro and viral, macro and epic.

 

“Don’t do that!”

I told myself that too, after:

Being petite at five foot three

Size extra small in America

Where weapons are legal and lethal

Deadly and deafening…

How I never learned Kung Fu

From Grandpa, who, having survived

Wars and revolutions, only wanted

His first granddaughter to focus

On school to become a scholar

Or better, a straight minded scientist

Safe, sensible, and disentangled from

The madness and messiness of the world…

 

But there was no time

To reason, not even with myself

For the do and do not

Being attacked and in defense

Being human, ancient and new.

 

After filing the police report

I couldn’t help but point out that

The corner, where I was mugged

In our beautiful City by the Bay

Beloved by the world

And us, with aching pride

Was dimly lit, and perhaps

Could be brightened, for safety

And for the sake of us all.

 

The officer, chill and seasoned

By the cold winds and fog

Blowing and billowing

On our golden high hills and

Through our dark low alleys

Summed it up, loud and clear

Almost with a laugh:

“This is the United States.

Nowhere is safe!”

 

I cleaned the blood off

My injured knee

Brought to the dim ground

Where we are all fallen.

 

I covered it with soft gauze

Which I wish I could apply

To the open wounds

We all carry

 

And prayed for the dawn

When we wake up

To find our way

To stand up

As one.

Author’s note: My poem is based on my experience of being mugged recently for my iPhone, much like these recent victims in the news reported by ABC News: San Francisco women targeted by teens in violent cellphone robbery spree. The incident took place at a bus station in downtown San Francisco back in March. As a petite Asian woman of 5'3", I may have appeared to be an easy target based on assumptions. However, to the mugger's surprise, I managed to tackle him to the ground with his bike and engaged in a brief exchange, during which he almost returned my phone. Unfortunately, he ultimately managed to escape with it. Writing this poem has been a profound process which allows me to reflect on the stories behind the incident from all sides, find healing and peace of mind as a victim while seeking possible solutions in the city I have chosen as my home, and which I deeply love, as a first-generation immigrant, a scientist turned bilingual poet, and a community connector.

Chun Yu, Ph.D., is an award-winning bilingual (English and Chinese) poet, graphic novelist, artist, scientist, and translator. She is the author of the memoir in verse Little Green: Growing Up During the Chinese Cultural Revolution (Simon & Schuster). She is a Library Laureate 2023 of San Francisco Public Library and an awardee of YBCA 100 (2020). Her work is taught in world culture and history classes.

DEPARTURE

by Thomas R. Smith

January 20, 2021

The helicopter circling Washington

before the inauguration—what was it

really we were seeing in the sky over

the Capitol going farther away,

growing smaller in the eyes of the nation?

Almost pure archetype, the Unloved One

inflicting his unlovedness on the kingdom.

And perhaps nothing human could have changed that.

Too late, the damage done in the cradle

cemented, a secular damnation.

Everything ruined, everything fallen, and

worst of all nothing learned. I don’t want

to wallow in the pathos of that self-

inflicted doom. Far better to save our

tears for those four hundred thousand who

needn’t have died, and for the uncounted

number of injured he’s left in his wake.

Air Force One lifts off from Andrews

to the strains of “My Way,” a last bloody

handprint blazoned on the wall of ego.

It didn’t have to end this way.  Or more

terribly, maybe it did.  Do you

remember how Mary Shelley ended

Frankenstein? “He was soon borne away

by the waves and lost in distance and darkness.”

As the wind blows the clouds away from

the sun on a January day above

the Capitol, a helicopter like

a dark airborne wound grows smaller and

smaller until it can no longer be seen.

Thomas R. Smith is a poet and teacher living in River Falls, Wisconsin. He teaches at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis. His most recent poetry collection is The Glory (Red Dragonfly Press).

OCTOBER 12: INDIGENOUS PEOPLES DAY

by Sister Lou Ella

am i too white to mourn with you

Indigenous Peoples

of the terror my people

created in your lives  your nations

of the wound you still carry

a weariness called so slow to trust

yet

what if my people never came

would today look like today

we are here     

this complicated now

would that it be simple

but it was simple then

                     as terror is always simple

for we came   we saw    we conquered

yet we are here today

complicated  costly

as we, too, carry a wound

the terror we refuse to see and mourn

Sister Lou Ella is a former teacher and librarian. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines such as America, First Things, Emmanuel, Third Wednesday, and TheNewVerse.News as well as in four anthologies: The Night’s Magician: Poems about the Moon, edited by Philip Kolin and Sue Brannan Walker, Down to the Dark River edited by Philip Kolin, Secrets edited by Sue Brannan Walker, and After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events edited by Tom Lombardo. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017. Her first book of poetry entitled she: robed and wordless was published in 2015. (Press 53.)

STARING AT A SHELF OF BOURBON

by Megan Merchant 

Three days later my husband is on his way
home from Vegas. I stop to buy bourbon, the expensive kind,

as if this is just a movie and I can pour it into the wound
to keep it from spreading. I sketch words to avoid using—

blood, gun, bodies until there is at least a scab,
and the grip of nightmares have lost their choke-hold.

I ask the guy which kind packs the most punch, hearing again
my husband’s voice breaking into tears, worried he did not do enough.

Bulleit, his says, without wincing, the shelf stocked full enough to sterilize
any feeling, to stupor any change.


Megan Merchant lives in the tall pines of Prescott, AZ.  She is the author of two full-length poetry collections: Gravel Ghosts (Glass Lyre Press, 2016 Best Book Award), The Dark’s Humming (2015 Lyrebird Prize, Glass Lyre Press, 2017), four chapbooks, and a forthcoming children’s book with Philomel Books. She was awarded the 2016-2017 COG Literary Award, judged by Juan Felipe Herrera, the Poet Laureate of the United States.

ALABAMA ATTEMPTS TO STAND STILL

by Jay Sizemore

Alabama is also on the front lines of what some see as the modern-day successor to the civil rights movement. Although a federal court threw out the state’s ban on same-sex marriage, Alabama’s Supreme Court has tried to block the issuance of marriage certificates. Mr. Obama made several references to gay rights but did not directly address the fight over marriage in Alabama. --Peter Baker and Richard Fausset, The New York Times, March 7, 2015; photo by Doug Mills/The New York Times

in a hurricane of rose petals,
in a landslide, where every granule of dirt
is a body clamoring for air:
roll tide, roll.

There’s something holy about crimson,
the color of blood,
the color of a wound left open
like a gash between the ribs
where wind can be heard
whistling
through a punctured lung,
gasps of breath lost
out the knothole of a hollowed oak,
felled when the roots began to die.

Remember the F-5 that tore through Birmingham,
digging a trench a mile wide,
scrubbing houses clean of their foundations.
Remember the hopelessness of the sundogs,
shimmering in the wake
of Death’s coattails
like pearl buttons on a burial suit.
Remember the sounds of rubble
lifted from the cellar door,
the way the world smelled
like a dirty palm pressed over a mouth.

Whose hand reached down
through that rectangle of light,
that swirl of dust and dripping rain,
to pull you free of the cobwebs,
into cacophony and conflicted weather vanes?
If that hand had held
the penis of his lover
just hours before the storm,
would you have refused to be saved?
If Jesus Christ put on fishnet stockings
after the sermon on the mount,
and let Peter call him bitch,
would his words cease to inspire you?

Alabama attempts to stand still
with both feet on a fault line,
shaking its fists like gavels
to pound illumination
out of the stars,
insisting that every kiss
be given with the eyes closed,
no tongue. Leave the lamp on,
so you can see yourself
drowning in the gulf. .

Roll tide, roll.


Jay Sizemore brought the high-five out of retirement. He still sings Ryan Adams songs in the shower. Sometimes, he massages his wife's feet. His work has appeared online and in print with magazines such as Rattle, Prick of the Spindle, Revolution John, Menacing Hedge, and Still: The Journal. He's never won an award. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, home of the death of modern music. His chapbook Father Figures is available on Amazon.