HEARD ON THE NEWS

by Jon Wesick


Sad tidings for the family of eighty-two-year-old Norman Goestler. The St. Louis native was vacationing in China’s Shanxi Province, when he died in an earthquake. Local officials say Mr. Goestler suffered a heart attack brought on by the shaking of his hotel room. Two hundred thousand Chinese were also killed in the quake.


Jon Wesick has a Ph.D. in physics, has practiced Buddhism for over twenty years, and has published over a hundred poems in small press journals such as American Tanka, Anthology Magazine, The Blind Man’s Rainbow, Edgz, The Kaleidoscope Review, Limestone Circle, The Magee Park Anthology, The Publication, Pudding, Sacred Journey, San Diego Writer’s Monthly, Slipstream, Tidepools, Vortex of the Macabre, Zillah, and others. His chapbooks have won honorable mentions twice in the San Diego Book Awards.

MALEDICTION FOR THE MALEVOLENT

by Robert Emmett


mal
you speak
bad juju
follows you
male addiction
skull and
geronimo’s bones
ground to powder
up your nose
wired to brain pan
flashing male violence
heat seeking missile
straight to the baby’s heart
rub the blood in
scoop the blood out
now you drink your fill
malice
in your chalice
every lip it touches
burns with deceit
your tongue’s edict
no good valence
topsy-turvy
every word
a kiss of death
hovers near your ear
whispers
sand in your throat
magnetic wires
across your forehead
draw metallic shards
to a point
between your eyes
veins catch in
all your teeth
mal odor
your fly-blown breath
snuffs
the only candle


Robert Emmett finds some of these words flying through the air, caught in the branches of trees or among the beach stones of Michigan, where they may have a life of their own. He's just borrowing them for now.

OBSERVATIONS OF DISSENT

by Casey Lee Cobb


A psychological social path, stuttering and stammering down well worn paths, of presidential prose.

Yet wavering, inconsistently, from the traditional norms, divisively emulating a civil right’s foes.

The masses look on with eyes glazed over, like donuts, doing nothing, hearing nothing, seeing nothing.

Nothing but doublespeak, doublethink, enshrouded into a message projection of patriotic bellyfeel.

Jellyfish! you could call them sheeple, you could call them asleep, or don’t call on them at all.

For if they are all just a lost cause, that cannot hear beyond the propaganda, we will certainly fall.


Casey Lee Cobb dedicates this poem (© 2006) to George Orwell, and his impeccable foresight, that the world ignored. Cobb adds. "Bloggers are the hackers of the corrupted main stream mediocratic monopoly. Our mission is truth, our numbers are many, and we are taking back the control of the public mind. Liberating it from those whom peddle complacency, conformity, and ignorance. This is our mission and not one of us can do it alone. Join us!"

FORFEITURE OF COLLATERAL

by James Penha


Bomb ‘em.

          Who?

‘Em.

          Why?

Because of what
               they did. We have to
               get ‘em
               back.

          But bombs--

Yeah.

          Mean war--

Yeah!

          And war--

Yeah?

          Means bombs--

?

          Will bomb others.

As well as ‘em?

          Probably.

Bomb ‘em.

          And the others?

Will never get us back.


James Penha edits The New Verse News.

FROM THE ORCHARDS OF SILENCE

by Martin Burke


On the Lebanon border
The cedars weep

The orchards do not yield their fruit
And shells litter the shadows
Like broken arguments of peace.

History has come
And it seems some harsh necessity prevails
Above the exile’s song
And this verse that weeps with the cedars.

The orchards weep
The children weep

The exile cries aloud in desolation


Martin Burke is a widely published Irish poet/playwright living in Belgium whose latest e-book Gilgamesh is freely available from Cervena Barva Press.

STABBING PAIN

by Rochelle Ratner


It's nothing to worry about. He's sixty-seven years old and
has had headaches for as long as he can remember. Two
Advil, sometimes four, or the new Advil Migraine, and it's
pretty much unnoticeable. The problem is, he's developed
an ulcer. Newly retired, and he develops an ulcer. Kiss
Advil goodbye. Say hello to headaches almost every
afternoon. The strongest over the counter drug he can take
is Tylenol. Doesn't do a damn thing. Finally he lets his wife
convince him to see a doctor. The doctor starts him on a
low dose of Elavil. When that doesn't help, they decide to
take x-rays, just in case there's a problem. The doctor's
office calls and makes another appointment. He walks in to
find two other doctors sitting there, one a neuro-surgeon,
the other a psychologist. They show him an x-ray with
three needles embedded in his brain. They say they've read
about cases such as his before: needles inserted in the soft
spots of an infant's head to stop his crying. Usually fatal.
Usually undetectable. Then they ask him to tell them
about his parents. He begins, of course, by saying how
much they loved him.


Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com.

VIVA THE VETO

by Anne G. Davies


After nearly six years I've cast a veto
And I must admit the power feels sweet-o.

With a stroke of my pen I killed the ambitions
Of those godless stem cell coalitions
Who crassly deny that embryos frozen
Are truly human, though left unchosen.

Potent forces were arrayed against me;
Even Bill Frist inveighed against me.
I was shocked to see many Republicans fail me
Did they really think they could derail me?
I'm the Decider and what I decide
No two-bit Congress dares override.

The Innocents rescued from the slaughter
Might someday be your son or daughter
(Though embryos I've fiercely guarded,
may end as waste, to be discarded.)
I'm a kind man; I pity human afflictions
As long as they suit my higher convictions.

In one fell swoop I earned God's grace
And galvanized my strongest base.


Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published on local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.

COMING HOME

by Sara McWhorter


In a couple hours I will shave and shower and grab my jacket and flag
and head downtown to be a face in the crowd, a hand waving, a hand
waving a flag for Bravo Company riding down downtown on a fire truck.
Finally home! And the hands waving and the signs not like the signs before. So
Welcome Home Troops! Bravo, Bravo Company! And the flags
waving and the yellow ribbons waving and the hands
waving the flags and the ribbons being taken down and the cheers,
Hurrah! and the hats coming off and the mothers crying a little and my hat off
and some dads saluting and my hand waving and the trucks wailing --
all this as sure as there is a war.


Sara McWhorter has appeared in 360 Degrees and in TheScreamOnline.

WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PEACE?

by Charles Frederickson


Declaring uncivil war against itself
Deadbeat planet willing aborted ceasefire
Outlandish sour milk viscid honey
Rareripe fruit that never rots

In cradled manger of humanity
Unholy mount overcast with melancholy
Olive branches lose vitality shrivel
Pitted hatred versus brotherly love

Arab to Zionist alphabet soup
Hearty mock chicken cure-all broth
Promissory covenant best perused backwards
Without rear view mirror hindsight

Desert oases shifting quicksand mirages
Hourglass overturned wishing well poisoned
Forced Exodus in reverse cave-in
Separate passage burrowing ant tunnels

Ordinary miracles hoodwink heretical believers
Wandering tribes misplaced not lost
Parted salty rivers neatly folded
Crossover bridges feathery snow fantasies

Inflicting revenge with nationalistic fervor
Razor wired perimeters off limits
Giants in miniature stonewalling stalls
Suppose world ends so what


Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American pragmatic idealist, chronic optimist and heretical believer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poetic impression for each presented on http://imagesof.8k.com. Having spread rejuvenated roots and wings in Thailand, the past year has been devoted to providing volunteer comfort and supportive relief to children and families affected by the tsunami. 100+ publications on 5 continents.

OBSERVING CELLS

by Erle Kelly


That cells contain life.
That cells incarcerate lives.
That cells extend life.
That cells divide humanity.
That cells challenge morality.
That cells politicize, terrorize.
That cells communicate.
That cells unify, multiply.
That cells atrophy and die.


Erle Kelly lives in Long Beach, CA and is a graduate of Cal State University Long Beach. For the last three years he has participated in a local poetry workshop conducted by published poet and writer, Donna Hilbert. Since Erle's retirement he volunteers his time tutoring, working for the local United Nations Association, traveling with his wife, Kristine, gardening, reading and writing.

AN ESCAPE HATCH CHRONICLE

by Carol Elizabeth Owens

"We are desperately trying to evacuate and have become more and more disappointed and angry with the way the evacuation is being handled. These operations are taking place in a war zone."--CNN.com (Jul. 19, 2006 Americans to Leave Lebanon by Friday)

"Katrina exposed serious problems in our response capability at all levels of government." --CNN.com (Sep. 14, 2005 The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina)

"I just want to assure the American people that, one, I've got the authority to do this; two, it is a necessary part of my job to protect you." --CNN.com (Dec. 21, 2005 Bipartisan Call for Wiretapping Probe [quoting, Pres. George W. Bush])

the crime
scene's natural.
disasters such as war
and widespread poverty seek peace
in far away places.
refuge eases
the pain.

distance.
it's hard to grasp
as everywhere you turn
there are these bright red webs. their tape
tends to make people stop.
getting unstuck
takes time.

patience
grows virtual--
it vanishes, moment
by moment, like a fuse in wait
of an explosion's end.
warning signs call
for swift

response
and government
struggles to line things up.
connections, often, are not made
to the importance of
planning exits
en masse


Carol Elizabeth Owens is an attorney and counselor-at-law in Western New York (by way of Long Island and New York City). She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Ms. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play. The poem "an escape hatch chronicle" is written in a form called eintou (which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom").

RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD IN THE BUSHES

by Gretchen Fletcher


From bush to bush
we strain to follow with our eyes
where the guide is pointing out
the red-winged blackbird.

Now he lights on the very top
of a lodge pole pine
and the guide centers him
in the lens of his telescope

to give us a close-up view
of the red patches he wears
like a soldier’s insignia
on the shoulders of his black uniform.

Belligerent, he dares
other birds to go against him.
“The color red is like a threat
to birds,” the guide explains.

“They’re hardwired to fight
when they see it. But the blackbird
can hide his threatening patches.
Each feather is controlled by muscle.

In winter he covers his red feathers
with black ones to conserve energy
he would have wasted on fighting.”
Sometimes feeding is more important than making war.

The bird flits to another bush.
This time we know right where to look.


Gretchen Fletcher leads writing workshops for Florida Center for the Book, an affiliate of the Library of Congress. She was awarded the Grand Prize in San Francisco’s Artists Embassy International Dancing Poetry Festival, was selected as a finalist for the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award, was awarded first honorable mention in Canada’s lichen literary journal Serial Poet competition, and was named a Juried Poet at the Houston Poetry Fest. Her poetry and essays appear frequently in literary journals, magazines, and newspapers.

BAGHDAD MORNING

by John Grey


It's a warm dry morning
hours before the first car explodes.

A woman pushes an empty cart,
stops to admire the few goods in a shop window.

A stray dog paws a garbage can.
An old man stands at his second floor window and yawns.

A child pokes his head out of a doorway
but a mother drags him back.

A television truck rolls by
ahead of the street cleaner.

A coffee shop is opening its doors.
It sells a selection of the dark brews that the soldiers like.

The market sellers unpack tents.
A young man hauls oranges in a sack.

It all looks like the world I know,
the one that goes on without interruption.

But in a back street hovel,
a true believer arms himself with prayer and powder.

By midday, he'll be ten thousand scattered pieces,
a splatter of everybody's blood, a jumble of hate and body parts

and martyrdom, on the way to heaven.
He'll leave it to God to sort it out.


John Grey's latest book is What Else Is There from Main Street Rag. He has been published recently in Agni, Hubbub, South Carolina Review and The Journal Of The American Medical Association.

INTELLIGENT DESIGN

by Bonnie Naradzay


Flashing his crest of feathery plumes like any royalty,
the Kingfisher plunges headfirst in the river, beaks prey
that only his air-and-water-designed eyes can see
and with a whir of wings against rock-like clay
feeds his flame-red, tail-lifted mate, astride their eggs.

Carnage comes from the same force and symmetry
that erected our wingless, fumbling selves on two legs.
Without redemption, there’s no evolving, and we’re buried
or eaten whether gobbled up, swallowed whole or poisoned.

Tyrannical to our own kind, we’ve doomed
ourselves to strutting and declaiming. Stunned
but insistent, stumbling among bloody blooms

of amputees’ limbs and headless bodies of our own making,
we savage an ancient Eden that’s paradise for birds’ migrations.


Bonnie Naradzay is in the Stonecoast MFA program, has a poem forthcoming in JAMA, and has published in numerous online publications.