PRESENCE IN THE ABSENCE

by Mary K O'Melveny

Illustration by Andy Gilmore for The New York Times, October 4, 2018. Stephen Hawking said that particles that fall into a black hole “can’t just emerge when the black hole disappears.” Instead, “the particles that come out of a black hole seem to be completely random and bear no relation to what fell in. It appears that the information about what fell in is lost, apart from the total amount of mass and the amount of rotation. If determinism breaks down, we can’t be sure of our past history either,”  Hawking said. “The history books and our memories could just be illusions. It is the past that tells us who we are. Without it, we lose our identity. Black holes are stranger than anything dreamed up by science fiction writers, but they are clearly matters of science fact.” —NWO Report, April 24, 2016

Black holes have our attention
once again. We still know little
or nothing. They are consummate
known unknowns, as Rumsfeld once said.

An image haunts us as we guess
at portraits of bending space, our
breath catches mid-inhale, as we
ruminate on combustion.

Or collapse. I had a lover
once who made me feel I could do
both at the same time—plummet from
heat to nothingness in seconds.

How I gravitated to flame
and then to black ice still amazes
all these light years later even
when my days now rotate with sun.

Perhaps we are obsessed with past
lives when they become places of
no return. Where memories curve
inward, leave us to read between lines.

That is why we hunger for things
we don’t know or can’t remember.
Why, even though ignorance may
devour us, shadows of faith adhere.


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 first poetry chapbook A Woman of a Certain Age is available from Finishing Line Press.

BLACK HOLES

by Rick Mullin

The Quantum Black Hole by John Baez

I liked the way they looked in my imagination.
Huge aortas in the midnight sky
devouring time and space and light,
demolishing the errant satellite.

I like subjective characterization
and not forever asking why.

But here comes a received and peer-reviewed design,
a doughnut over-lit and over-glazed.
The hole’s too small for all that stuff
and overall not black enough.

I liked the black holes more when they were mine,
when I was curious, confused and dazed.


Rick Mullin's newest poetry collection is Lullaby and Wheel.

BLACK HOLE

by Sally Zakariya

Today (April 10), a global collaboration of more than 200 astronomers presented the first image of a directly-observed black hole. The picture of a glowing orange-yellow ring around a dark core, was compiled from observations by eight ground-based radio telescopes known collectively as the Event Horizon Telescope (EHT). —Live Science

Einstein dreamed them
far flung across the cosmos

Scientists to come had faith in them
believed in them, believed in the math
  that proved them

But until now only God could see them
their aura so bright a thousand suns blush
their pull so unimaginably great
their dark core so unfathomably deep
that to dare to submit to the immensity
to cross the impossible threshold
is to plunge to eternity


Sally Zakariya’s poetry has appeared in some 75 journals and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her most recent publication is the chapbook The Unknowable Mystery of Other People from The Poetry Box. She is also the author of Personal Astronomy, When You Escape, Insectomania, and Arithmetic and other verses, as well as the editor of a poetry anthology, Joys of the Table.

ASYLUM SONG

by M.H. Spicknall

Hundreds of migrants are being held under an El Paso, Texas bridge without clean water or proper shelter. —NowThis News, March 29, 2019

When all the dogs run into the wood
  When all the forests stiffen to stone
    When all the rocks dissolve into dust
When all the debris buries the thrones

When all good gods have fall’n to their knees
  When all the faithful have done what they could
    When all the deeds done do not hold the hounds
When all of us have forgotten the good

When all the pleas are lost silent screams
  When all the quiet has set loose a fate
    When all coming time reflects only us
When all our mirrors reflect only hate

When all our fears have walled off the world
  When all of this land is for just us alone
    When all of them crawl back to the wood
When all that’s left is to gnaw on their bones

Author’s Note: The poem can be sung to Dylan’s “Masters Of War,” and includes a sad nod to Woody Guthrie.

Mark Spicknall is a manufacturing and business consultant, who writes simply to help distill things to their essence for his own understanding.

THE TIN MAN

by Matthew McDermott

Coco Fusco: Twilight at The John & Mable Ringling Museum of Art, Sarasota, FL. 

Beauty makes me long to build hotels.
Dorothy stood here once, her hands on her slaphappy hips.
She spoke glowingly of Kansas. I thought of her milky white tits.
She cast my advances aside, wanting true love from my heart.
I mimed my felonious advances, knowing of no other art.

The therapist sailed in confidently and tied three volunteers to me.
He rolled me down a mountain slope, trying to set a new side of me free.
We headed west, until, one day, we came to the great Muddy.
Surrounded by prairie dog dens, he sought to introduce America to me.

Off, off, off! I whispered, but we were tied together like a bundle of sticks.
The therapist flew above us in a balloon, watching to see if my mind was cleared.
My parents were killed in a car crash when I was twelve, said the man strapped
to my back. I cleared my throat as one is supposed to when sympathy is required.

I have breast cancer, said the woman on my front, but I couldn’t get a look
at her, no matter how I writhed. I gave up and threw my weight to each side.
Come on, I said. What’s your deal? I’m waiting. You better not be dead.
I can’t take the smell, the bugs, the worms! Just then, I heard the therapist’s voice.

This worked before on a man with a heart of coal, but here we only have an absence,
a tin chest acting as a relic of our forgotten humanity. I wash my hands of you,
there’ll be no rebirth; for here strides our grifter-in-chief, the Tin Man. To feed his ego
he would sell the earth, or your sister, your dog, your child: all are casino chips to him.

I shrugged at his pronouncements. And smiled. Why am I so lovable then?
There’s one thing, I, as a grifter, know. It’s not me, it’s you. I couldn’t do
any of this without you. I will remake this nation in my image: hollow men.



Matthew McDermott is a poet and nonprofit manager who lives in the Chicago area.

THE DAY THE CROWS CAME

by Susan Carlson

Crows by Mary Quite Сontrary

A crow floats past on level wings

noiselessly.

—D.H. Lawrence, "Winter-Lull"

You woke up dark.  Troubled by a murder
of crows, the ones that were circling our roof.

I was reading the New York Times, focused on words
flocked in columns, the orderly murmuration of print.

The world’s a scary place, sure, and worse
is today.  Of course I knew that, holding

as I was, so much of it right there in my hands.
But not enough for you.  You wanted to know

why we continue cruelly to evolve when there is enough
to eat.  Why does now have to be a harbinger flying

the foreboding flag of then?  I wanted you to leave me alone
in my Midwest nest where I am responsible and planned

to recycle the paper I was folding up, green citizen that I am, despite
refusing electronic notification of the state of our planet, its trees.

You refused your morning coffee, asked me to google what it means
when a place is centered in the silent swoop of level wings.

You made me watch them, those crows, made me wait for
their caw.  Look, you said, just look at the effort their occasional

intermittent conversation requires.  And when one came to rest
on a branch just long enough for me to see his brunette breast

compress with the quick bark of what he had to say that day –
I was compelled to hear it again.  And so we found ourselves

silence-bound beneath their somber wave.  All those crows folding above
ground, weighting our wait for what was to be a dire and dismal cry.


Susan Carlson lives, works, and writes in southeastern Michigan. She has attended workshops including Tin House, the Minnesota Northwoods Writers Conference, and the Djerassi Resident Artists Program. Her poems have appeared in Your Impossible Voice, Pretty Owl Poetry, The Literary Nest, The Other Journal, and Typishly, among other journals.

OUR COUNTRY IS FULL

by Philip C. Kolin

"Horton Hears a Hoax" posted by george_spiggott at TPM

The country is too full
of borders, ports of entry,
coasts, rivers, airports,
sanctuary cities.
We have too many huddled
masses, tired refuse.
Others are having trouble
being on top.
Too many immigrant babies
wearing brown skin
with no name tags, no parents.
The slats in our walls are too full
of peering eyes and restless hands
trying to squeeze in. Lather the posts
with strychnine. Send them home
in ICE body bags, R. I. P.
We have too many reporters
filing too  many fake news stories—
we need to manacle their tongues.
Too many fact checkers,
just too many facts.
We are too full of Democrats;
Nader, Schiff, and Pelozi
ought to be under house arrest.
We are too full of obstructions
to collusions. The courts are too full
of judges of Mexican descent.
We have too many states
on the coasts; ship them
to the middle of the country
to learn about making America great again.
We are too full of popular votes;
let the Electoral College prevail.
The country is just too full of wind.

Philip C. Kolin is the University Distinguished Professor at the University of Southern Mississippi where he also edits the Southern Quarterly. He has published more than 40 books on Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, African American playwrights as well as  seven collections of poems. His most recent book is Reaching Forever: Poems in the Poiema Series of Cascade Books.

[muh-nip-yuh-ley-shuh n]

by Rémy Dambron



  oil pastel drawing manipulated in photoshop by u/monealiza


the art of manipulation
is not about making people
do what you want them to do
but rather getting them to
want to do what you want
them to do so if you tell a lie
that is big enough and tell it
often enough people will
believe it is true first identify
what it is those people like
then work backwards and
direct their desires toward the
goal you want to achieve then
empower yourself and people
who will help you stay in power
empathize with other abusers
and people whose actions
mirror or rival the severity of
yours embrace an opportunity
to profit from others welcome
an opportunity to disparage
anyone cherish an opportunity
to create chaos employ
psychological manipulation (a
form of social influence that
aims at advancing the goals of
the manipulator through the use
of underhanded indirect and
deceptive tactics) showcase
expert knowledge (you are an
expert if you insist that you are)
harness association bias (the
tendency to associate truth with
people you like rather than with
facts) engage in name calling
(anything goes) mockery (a must)
insults (the more outrageous the
better) imitation (of people who are
a threat to you) intimidation (of
people who are a threat to you)
threats (against people who might
expose you) bullying (people who
stand up to you) and gaslighting
(manipulative tactic used to gain
power and assert dominance over
a victim by forcing them to
question and challenge their own
sanity)

Rémy Dambron is an environmentalist and advocate for social justice. His works have appeared in Naturewriting.com, What Rough Beast, and Poets Reading the News. In a time when freedom of speech is being attacked by the very people sworn to protect it, he chooses to write poetry because he believes it is among the most democratic forms of literature, as it can be accessed by everyone and created by anyone.   

THE WOMAN CARD

by Skaidrite Stelzer

Too hard to say the exact words,
the exacting words.
How a hand can be placed on a shoulder;
the sudden shudder of his breath in my hair.
Because I don’t know him really,
a stranger,
and I don’t like men creeping up behind me.
Because they can’t see my face,
they may feel they are gentlemen,
they may think me too sensitive,
easy to melt,
quietly.
Easy to melt with my mouth closed,
tongue removed,
unless his in my ear.
Such close whispering meant
only to reassure me
and the chorus arising,
overpowering.
What is the risk?
I remember the man
who followed me home one night
from the laundromat
and I did not mind it.
But another night
he came in accidentally.
My accident, not locking the door.
There is often something more
to the story.
If you want to touch me,
at least look me straight
in the face.

Skaidrite Stelzer lives and writes in Toledo, Ohio.  Growing up as a post-war refugee and displaced person, she feels connected to the world and other stray planets.  Her poetry has been published in Fourth River, Eclipse, Glass, Baltimore Review, and many other literary journals as well as TheNewVerse.News.

AN AWKWARD AGE

by Wayne Scheer

Hugs were rare where I grew up,
reserved for mother/son greetings
and father/daughter consoling.
I don't recall seeing
either of my parents hugging
a friend or each other, for that matter.
To the day he died,
my father and I shook hands.

My wife, on the other hand,
probably hugged the doctor at birth.
And after years of standoffishness,
she taught me to open up
and hug friends, male and female.

Yesterday, at an art museum.,
we met a friendly young couple
who live a couple houses down from us.
My wife went in for hugs
while I shook the man's hand
and proudly moved to hug the young woman.

As I opened my arms
I saw she had extended her right arm for a handshake,
a member of Pelosi's straight arm club, I presume,
but it was too late,
and it resulted in an awkward half hug.

Now that I finally learned to hug,
I have to relearn, like Joe Biden, that hugs
aren't always welcomed,
that I need to wait, momentarily,
for the woman to signal
how much of her personal space
she's willing to give up.

As Joe said, I get it.
But please forgive the awkwardness
while I adjust.


Wayne Scheer is an old codger trying to stay relevant. He has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Nets. He's published numerous stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories. His short story, “Zen and the Art of House Painting” has been made into a short film.

THE WATCHERS

by Jonel Abellanosa

"Are we alone? Probably not. After all, astronomers have already found 4,001 confirmed exoplanets in our Milky Way galaxy, and expect there to be over 50 billion exoplanets out there. For scientists gathering in Paris today, the question is different: why haven’t we made contact with alien civilizations?" —Forbes, March 18, 2019. Image source: Hadrian’s Gate.

Not because we’re a threat to them.
Only a hundred years for the Wright
Brothers’ wooden plane to turn into
the F-22 stealth fighter. So if they
preexisted us for millions of years?
Common to know life terminated
at least twice: a giant space rock and
a flood. Our planet holds the living
principle. We’ve to be zooed in the
Fermi Paradox. Destroyers most of us,
the living vessel the object of concern.
In plain sight the variable they gave
us to exit the simulation’s looping
subroutine: love. But most choose
hate and greed, indifference. They’re
now preparing to restart the program.

A previous contributor to TheNewVerse.News, Jonel Abellanosa lives in Cebu City, the Philippines. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Rattle, That Literary Review, McNeese Review, Mojave River Review and Star*Line, and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Dwarf Stars award. His recently-published books are Songs from My Mind’s Tree (NY: Clare Songbirds Publishing, 2018) and 50 Acrostic Poems (India: Cyberwit, 2019). Forthcoming are Multiverse, his full-length poetry collection from Clare Songbirds and Pan’s Saxophone, his speculative poetry collection from Weasel Press.

IT'S A SIGN

by Jean Varda




It’s a sign, the black charred ground
the empty space where ponderosa,
cedar and oaks once stood tall and stately
It’s a sign, the sparseness of insects
and birds, the temperatures
unbearably hot or unbearably cold
It’s a sign, the school shootings
the police killings of unarmed men, the
families at the border being separated
from their children and turned away
as they flee violence and are only
faced with more. It’s a sign when more
people are pushing shopping carts
on the street then shopping carts in the
store or sleeping by the river in tents
and makeshift shelters.
It’s a sign when artificial intelligence
has taken over almost everything we do
and children stare into digital screens
every chance they get. It’s a sign when
the highest death rate is due to suicide
and drugs, when a nineteen year old
kills herself because she cannot bear
the guilt and pain of having watched
her best friend die in a massacre at
her school. It’s a sign when children
are the ones gathering by the millions
in the nation’s capital to ask the adults
to do something about the semi
automatic weapons that killed their
friends. And when children sit in offices
of politicians begging them to pass
legislation on the environmental
emergency so they have a future on
this shrinking planet when they
should be playing hopscotch
                                and eating jelly beans, it’s a sign.  

Jean Varda gave her first poetry reading at Stone Soup Gallery in Boston Mass. Presented by Poet Jack Powers. This was followed by performances on street corners, prisons and churches with her mentor story teller Brother Blue. Then to San Francisco to join Kush with Cloud House, and the largest collection of San Francisco Beat poets on film. She has published six chapbooks of poetry, establishing Sacred Feather Press. She started four open mics, taught poetry writing workshops, hosted a radio show, was nominated for a pushcart prize. All while raising two daughters and working as a Hospice nurse. She now resides Chico, CA where she works as a nurse and a collage artist. 

A GOLDEN SHOVEL FOR THE RESISTANCE

by Lynne Knight

Image source: Greenpeace

The Special Counsel states that “while this report does not conclude that the President committed a crime, it also does not exonerate him.”

All that weekend, checking our phones while

we waited, some of us praying, all of us thinking this

might be it, this might be the day the report

says what we want it to say, telling us what he does

is what he’s always done, he lied, he lies, sometimes not

even big lies, from which it’s easy to conclude

many things about his psyche, most of all that

he’s deeply insecure, so insecure it’s hard to see the—

the what?—extent of his neuroses? but a president,

carrying on like a child—maybe he should be committed,

we say, his rants are so wild, maybe he’s just totally a-

moral, and while that’s nothing approaching crime,

it does show how asleep we are, how numb, moreover it

shows how power corrupts, no one’s exempt, even us, and also

it exposes the deep fault in the national psyche, it does,

it does, we are split, fractured, broken, divided, there is not

much time for healing, and since nothing will ever exonerate

us for our silence, let us say what is, let us dig in against him.

Lynne Knight has published six full-length poetry collections and six chapbooks, along with I Know (Je sais), a translation, with the author Ito Naga, of his Je sais. Her awards include publication in Best American Poetry, a Poetry Society of America award, a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, and a RATTLE Poetry Prize.

A CHANGE OF PLAN

by R.G. Jodah

Henley Homes, a property developer, markets Baylis Old School, their 149-home London development on the site of a former school, as “an education in living well.” It’s turning out to be an education in inequality in modern-day Britain. The development, completed in 2016, has a large green play space for children belonging to well-off families in the development. But kids who live in the “affordable” section of the development aren’t allowed to come play. (UK developments typically have to allot a certain portion of their projects to affordable housing because of a massive shortage in London.) —Quartz, March 27, 2019. Photo: Salvatora Rea looks out at the communal play area and garden his children are not allowed to use. Photograph: Graeme Robertson/The Guardian, March 25, 2019.

With a flourish
he produced a key.
     —“Ta-da!”—
Turned an open gate
to whips and walls:
secured their playground,
made a prison
of the whole wide world.


R.G. Jodah lives in London, enjoying metropolitan anonymity. Appeared in: The Lampeter Review, Typishly, Dream Catcher, Southlight, LightenUp Online. London Grip, Three Drops from a Cauldron (forthcoming).