RIGHT ON

by Steven Kent

Source: American University

The Right is clearly now behind the curve;

The Far-Right calls them RINOs, I observe.

And then the Far-Far-Right jumps up to claim

The Far-Right is the Right only in name.

With speed the Far-Far-Far-Right makes a play 

To harvest voters come Election Day,

But wait! The Far-Far-Far-Far-Right gets rough,

Says Far-Far-Far-Right isn’t Right enough.

The Far-Far-Far-Far-Far-Right hopes it sticks

To label all the others heretics,

And on it goes.  How long?  I can’t divine,

Since no more Fars will fit into this line.

Steven Kent is the poetic alter ego of writer, musician, and Oxford comma enthusiast Kent Burnside. His work appears in Light, Lighten Up Online, Snakeskin, and OEDILF, among others.

WITHOUT APOLOGY, WILLINGLY I DO IT

by Jacquelyn Shah

"Him" by Paula Rego

Because there is no one else to do it, no other woman willing

able  qualified  skilled  articulate

(and certainly no man capable or inclined)

I’ll be the one to do it.

Not only do it but delineate the how and why of it.

Because it’s so extreme  widespread  persistent  long-term  deep-rooted––

violence in our world, persecution  torture  abduction   

rape  incest  murder  war  subjugation  massacre  annihilation

     (our language is rich with words for various brutalities)

and because it’s carried out by those who hold the power, men––

I hate them. I hate men. 

Hate men fervently!  Hate them for all the damage they have done and do.

And continue doing and doing and doing... 

it never stops: the constant brandishing of weapons

like hands  gun  rifle  rope  knife  dagger  sword  bomb  penis, etc.

the never-ending violation and violence

of women (yeah, and men), children, babies––yes, babies!  Jesus!

Serial murders   mass murders   executions   sometimes necrophilia.

And ongoing destruction of the earth––

Hate them. With all my heart and soul and, especially, brain––

for I have observed, considered and concluded.

I’m willing to hate men.   Willing to say I hate them.

Their behavior merits it.  But my hatred will never MANifest in violence–– 

I won’t suppress  rape  torture  murder  abduct men.

Though men deserve everything bad they ever get,

I will never give it to them,

but hate them, yes, vigorously, steadfastly! 

          And dismiss them.

Men. They’re targets of nothing from me

except this quiet  hopeless  worthless  toothless  futile

statement made. And repeated, repeated with candor, vehemence: 

I, a pacifist, hate  men.

All of them?    No, not quite all.

Those undeserving get no such ardor,

just a cold shoulder––

because they’re all complicit, especially those in positions of power

who do nothing to change the current killing in our pathetic country.

How they all love guns and how I hate them!––men and guns.

Jacquelyn Shah—iconoclast, feminist, pacifist. A.B., English, Phi Beta Kappa; M.A.–English; M.F.A., Ph.D.–English lit/creative writing–poetry. Publications: chapbook, small fry; full-length book, What to Do with Red. Poems in various journals; Winner of Literal Latté’s 2018 Food Verse Contest

GRUMPY OLD WHITE MEN

by Jeremy Szuder

Man Looking Down his Glasses is a drawing by CSA Images at Fine Art America

The grumpy old white men 

walk the avenues of this village

at nine in the morning.

I’m washing my children’s clothes,

their ballet tights and 

their Taekwondo robes.

I push past the dinosaur days

of primal, guttural instincts and

oversized pickup trucks,

I push past leering elder stares

at beautiful black women who

stand in line just ahead of me

in our stodgy old banks, cashing

checks and filling up on rolls

of quarters.

I replace stickers that I’ve stuck,

on signposts and mailboxes,

removed because the old time 

religions didn't like my artwork.

The riptide of hatred is lost

as I push hard against the attempt

at stirring unforgiving waters.

And I look at my reflection in

the windows of these shops,

and I’m the same pigment as

these gravediggers are—

these Polo shirts and these mad,

sad, unfaithful souls.

These grumpy old fools, scratching

at everyone else's eyes instead

of just conveniently staying home

with their curtains drawn and

their fearful guns cocked and 

loaded.

Jeremy Szuder (he/him) lives in a tiny apartment with his wife, two children and two cats. He works in the evenings in a very busy restaurant, standing behind a stove, a grill, fryers and heating lamps, happily listening to hours of hand selected music and conjuring ideas for new art and poetry in his head. When his working day ends and he enters his home in the wee hours, he likes to sit down with a glass of wine and record all the various words and images that bear fruit within his mind. Jeremy Szuder only sets the cage doors free when the work begins to pile up too high. In this life, Szuder makes no illusions of being a professional artist in any way, shape, or form.

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).

HOW I WILL RAISE MY SON SO HE DOESN’T BECOME THE NEXT MASS SHOOTER

by Jared Povanda

I will shower him with love. 

I will listen to him

and encourage him to cry

while teaching him how to 

use the potty.

I will read to him about 

kind animals: the mouse and the rabbit 

and how they’ve never hurt a soul.

I will only let him play E-rated video games, 

and I will explain to him the privilege 

of being white and male and how that 

doesn’t make him better than anyone else.

I will monitor his time online.

I will know who his friends are.

I won’t let him watch TV or 

movies where guns are present.

I will show him how to vent his anger

through needlepoint. 

Or drawing or writing poems. Picking dandelions 

until his soft palms yellow with pollen 

like a rabbit’s twitching mouth.

But this is all conjecture.

I will never have a son.

I know nothing about being 

a parent in a world designed for violence 

and manipulative, racist indoctrination 

of which none of us are wholly immune.

Least of all myself.

But if I did know everything, I would

do all of these things to save my son.

And it still might not be enough. 

Jared Povanda is a writer, poet, and freelance editor from upstate New York. His work has been published or is forthcoming in numerous literary journals including Wigleaf, The Citron Review, and Uncharted Magazine. You can find him online @JaredPovanda and in the Poets & Writers Directory. 

MY CANNOTS

by Kim Malinowski

I cannot say ban guns 

 

I cannot say ban assault rifles 

when the Uzi I fired at eight still thrums 

its song through my veins, the recoil still smacking muscle 

rifle stabled on rusty hood 

merging in fierce moment with those before me 

deep in warrior chant. 

 

I cannot cannot say ban assault rifles 

the morgue has seen enough mangled 

enough loved ones pointing at shirts that should be muddy 

not tie-dyed with blood. 

 

I cannot cannot cannot watch faces line up  

as if on the milk carton shelf 

rows of parents, rows of children, wives, lovers, husbands, police 

panic the pledge of allegiance 

 

I cannot cannot cannot 

 

cannot see plague 

 

when I prime flintlock, inherit ancestors’  

gunpowder  

  savor gritty aftertaste  

Kim Malinowski is a lover of words. Her collection Home was published by Kelsay Books and her chapbook Death: A Love Story was published by Flutter Press. She has three forthcoming verse novels. Her work has appeared in War, Literature, and the Arts, BOMBFIRE, S/tick, Mookychick, and others. Her work dictated that she become a political science defined rebel, advocating for listening and understanding of our individual and collective history and bringing it to the page. She writes because the alternative is unthinkable. 

WHAT (KIND OF) COUNTRY

by Jen Schneider

Adam Maida / The Atlantic ; Getty

what (kind of) country / ‘tis of thee
hosts parents on video streams 
to plead for safety of schools & children
/ amidst stains & stained solutions / full

of propositions & prepositions
 

to paint / not of 
            watercolors / of blood

to stay quiet / not to 
            nap / to survive

            to arm teachers / not of 
            books / with bullets

            to dial 911 / not as 

            a drill / as a final word

 

to dodge rocks turned rounds
to climbs hills turned mountains
to fight – against & again  

for their lives / before men
            in suits / in primetime
 
what (kind of) country / ‘tis of thee
values weapons more than life
counts more guns than people 
hosts rallies alongside funerals
for primetime performance 

what (kind of) country / ’tis of thee
identifies children by sneaker color
normalizes imbalance / numbers
of mass shootings & days in a year
with guns the leading cause 
of death of children / primed
for primetime performance  

what (kind of) country / ‘tis of thee
invokes names & images 
of emmett till / napalm girl
on primetime to debate / the value of life

scales forever tilted against the innocent
a country stained & forever shamed

my country / ‘tis of thee
            / of thee i weep

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

BARBARIANS AT THE GATE

by Bonnie Naradzay

                with a line from Richard Wilbur

Russia is likely to seize control of the entire Luhansk region of Ukraine within a few weeks, a senior U.S. defense official said, as Ukraine sustains heavy casualties and its supplies of ammunition dwindle. Such a move would leave Russia short of its war aims of capturing all of Luhansk and Donetsk, which together make up the Donbas region of eastern Ukraine. But it would still amount to a win for Russian forces and create a new de facto front line that could last for some time. —The Washington Post, June 11, 2022. Photo: Black smoke and dirt rise from Severodonetsk during battle between Russian and Ukrainian troops in eastern Ukraine's Donbas region June 9. (Aris Messinis/AFP/Getty Images)

After reading how the internet takes 

us into a circle of doom because it keeps

us in the recent past, after recursively wading 

into news again about the dark tides of war, 

the brutal devastation in Ukraine, 

the pleas that we not forget their pain,

I thought of Xerxes' bridge of pontoons

over the Hellespont after Darius, stopped 

by the battle at Marathon, failed to subjugate 

the Greeks.  The pontoon bridge collapsed. 

Xerxes, after having his engineers beheaded,

commanded the waters to be lashed

three hundred times.  Shackles were thrown 

into the sea for symbolic effect,

which makes me think of Herodotus,

who changed the meaning of "barbarian”

because of what Xerxes did.

Here I stray again to the continuous loop

of the near past, when Russian invaders 

built a "pontoon" bridge over a river 

not once but twice, with predictable results.

During the Persian invasion at Thermopylae,

that narrow pass, Xerxes asked the Greeks 

to surrender, and Leonidas dared him 

to come take their weapons.

The valiant 300 fought to their deaths,

hoping to buy time for reinforcements to arrive.  

I am thinking of the fighters who were trapped 

in Mariupol, woefully outnumbered; 

of those surrounded now in east Ukraine, 

buying time for the delivery of weapons 

and missile systems they must beg for

in that endless caravan of death.

How quickly we recoil from the page,

leaving us dumbstruck and with an ache.

Bonnie Naradzay’s poems and essays have appeared in AGNI, New Letters (Pushcart Nomination), RHINO, Kenyon Review Online, Tampa Review, Florida Review Online, EPOCH, Episcopal Theological Review, Pinch (Pushcart nomination), Birmingham Review, Colloquy, and others. While in graduate school, she participated in a class taught by Robert Lowell: “The King James Bible as English Literature.”  In 2010, she won the University of New Orleans MFA Program’s Prize: a month’s stay with Ezra Pound’s daughter, Mary, in her castle in the Italian Dolomites.  While there, she enjoyed hearing cuckoos, having tea with Mary, hiking in the Dolomites, and viewing the suit Ezra Pound wore when he lived there.  

For many years she has convened poetry salons with homeless people in day shelters and with retirement community residents in Washington DC.

WE DIDN’T ASK FOR ONLY

by B. Fulton Jennes

We don’t ask the flowers to all be daisies,

or dogs to be only dachshunds.

 

We wouldn’t want all flags to be red, white, and blue,

(although some people would, and that’s a sad truth).

 

Valentine’s Day would disappoint

if those heart-shaped boxes

contained nothing but nougat,

and we’d suffer if orchestras

were nothing but bassoons.

 

Think what we’d miss

if all songs were sung in D minor,

all rooms painted Chantilly blue.

 

The nights would be darker

if heaven held only blue dwarfs.

A forest planted with nothing but maples

would be stark in winter.

 

If all roads led south,

wouldn’t we miss east and west?

 

Imagine…

 

A childhood of puzzles and no other toys,

schools of sturgeon filling the freshwaters

and exclusively stingrays at sea,

libraries with shelves stacked solely with sci-fi,

rom-com the only choice in new film fare,

all eggs, runny, sunny-side-up,

all coffee, decaf, black,

all shoes, brown leather, size 7,

all towels green, all sheets unfitted,

blue ink only in non-retractable pens,

no choice but Times New Roman

to write an essay, eulogy, or epistle…

 

We didn’t ask for only.

We don’t want only.

 

We weren’t born only.

 

We were born blonde, brunette, jet-haired, red,

oval-faced, round, square and pear,

thick-thighed and thin, tall and petite,

in a rainbow of skin colors,

a hodgepodge of histories,

a symphony of sexualities,

a jumble of genders,

with loves gifted by God, not governments.

 

So don’t ask a rainbow to be only red.

 

We will not be only.

B. Fulton Jennes is Poet Laureate of Ridgefield, CT, where she serves as poet-in-residence at The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum. Her poems have appeared in The Comstock Review, Tupelo Quarterly, The Night Heron Barks, Limp Wrist, Tar River Poetry, SWIMM, Anti-Heroin Chic, Pareidolia Literary, Extreme Sonnets II, and many other journals and anthologies. Her collection Mammoth Spring was a finalist for the 2021 Two Sylvias Wilder Prize and the Small Harbor Press Laureate Prize. Her chapbook Blinded Birds (Finishing Line Press), released in April of 2022, was named Winner of the 2022 International Book Awards in the Poetry: Chapbook category. 

BEING ROOMMATES WITH A STRIPPER

by Jennifer Elise Wang

The picket line on Lankershim Boulevard in North Hollywood has been loud, energetic, flamboyant, and... costumed. The strippers from Star Gardens have organized for their protection and become a cause célèbre for other organizers and unions across the country. —People’s World, June 6, 2022

When your roommate is a stripper,

You discover who makes

The teeniest thong

You can legally get away with

And that 7-inch Pleasers

Are not too bad to walk in.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You start going to the gym more,

Not to have her body exactly

But to have the same gluteal control

In order to twerk along with her

In your at-home dance parties.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You see the stacks of 1s,

But not the 5s, 10s, or 20s

She has given to the house and staff.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You stop laughing at jokes about her job

Because her colleague was stalked

And another was threatened

While the bartender laughed

At the image of her possible demise.

Every night, it’s a flip of the coin

As to whether she’ll be assaulted.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You learn about misogynoir,

TERFs and SWERFs,

Labor rights and union-busting tactics,

And that it’s always “sex worker”

And never “prostitute” or the other word

That sounds more apropos for fishing.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You get advice on how to set boundaries

While still smiling at the customer.

When your roommate is a stripper

And getting ready for a night of picketing

While you’ve come home after overtime

And drink a beer with some Tylenol

For your Carpal tunnel and plantar fasciitis

And blink away your dry eyes,

You realize you are selling your body too. 

Jennifer Elise Wang (she/they) is a lab tech, burlesque dancer, drag king, and poet. She won First Prize for Open Poetry in the 2018 On My Own Time Art and Literary competition and has been published in The Gunpowder Review, Jerseyworks, and R2 Rice Review. In her free time, she likes to skateboard and volunteer at the animal shelter.

PAULA REGO DIED TODAY

by stella graham-landau

The artist Paula Rego, who died [on June 8] aged 87, once said that she liked “to work on the edge”, and her many series of paintings and drawings, about the subjugation of women, abortion and the marriage market, cut across social perceptions of the role of women, and disrupted the male view of women and their sexuality. —The Guardian, June 8, 2022. Above: Abortion protest. Triptych, 1997-98, which helped change public opinion in Portugal. Photograph: Paula Rego, courtesy Marlborough International Fine Art via The Guardian.

a moment ago she was here

now all that is left are 

her dirty pieces of broken pastels

and a body of work

that leaves viewers disturbed

i am distressed that she is gone

no one is left to explain what she meant

painting women who look like men

and a man posed naked and emaciated

like a rotten pear in a still life

what would she paint next

what repellant image to make her point

she is no longer

still life or any life

only a collection

of discomforting images

and her signature

a reminder

life is stark

stella graham-landau is a writer and artist living in richmond, va. she has recently been published in Bare: An Unzipped Anthology.

THE SADDEST DAY OF MY LIFE: JANUARY 6, 2021

by Nan Ottenritter

on the eve of the January 6 hearings

Television crews and technicians prepare for Thursday night's hearing by the House select committee investigating the Jan. 6, 2021, attack at the Capitol, on June 7. (J. Scott Applewhite/AP via The Washington Post)

I want to say my saddest moment of my life

was when my first love left me, my father died, or

when we pulled the plug on my terminally ill brother.

 

I want to say the saddest day of my life

was a missed job opportunity, a miscarriage,

a failed novel.

 

But truth be told, it was seeing

our stormed Capitol on January 6, 2021.

The cracked glass, ransacked desks.

 

Hearing screams of trapped Capitol Police,

chants of hanging Mike Pence,

the hubris of those unquestioning, disrespectful

 

of all I have come to regard as second only to god,

sacred as only sacred in a secular sense can be.

How can you not appreciate our American democracy?

 

This democracy is the only life I know.

Please don’t take it away from me, from us.

Let me talk to you of miracles,

 

moments of shame and victory,

moments shared and shattered,

moments that are, like it or not, our collective lives.

 

I want to remain with you.

And you?

Nan Ottenritter lives and writes in Richmond, VA. Her first chapbook Eleanor, Speak is available from Finishing Line Press.

ST. FRANCIS IN TULSA

by Anne Harding Woodworth

Shot and killed on the campus of Saint Francis Health System in Tulsa on June 1 were (clockwise from top left) patient William Love, physician Preston Phillips, receptionist Amanda Glenn, physician Stephanie Husen. —KOAM, June 2, 2022.

Four makes it mass murder.

But 4 doesn’t compare to 10 or 21

or 26, except that it does.

Brother Sun, shine on them.

Four names in Tulsa

tragically forgotten as coffins

continue to be interred elsewhere.

Mother Earth, hold them all.

Four gunned down

by a brand-new semi-automatic,

all shiny and eager.

Brother wind, evaporate the tears.

Three were in the gunner’s way,

only the fourth was sought—

for revenge against a healer

of pain. Pain infiltrates.

Pain torments the mind

as it does the body.

Sister Moon, light the darkness.

The gun is always there.

It waits. In a drawer.

In a case. On a coffee table.

On a store shelf. Waits

to be bought by a child

until it waits no more,

rides to the hospital

and seeks to inflict pain

on the one who seeks to end it

and the ones who seek to live,

gunned down by a brand-new

semi-automatic, shiny and eager.

Sister Water, write the names.

 

Anne Harding Woodworth is the author of a seventh book of poetry, Trouble, which received the 2022 William Meredith Award for Poetry. Her eighth book, Gender: Two Novellas in Verse, will appear in October.

LOOK, UP IN THE SKY

by Michelle DeRose

Trey Ganem's company, SoulShine Industries, created special caskets for 19 of the 21 victims killed at Robb Elementary School, Uvalde, Texas.

What music accompanies a Superman coffin?

What song will waft your boy over buildings

that block your sun, black your path

with shadow? Does the melody

to lull you to sleep exist, and 

will the hum of your own voice

be enough? Birdsong mocks, small 

throats on spindly legs, sparrows still

in the care of their father. Where 

will your boy fly now, outstretched 

arms and closed fists planing so fast, 

so fast, 

away from you?

Michelle DeRose teaches creative writing and Irish, African-American, and world literature at Aquinas College. Some of her recent poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Midwest Quarterly, Dunes Review, Sparks of Calliope, Making Waves, and The Journal of Poetry Therapy.