POLITICAL GHAZAL: THE GREAT PACIFIC GARBAGE PATCH

by Thomas R. Smith


What are we, if not our dream of a better world?
Feudal times have returned to mock us, the names
of the new fiefdoms Halliburton and Exxon.

In the Pacific there's a floating mass of garbage
twice the size of Texas. (Google it.) It's spreading,
the first state of the country of the future.

When did we become a trash island filling
space between oceans? Was it when that foolish
actor's voice filled the space between our ears?

I felt sad hearing about Teddy Kennedy's brain
cancer. In Nineteen-eighty the door was still
open to a higher road we might have taken.

We killed our King and dumped his wealth in the sea.
Our talk became wind keening through the mouth
of a plastic bottle washed up on the beach.

Thomas, you cried listening to Al Gore's concession
speech because it meant that the lovers in the song
really were going to die hiding on the back streets.


Thomas R. Smith is a poet and teacher in western Wisconsin. His most recent books of poetry are Waking Before Dawn (Red Dragonfly Press) and Kinnickinnic (Parallel Press).
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Thomas R. Smith's "The Great Pacific Garbage Patch" is a New Verse News contribution to Blog Action Day, 15 October 2009.


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POETRY UPDATES

by David Feela


Version 5.1 used rhyme
and a cadence in metrical time
to lyrically consider the death of a child.

Version 6.8 left the child dead
but revised the last stanza
to prove the mother was unwed.

The release of version 7.6
buried rhymes inside the lines
so the reader could listen, say,
to a torrent of rain against a pane of glass.

The floodwaters rose in 8.7,
the lines expanded to accommodate the flow
and the natural rhythm of speech surfaced,
forcing readers to question if poetry
had reached its last form of expression.

Confessional verse evolved by version 9.2,
where the child narrated her own catastrophe,
then died when the poem was through.

The latest version promises
to fix all the glitches,
to turn the tragedy into love
and leave the reader in stitches.


David Feela is a poet, free-lance writer, writing instructor, and book collector.. His work has appeared in regional and national publications, including the High Country News' "Writers on the Range," Mountain Gazette, and in the newspaper as a "Colorado Voice" for The Denver Post. He is a contributing editor and columnist for Inside/Outside Southwest and for The Four Corners Press. A poetry chapbook, Thought Experiments (Maverick Press), won the Southwest Poet Series. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas, is now available.
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SAY THE MOON

by David Plumb


The year 2022
Your kids can go.
Too crowded here.
Not enough fast food
or rice for that matter.
It stinks, the air does.
No one walks without crutches
or a little cart that
scoots the forever aisles
in search of owner.
So why not the moon?
A station to STOP
Take care of the body business.
Johnny on the Moon Spot.
We can call it that.
Proceed to Mars later on.
Use caution.
Leave germs at home.
It’s for sale.
But watch the red sand.
It might be communist or worse.
Why wait?
Sign up now.


David Plumb’s latest fiction book is A Slight Change in the Weather. He has worked as a paramedic, a cab driver, a, cook and tour guide. A long time San Francisco writer, he now lives in South Florida . Will Rogers said, “Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.” Plumb says, “It depends on the parrot.”
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DOUBLE DIP

by Janice D. Soderling


We grabbed hold of summer
like a kid grabs an ice cream cone,
gobbled the sweet days,
the smooth, crunchy nights.
Time ran in rivulets.
We gorged.

But before we knew it,
autumn, in her stout shoes,
loomed over us,
dishing out cold oatmeal,
shouting,
"Clean off your plate, kid."


Janice D. Soderling is a previous contributor to New Verse News. Recent work appears at The Pedestal, The Flea, Concise Delight, Horizon Review, Shakespeare's Monkey Revue. She was nominated for Sundress Best of Net 2009 by Shit Creek Review.
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THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE

by J.R. Solonche


The Nobel
Peace Prize
went to the wrong man.
It should have gone
to the student
who wrote on
the wall
of the men’s room stall:
My American eyes
see all,
so I wait for God
to make me blind.


J.R. Solonche is coauthor (with wife Joan Siegel) of Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). His poems have appeared in many magazines, journals, and anthologies since the 1970s. He teaches at SUNY Orange in Middletown, New York.
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THE HUNGRY

Image by Linda Woods; Text by Christopher Woods


Christopher and Linda Woods live in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas. They share a gallery at Moonbird Hill Arts.
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CONTRADANCE IN A GOOD SQUARE OR CIRCLE

by Nickolas Butler


We leave our liquor at the door when we see
               the neighbors and dancers are indians
the band is all white beards
               the shoes are bare feet
the punch bowl is filled with virgin punch
               the child with down’s syndrome is smiling
and reaching for my strange hand
               which is reaching for his little hand and too far-away eyes.

Long underwear will cook me
               if this dance does not
tell me where the cold water is hidden
               show me a snowbank to dive in
i am embarrassed of my hands which leak so much salt and sweat
               i am enamored with your breasts which bead so much salt and
                              sweat
we have a quorum
               that is raising its hands in a democratic way
but my lungs are too tired to dissent.

America was once like this assembled hall
               a place for farmers to feed with gourds and pork
behind the church in the lee of the lake’s wind
               an eddy for cigarettes and the politics of seed and milk
and here is your hand in mine
               promenading through the night
one-two, one-two, one-two go our dirty feet
               on those ancient beams and planks
and when no one is looking
               we can shoot spitballs at the moon
and kiss like we were beneath the bleachers of this old town.


Nickolas Butler's writings have appeared in: The Progressive, Wisconsin State Journal, Wisconsin People & Ideas, Madison Magazine, Roast, and Fresh Cup. He lives in Madison, Wisconsin with his family.
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RELIC

by Judith Terzi


The last barbarian took his seat.
The cymbals clashed,
and the first man spoke.
The barbarian held up a hand-written sign.
The first man glanced his way,
surprised that he was wearing
a gray Oxxford suit and well-tended loafers,
not the season's deerskins,
and sandals strapped around his calves.
The last barbarian stood up;
he began to weep.
Tears streamed down his striped tie
onto the chamber tile.
No one knew why he wept,
but soon, other barbarians were weeping, too.
A blue lake pooled from their tears.
The weeping men, over their heads in the sudden lake,
dog paddled, gasped their last barbarian breath.
Miraculously, not one drop of this flood
flowed upstream where legislators sat.
Ties, shoes, shirts, toupés drifted
back and forth like toy sailboats.
Then, every relic vanished.
All was still except for the voice of the first man
and the swish of a water lily springing up
every now and then.


Judith Terzi's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Aries, Alehouse Press (2009 Happy Hour Awards Runner Up), Borderlands, The New Verse News, The Pedestal Magazine, Quarrtsiluni, Raving Dove, Red Rock Review, the Her Mark 2010 Calendar and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California where she taught writing at California State University, Los Angeles and high school French for many years.
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KABUL INITIATION: A LETTER SENT BACK HOME

by Earl J. Wilcox


Dear Folks:

Today we arrived in Kabul
to teach for the next three years.

In back of our tiny compound
a lovely rose garden. Out front,

several charming guards with
AK47s, keen eyes, serene, alert.

Our bed tonight is hard, our
nerves of steel tested hourly

by barking dogs, roar of planes
powering overhead. When morning

at last comes, we are surprised
to find ourselves safe and sound.


Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he is a regular contributor to The New Verse News. More of Earl's poetry appears at his blog, Writing by Earl.
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JESUS, MAPS

by David LaBounty


the lady on the TV screen
has credentials beneath
her red red lips &
motionless hair. she

talks about Iran in
a stream of
rhetoric & opinion
that sounds like
a drum beat as
her words echo
off her shiny
teeth & alabaster
double chin

she says

Iran has launched
missiles even
though the
rest of the
world said no, how

Iran has launched
missiles even though
Israel is in the
neighborhood.
& how Israel
already
has nuclear
weapons &
isn’t afraid
to use them,

and

she says if
Israel uses
nuclear weapons
against Iran
the battle lines
would be
drawn
across the
Middle Eastern map,
a battle that
would turn into
Armageddon

as if to say

Jesus is
sanctioning
all of this

I yell at the TV and say

the Jesus
I know
never bothered
to read maps

never had
boundary lines
crossing
His heart
or His face.


David LaBounty's prose and poetry has appeared in several print and online journals. His third novel Affluenza has just been released. Affluenza is a tale of debt, consumerism, vanity and sexual addiction told through the financial rise and fall of an insurance executive who lives beyond his means.
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PRAISE TO THEE, MY LORD, FOR ALL THY CREATURES

by Steve Kissing


My friend remembers the exact
Day he left the Catholic Church:
It was October 4th, the feast of Saint Francis,
The patron saint of animals.

The entire congregation was encouraged
To bring their pets and cows and chickens
To an outdoor Mass for a special blessing.
My friend stood with the rest of the parishioners

As Father McGivens sprinkled the dogs and cats,
The hamsters and snakes, the goats and sheep
With holy water while making the sign of the cross
In a large, sweeping manner just as the Pope

Does from his perch above St. Peter’s Square.
My friend, who months prior had been told
By Father McGivens that he was a despicable creature,
Left the Mass even before Holy Communion.

“They’ll bless a ferret, but not a fag,” my friend said,
“Maybe they’d feel better about me if I fucked horses.”
My friend has never been back to church since,
And he refuses to go to the zoo or to date anyone with a pet.


Steve Kissing used to be possessed by the devil. At least that’s what he believed as a child, and he wrote about that in his memoir, Running from the Devil (Crossroad Books). His poems have appeared (or soon will) in such print and online journals as: Thick With Conviction, Best Poem, Poetry Friends, Boston Literary Magazine, The Blue Ash Review, Bolts Of Silk, and Paterson Literary Review. Kissing’s first print-based chapbook, Survival Of The Fittest (Big Table Publishing), will appear in early 2010. Steve is no longer possessed by the devil. Or so he believes.
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VALEDICTION FOR PADANG

by James Penha


Fall in Sumatra comes with trepidation
of the sphere, its rain
of terror, and so cities
collapse like towers in seconds,
smothering slowly
over days
invisible
cries
for help.

The rest remain to forage
among crimson leaves
and rotting timbers
for years on the floor
of a jungle again for green
sprouts, signs
of some
spring.


James Penha edits The New Verse News from Indonesia.
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60

by Barbara A. Taylor


sixty years on
our china today
watch it, or else . . .


Barbara A. Taylor's poems appear in international journals and anthologies: Landfall, Atlas Poetica, Modern English Tanka, Haiku Scotland. Canadian Zen Haiku,, Ginyu, Riverbed, Lynx, Presence, Sketchbook , qaartisiluni, Ribbons, Frogpond, Wisteria, 3lightsgallery, Shamrock, Eucalypt, Lynx, Simply Haiku, Kokako, Moonset, Magnapoets, Poetic Diversity, and elsewhere. Poetry with audio is at http://batsword.tripod.com.
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THE BLACK PROFESSOR AND THE WHITE COP: NO APOLOGIES

by Carol Lem

Even before we sat down for the beer, I learned
that the two gentlemen spent some time together
listening to one another, which is a testimony to them.

– Barack Obama

We will listen to each other lie
before cameras, reporters, and the president,

eyeing this “teachable moment” when I
take your hand in mine, and we say

we’re sorry. But listen, grabbing a beer
in the sunny Rose Garden – and not your face

in the night shadows of my front porch,
gun and badge wrapped around your words,

I hear a man in a plain suit and tie
talk about his life growing up with black kids

and white thugs and how he wanted to stop
the beating. But listen, that night –

you were hearing those kids cursing
the thugs in one kid’s home.

That night, with history lining the bookshelves
behind me and shoving my Harvard I.D.

into the accusing lens of your flashlight,
I remembered in school getting A’s

on my essays and the white teacher saying,
“Who’s been writing these for you, boy?”

That night, you were that teacher.
And I was getting back at all you guys

who can’t hear the words of a man
that was once that boy, a black man

standing before his own class
teaching white folks about the law.

And I heard only those handcuffs
click against our separate histories,

how in the eyes of your law
I was still that uppity schoolboy.


Carol Lem teaches Creative Writing and Literature at East Los Angeles College. Her poems appear in Chrysalis, Tebot Bach, and Red Rock Review. Practicing shakuhachi, Japanese bamboo flute, inspires her poems. Poems from Shadow of the Plum may be heard on her CD, Shadow of the Bamboo, at www.carollem.com.
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