GOOD NEWS

by Kim M. Baker


Everyone has inside of him a piece of good news. The good news is that you don't know how great you can be! How much you can love! What you can accomplish! And what your potential is!

--Anne Frank

Miep Gies not only agreed
to care for Otto Frank and his family,
but she replied to his inquiry
with the kind of good news
that seeds soul into a friendship garden
already planted with everyday niceties:
of course.

As if she had nothing to fear
except being found out
that she was not heroic or brave.
Just given to live life naturally and
without doubt.


Kim M. Baker has been teaching writing in academe and business for 17 years. She currently is a writing coach at Roger Williams University School of Law in Bristol, RI. Also an advocate to end violence against women, Kim has performed in the Until the Violence Stops Festival Providence: 2008 and 2009. She has been published online and in print. Kim's first play was chosen for the Culture*Park Shorts Plays Marathon, New Bedford, MA, November 2009.
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OUTRAGEOUS ORACLE

by Mary Saracino

For Mary Daly (October 16, 1928 – January 3, 2010)

“There are and will be those who think I have gone overboard. Let them rest assured that this assessment is correct, probably beyond their wildest imagination, and that I will continue to do so."

-- Mary Daly

The icy wind bears the mournful message:
a mighty Amazon has relinquished her earthly bones;
the cloudy sky dons a somber shroud
to grieve the indomitable, outrageous Oracle
who has breathed her final breath.
Mary Daly has returned to the arms of the Great Mother
to consult with Nemesis, un-silence the silent tongues
of countless women poisoned by patriarchy
and its malignant misogyny.
Heretic. Visionary. High Priestess.
Mary, the wailing Maenad, still sounds her dire warning,
Mary, the fierce Fury, oozes outrage from every pore,
Mary the Inviolate Word-Weaver, exposes the illusions and the lies
Mary the Spiraling Spark, whirls and twirls, spins and stings
demanding justice, transformation, an end to gynocide.
In Mary’s name, remember everything they want you to forget,
renounce every falsehood you are forced to swallow,
use your wit, your will, your wisdom to rail and wail and howl,
become a revolting, revolving, evolving revolutionary,
go overboard, remake the wide, round wounded world
into a wondrous realm beyond our wildest imaginations.


Mary Saracino is a novelist, poet and memoir-writer who lives in Lafayette, CO . Her most recent novel, The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006) was a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards Finalist. Her short story, "Vicky's Secret" earned the 2007 Glass Woman Prize.
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VISCERAL PALEOFEMINIST OLDER WOMAN SPEAKS

by Diane Elayne Dees


When I could not go along,
they called me "paleofeminist."
When I objected, they called
me "visceral." When I spoke
my mind, they dismissed me
as an "older woman." Now, this
visceral paleofeminist older woman
waits for the panel on women
to be given a budget, to hire a staff,
or to hold a meeting. I watch while
choice, along with pieces of the Constitution,
are tossed on the Washington trash
heap in exchange for something called
"healthcare reform." I feel no surprise
when the Justice Department files a brief
to defend husbands and wives
from gay marriage. I mourn for the mothers
and babies who will die from the red slash
in the global AIDS budget. And yes,
I become angry
when I remember the soldiers who hide,
weapon at the ready, in a closet in Iraq,
Afghanistan and Fort Polk.
And I cannot go along.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.


Diane Elayne Dees is a writer and psychotherapist in Louisiana. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog about women's professional tennis.
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THE ECLIPSE

by Tony Zurlo


Crisp autumn leaves crackle beneath her boots,
a present from her warrior hero during his first
tour defending the mainland from overseas.

She pulls her camouflaged jacket tighter—
another present from a foreign land—
desperate to retain any warmth within.

Promises break down like a weapon disassembled
for inspection, jargon lifted from classic films,
patriotism reduced to commercial clichés.

Her warrior overseas defending the mainland
from—She pried into memory for the right
movie, the right enemy, the righteous cause.

The French or British? The North African
pirates? Or the Mexicans? The damn Yankees?
The Indians? The Germans? The Japanese?

She kicks a bed of pine needles and falls.
A huge ball darkens the sun, and she shades
her eyes from the sun’s fiery corona.

She envisions her hero with bayonet drawn,
or planting a flag in the sand, or defending
her from an imminent attack by Klingons.

In mid-day mid-night, two knights in dress blue
walk slowly toward her, each step crushing
a hero’s promise, and offer her a folded flag.


Tony Zurlo has published books on Vietnam, China, Hong Kong, Japan, Japanese Americans, West Africa, Algeria, Syria, and the United States Congress. His Op-eds and reviews have appeared in many newspapers and journals, including the Houston Chronicle, the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Online Journal, Dissident Voice, Peace Corps Writers, Democrats.US, and Writers Against the War.
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DIVISIONS

by Ann Tweedy


dr. phil is not a person
so much as the idea of one
glib about the most
intractable problems,
subtly insulting the cutter,
bemoaning the example
she provides her children
as though guilt might save her
might save us

he claims he can cure her
as well as the racist who hates
his half-black unborn grandchild
in a visit or two
but he needs them and us to keep up
that imaginary boundary
to track that spurious dichotomy.


Over eighty of Ann Tweedy’s poems have been published in journals such as Gertrude, Rattle, Damselfly Press, Wisconsin Review, and Clackamas Literary Review, and she has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her chapbook Beleaguered Oases is forthcoming from TcCreativePress in Los Angeles. Originally from Massachusetts, she currently lives in San Diego.
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BODY PARTS 2010

by David Plumb


Brought to you by Afghanistan ,

                              Pakistan , Iraq , Iran

               and a worldly host

                              of oil-slick dreams


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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OIL WELLS 1859

by Jean Liebert

     The state of Pennsylvania
Was the start of oil-mania.
     After that: one, two, three,
Came World War I, autos and me.

     Was our earth ready for that?
Yes. As fast as you could say scat,
     Grandpa, father, uncles galore,
Bought autos, then marched off to war.

     They were inundated in Maine ,
Germany and France were the same.
     Few spots in the world were car-less.
We had to admit it was a mess.

     Where was I during all this?
Growing up in a state of bliss.
     Not a clue as to what awaited:
“Global Warming for the ill-fated.”

     Now as the end of life comes to me,
I find oil wells up the same tree.
     We all have had our day.
Time to quietly slip away!


Jean Thurston Liebert, age 91, lives in Corvallis, Oregon. She writes poetry, short stories and novellas. Her published work is included in Apricot Memories, a non-fiction history of the apricot industry in California, Linn Benton Community College’s Collections and the Oregon Writers Colony anthology, Take a Bite of Literature. She recently completed a memoir, Another World.
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JENNIFER AND I

by Dale Goodson


side by side
in her Civic
radio tuned to talk of the President

nobody’s thrilled any more
so much anger
it’s been like this for a year or so

the world is ferocious
our once united hearts are torn
we mourn the conclusion

the President’s year has snarled as well
still there’s hope
we don’t doubt his purpose

our small collapse though
is complete
this cross-town shuttle
our last

I’ll get out
she’ll drive away
nothing is as we’d like


Dale Goodson is a writer from Seattle currently living in New York City.
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COMPLIANCE

by Paul Barclay


The President took troops out of Iraq
But he channeled them into Afghanistan
When his pastor spoke of American
Responsibility, the President said “That’s not what I’m all about”

The President moved to shut down Guantanamo Prison
But he expanded the prison in Bagram
Where the US had been sending abducted men instead
Denied them habeas corpus, treated them like dirt

The President backed a two state solution
And then he gave unconditional support to Israel
As it slaughtered Palestinians
So that no solution would come about

The past drowned so many times
In barrel after barrel of blood
The future crucified to fill
As many more barrels with blood

Government lost in fields of poppies
Sadistic acts enact an Odyssey to the home of Defeat

These conditions obtain
In our name, not on our soil
In North America an overwhelming sense of normalcy
That signifies compliance


Paul Barclay is an ex-pat Canadian living permanently in Korea. In the early 1990s he was active in Winnipeg, where a chapbook was published (Creole, Pachyderm Press) and where he himself published a series of poetry zines (including Losing It, The Winnipeg Moon, and the Dark Road Poetry Zine (the Moon Rose and the Spare Change issues). Some recent poems can be found online in ditch.

FEWTURE INVESTMENTS

Poem by Charles Frederickson; Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote

How Now Dow Jones crossbones
Wall Streetwise barbarous pirates skullduggery
No-how crapshoot pairofdice and Thou
AverAge of stocked deck bondage

Brown Cow chocolate milk duds
Utter nonsense speculation raging bull
Bipolar bear market trading places
Age of Taurus steer clear

Powwow teeny wienies blue chips
Snowplow marshmallows burnt to crisp
Gooey insiders running for cover-up
wAges frozen given pink slip

Bowwow freakonomy ruff road ahead
Every jobless litter bit hurts
Maow catastrophe spay neuter castration
Broker breakage bid adieu Ciao!

No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote together comprise PoeArtry. Flutter Press has just published Charles’ new chapbook fanTHAIsies.
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AVATAR

by Catherine McGuire


While downtown bleeds off
another few stores, and acid rain carves
red brick into glacial moraine,
garbage piling like erratics

on the city floor — show me vast
purple landscapes, pixel-perfect
plains — I want to touch them;
let them flow over me, 3-D.

Show me myself in blue green skin
cornrows dangling like whips;
show the world’s destruction, but
let me hope. Let me dream.

Feed me the hero, so much braver than I
yet down to earth — a pal, with inner grit
(like mine, I’m sure), atomic courage
blowing apart all snares and cunning.

Let me sit in gently rocking, cushioned seats
with a ton of buttered popcorn, quart of pop
my “real life” glowing, wall-sized before me.
Race, fight, love, win — while moving nothing more
than hand to mouth.


Catherine McGuire is a writer and artist with more than 120 poems published in venues such as The New Verse News, The Cape Rock, Green Fuse, The Quizzical Chair Anthology, The Smoking Poet, Portland Lights Anthology, Folio, Tapjoe and Adagio. She is currently assistant director at CALYX Press in Corvallis and will be co-leading a community college workshop, “Ready, Set, Submit!" in April.
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DISAPPOINTMENT

by George Held


Americans are disappointed by their bankers
who are paying too little interest
or foreclosing on them

They are disappointed by their employers
who are paying them too little
or laying them off

They are disappointed by the Congresspersons
who are resisting healthcare reform
or eviscerating it

They are disappointed by their auto dealers
who are offering them gas guzzlers
or not offering them fuel savers

They are disappointed by their President
who is waffling on healthcare reform bank regulation
military withdrawal from Afghanistan curbing pollution

Every day Americans eat the food of disappointment.


George Held has collected many of his New Verse News poems in The News Today.
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CHRISTMAS ON THE UNEMPLOYMENT LINE

by Ray Brown


Life itself recognizes no holidays.
The earth turns.
Holidays, artificial constructs to keep us busy, distracted.

He thought the worst was over.
          thought he was safe.

To make it to the end of 2009, and still have a job -
he breathed a sigh of relief.
After that it did something for his ego,
for as he saw his fellow workers laid off
he thought perhaps his bosses noticed something in him -
but today, December 23rd,
he found himself with a numbered tab,
pulled - as if at the deli or bakery.
If he had a computer, he could have preregistered on-line,
but a year ago they had given up home internet service,
when their real estate taxes grew ten percent,
and he received a 7.5 % wage reduction.
He had not yet discovered
the free computer internet service at the County library.

To stand in line a failure, is a difficult thing.
Humiliating.
The date made it no easier. In the same plaza
a Wal-Mart packed with shoppers finishing their Christmas lists –
He and his wife had told everyone they
would not be exchanging gifts,
though they would do something relatively small –
for the children.

In a line, it seems all eyes are upon you
not as if anyone was here to look at him.
All jobless,
most wondering
why them?
why here?
why now?
most just worried about the next day.

He was surprised given the date, the hour
that they made him stand in a shorter line next door
to see one of a few counselors
about possible job placement, vocational rehabilitation.
The questionnaire somewhat distracted him from his plight.
He pushed back from the former school house desk,
given an appointment to return
he retraced his steps out to the front door,
but unlike Hansel and Gretel
hung onto the few bread crumbs they threw him
then turned right towards his car
which he was glad had not been reposed, there,
in the unemployment parking lot.

He passed a homeless man, head on a stack of newspapers,
bundled in a coat which clearly had seen better days,
now worn through by the night cold,
body resting against the warmth of the building
which both absorbed, then radiated back, the winter sun.

He shuffled 20 yards further along the sidewalk
approached by a hand with a paper cup,
their common gait uncanny,
this fellow traveler sought change for a coffee.
Only now he realized that when he had the money he would
look askance, disdainfully, as he passed this hand
going into the Wal-Mart to shop with this children.
Now when he could least afford it
he took his only quarter
placed it with some deliberateness in the cup:

. . . when he had much, he appreciated little about what he had--
and now, when he had little,
he appreciated much more, the little he had.


Ray Brown lives in Frenchtown, NJ. He is a graduate of the University of Notre Dame and Rutgers-The State University of New Jersey. His poetry has appeared in the 13th Annual Poetry Ink Chapbook, Moonstone Publishing, Philadelphia; The Star-Ledger of Newark; NJ Lawyer Magazine; and previously in The New Verse News. He received a NJ Poetry Society 2009 Recognition Award, and will be published in upcoming volumes of the Edison Literary Review, the Big Hammer, FreeXpresSion, and the River Poets Journal.
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IN THE WHITE OF BEN BERNANKE'S EYE

by Merry Speece


In a dream I waited for a number to rise on a large hand-drawn chart divided into three columns. I kept my eye on the middle column. The columns on either side began to fill, but the middle column, the one important to my own fortunes, remained empty throughout the designated time.

Then I understood that now the time was over, stop waiting. I had nothing, time to come to life.

Ben Bernanke came by. He took my hand and explained that he'd been forced to suppress the indicator that might have risen in the middle column. He'd had to do this to protect millions. The protection of millions makes more sense than the protection of what little I had had to start with.

Ben Bernanke has a good head on his shoulders. I've always been able to see that.

I looked into the eye closest to my right eye, his left. I looked not into pupil but into the white. The white of his eye was shot with blue, in one bright spot, blue rather than red, the bluest blue, opening up, the white in Ben Bernanke's eye, into sky.


Merry Speece has published two chapbooks of poetry and has been a recipient of a state arts commission fellowship in prose. Her Sisters Grimke Book of Days (Oasis Press, England), which one reviewer called a prose poem, is a work of fragmented historical scholarship.
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