by J. D. Mackenzie
I’m watching the unfolding drama
the hard, compact capsule entering
the earth with a steady urgency
pulling out
then entering again and again
amid passionate Latin screams
This causes me wonder
if you and I could ever make love
in that small space
Sure, it’s cramped
but we should never discount
the motivations of the desperate
how hunger makes us frantic
how longing makes us small
J. D. Mackenzie recently resumed writing after a walkabout in Wales and Ireland, which he describes as the mother ships of poets. He is an occasional contributor to New Verse News and other poetry journals.
_____________________________________________________
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
THE SENATOR AND THE SWORDSMITH
by Chas Holden
The bag of coins feels a burden
cumbersome and conspicuous
under his white senatorial robes
as he slinks through
moon-shadowed side streets
Yet it had seemed light
a trifle in the Swordsmith’s
war-torn arms when
scarred hands passed
stuffed purse secretly
under the anvil in his shop
This night his mind doesn't turn to justifications--just keeping us
both in business--doesn’t tell himself that he had to sell his vote
on the war in order to afford the votes supporting his seat.
Nor does he seek refuge in the recollection of his constituents:
the peasants’ paean and joyous shouts spring from unwashed masses
when he showers them with sanguinary silver, gory gold
like a grand general’s triumphant march back from barbaric frontier.
No
his thoughts are fixed
on one observation:
the weight of wealth
and how the bribe
bows him like a beggar
as he retreats to his villa
Chas Holden is a freelance writer/photographer, struggling poet/grad-student, and former practitioner of journalism--his words and images have appeared in newspapers around WV and PA. Today, he is a disciple of poetry as a more potent way to disseminate discovered truths. Recently his work has been featured on the Poets for Living Waters website and in 5x5, a journal of concise poetry.
_____________________________________________________
The bag of coins feels a burden
cumbersome and conspicuous
under his white senatorial robes
as he slinks through
moon-shadowed side streets
Yet it had seemed light
a trifle in the Swordsmith’s
war-torn arms when
scarred hands passed
stuffed purse secretly
under the anvil in his shop
This night his mind doesn't turn to justifications--just keeping us
both in business--doesn’t tell himself that he had to sell his vote
on the war in order to afford the votes supporting his seat.
Nor does he seek refuge in the recollection of his constituents:
the peasants’ paean and joyous shouts spring from unwashed masses
when he showers them with sanguinary silver, gory gold
like a grand general’s triumphant march back from barbaric frontier.
No
his thoughts are fixed
on one observation:
the weight of wealth
and how the bribe
bows him like a beggar
as he retreats to his villa
Chas Holden is a freelance writer/photographer, struggling poet/grad-student, and former practitioner of journalism--his words and images have appeared in newspapers around WV and PA. Today, he is a disciple of poetry as a more potent way to disseminate discovered truths. Recently his work has been featured on the Poets for Living Waters website and in 5x5, a journal of concise poetry.
_____________________________________________________
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
POLITICS
by David Radavich
Politics
by any other name
would not smell as sweet,
weed most voters pull
from the yard,
wild-headed seedpod
with clamorous roots,
drought-resistant
as anything
but life
still clawing
and scrambling
over each wall
and gate,
vine that wraps
every day in its green
tentacles,
occasionally flowering
a full night after
digging up
and tearing out
the vestiges.
David Radavich's poetry publications include Slain Species (Court Poetry Press, London), By the Way (Buttonwood Press, 1998), Greatest Hits (Pudding House Press, 2000), and America Bound: An Epic for Our Time (Plain View Press, 2007)as well as individual poems in anthologies and magazines. His plays have been performed across the U.S. and abroad, including five Off-Off-Broadway productions. He also enjoys writing essays on poetry, drama, and contemporary issues. His latest book is Canonicals: Love’s Hours (Finishing Line, 2009).
___________________________________________
Politics
by any other name
would not smell as sweet,
weed most voters pull
from the yard,
wild-headed seedpod
with clamorous roots,
drought-resistant
as anything
but life
still clawing
and scrambling
over each wall
and gate,
vine that wraps
every day in its green
tentacles,
occasionally flowering
a full night after
digging up
and tearing out
the vestiges.
David Radavich's poetry publications include Slain Species (Court Poetry Press, London), By the Way (Buttonwood Press, 1998), Greatest Hits (Pudding House Press, 2000), and America Bound: An Epic for Our Time (Plain View Press, 2007)as well as individual poems in anthologies and magazines. His plays have been performed across the U.S. and abroad, including five Off-Off-Broadway productions. He also enjoys writing essays on poetry, drama, and contemporary issues. His latest book is Canonicals: Love’s Hours (Finishing Line, 2009).
___________________________________________
Monday, October 11, 2010
CITIZEN
by Sharon Lask Munson
I don’t vote
the woman proclaims smugly
as the plane approaches the gate.
Every morning she crunches numbers
buying and selling stocks and bonds,
ciphers margins,
scribbles numerals in plump portfolios
while slowly sipping her favorite
vanilla-flavored double-latte.
She never steps into a voting booth
or assumes responsibility,
lives comfortably on the twenty-fifth floor
overlooking the park,
her dark-green, late-model Citroen, garaged
for getaways and country weekends.
She spurns political discussions,
never watches debates
or studies candidates running for office,
doesn’t think political parties stand for her
as she never agrees
and both sides are wrong.
She speaks out against school bonds
as her children are grown,
rejects branch libraries
and rapid transit,
talks down America,
is out of town for elections —
boards planes easily,
packs lightly, flying to foreign shores,
extols the virtues of café crème and Camembert,
peppers her conversation with a little French
and a spatter of Italian,
makes herself at home in the world
as she tangos from border to border.
Sharon Lask Munson grew up in Detroit, Michigan. After thirty years of teaching overseas and in Alaska, she is retired and lives in Eugene, Oregon. She has poems in Sandcutters, Windfall, Verseweaves, Earth’s Daughter, Thema, Drash: Northwest Mosaic, Goose River Press, and many others. Her chapbook, Stillness Settles Down the Lane, was published in Summer, 2010, by Uttered Chaos Press.
_____________________________________________________
It’s not the hand that signs the laws
that holds the destiny of America.
It’s the hand that casts the ballot.
— Harry S. Truman
that holds the destiny of America.
It’s the hand that casts the ballot.
— Harry S. Truman
I don’t vote
the woman proclaims smugly
as the plane approaches the gate.
Every morning she crunches numbers
buying and selling stocks and bonds,
ciphers margins,
scribbles numerals in plump portfolios
while slowly sipping her favorite
vanilla-flavored double-latte.
She never steps into a voting booth
or assumes responsibility,
lives comfortably on the twenty-fifth floor
overlooking the park,
her dark-green, late-model Citroen, garaged
for getaways and country weekends.
She spurns political discussions,
never watches debates
or studies candidates running for office,
doesn’t think political parties stand for her
as she never agrees
and both sides are wrong.
She speaks out against school bonds
as her children are grown,
rejects branch libraries
and rapid transit,
talks down America,
is out of town for elections —
boards planes easily,
packs lightly, flying to foreign shores,
extols the virtues of café crème and Camembert,
peppers her conversation with a little French
and a spatter of Italian,
makes herself at home in the world
as she tangos from border to border.
Sharon Lask Munson grew up in Detroit, Michigan. After thirty years of teaching overseas and in Alaska, she is retired and lives in Eugene, Oregon. She has poems in Sandcutters, Windfall, Verseweaves, Earth’s Daughter, Thema, Drash: Northwest Mosaic, Goose River Press, and many others. Her chapbook, Stillness Settles Down the Lane, was published in Summer, 2010, by Uttered Chaos Press.
_____________________________________________________
Sunday, October 10, 2010
ELECTION 2010
by Anne Davies
It's the mission of snarky John Boehner
Whose intentions couldn't be plainer:
With Republican party connival
Obama's bills are dead on arrival.
In the Senate McConnell's the artisan
Who kills any efforts bipartisan
Threatened by brute opposition
Democracy may die of attrition.
With leaders so flagrant and feral
We ignore their goals at our peril
No time for talk euphemistic
We're in danger of edging fascistic
Though Democrats are a feckless lot
At the moment they're all we've got
Grit your teeth and open your purse
The alternative's immeasurably worse.
Anne Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published in local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.
__________________________________________________
It's the mission of snarky John Boehner
Whose intentions couldn't be plainer:
With Republican party connival
Obama's bills are dead on arrival.
In the Senate McConnell's the artisan
Who kills any efforts bipartisan
Threatened by brute opposition
Democracy may die of attrition.
With leaders so flagrant and feral
We ignore their goals at our peril
No time for talk euphemistic
We're in danger of edging fascistic
Though Democrats are a feckless lot
At the moment they're all we've got
Grit your teeth and open your purse
The alternative's immeasurably worse.
Anne Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published in local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.
__________________________________________________
Saturday, October 09, 2010
UNFINISHED: FOR JOHN LENNON'S 70th BIRTHDAY
The Mike Douglas Show (1972) with co-hosts John Lennon & Yoko Ono.
Uploaded to DailyMotion by Red_Chuck. - Watch more music videos, in HD!
_____________________________________________________
Friday, October 08, 2010
NON-RHYMING SONNET ON THE DEFINITION OF DEVELOPMENT
by Scot Siegel
Sometimes when I am not thinking like a planner or a citizen
I wonder why "subdivisions" are included in the definition
of "development," since the division of land, in planner-speak,
is something that happens on paper and not on the ground.
Technically, it's only after a developer receives preliminary
plat approval that you begin to see any land altering activity;
or at least that's how it's supposed to work. But even after
the lots and streets have been staked and the sewer and water mains
and cable and power and gas lines stubbed. And even after the final
lift of asphalt and the recording of the plat. And even after the foundations
have been poured, the walls framed, and the whole place wired and plumbed
for human habitation, the ground beneath us remains idle,
Undivided, dormant as dog asleep in a park, until the next tectonic variance
turns the earth into a wolf and rips the whole neighborhood apart
Scot Siegel lives in Oregon with his wife and two daughters. He is the author of three volumes of poetry: Some Weather (Plain View Press, 2008), Untitled Country (Pudding House Publications, 2009), and Skeleton Says (just out from Finishing Line Press). Another full-length collection is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry in early 2012. Siegel serves on the board of trustees of the Friends of William Stafford and edits the online poetry journal Untitled Country Review.
___________________________________________
- after attending André LeDuc's presentation on Disaster Readiness
at the Oregon Planning Institute, University of Oregon, Sept. 16, 2010
at the Oregon Planning Institute, University of Oregon, Sept. 16, 2010
Sometimes when I am not thinking like a planner or a citizen
I wonder why "subdivisions" are included in the definition
of "development," since the division of land, in planner-speak,
is something that happens on paper and not on the ground.
Technically, it's only after a developer receives preliminary
plat approval that you begin to see any land altering activity;
or at least that's how it's supposed to work. But even after
the lots and streets have been staked and the sewer and water mains
and cable and power and gas lines stubbed. And even after the final
lift of asphalt and the recording of the plat. And even after the foundations
have been poured, the walls framed, and the whole place wired and plumbed
for human habitation, the ground beneath us remains idle,
Undivided, dormant as dog asleep in a park, until the next tectonic variance
turns the earth into a wolf and rips the whole neighborhood apart
Scot Siegel lives in Oregon with his wife and two daughters. He is the author of three volumes of poetry: Some Weather (Plain View Press, 2008), Untitled Country (Pudding House Publications, 2009), and Skeleton Says (just out from Finishing Line Press). Another full-length collection is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry in early 2012. Siegel serves on the board of trustees of the Friends of William Stafford and edits the online poetry journal Untitled Country Review.
___________________________________________
Thursday, October 07, 2010
NEO-HUMANIST GRAPH
by Terry Wright
Author’s Notes: “Neo-Humanist Graph” is from a prose poem series entitled “Graphs.” I once described the series as follows: “In the physical or digital world, graphs display data using a pictorial device. In mathematics, graphs abstractly represent a set of objects, some of which are linked and shown with abstractions called vertices, while the links that tie pairs of vertices are known as edges. Graphs often take the form of diagrams that show a relationship, sometimes functional, between two sets. Generally, these sets take the form of points or numbers, but, here, in these diagrams, other relationships are displayed as the vertices become abstract forms of the heart and mind, and the edges tie together context, whether social, political, cultural, or personal.”
underworld recycles: Michiko Kakutani, in a NY Times review of Don Delillo’s Underworld, describes the controlling metaphor of the novel as “waste, with chemical and nuclear toxins, as well as the more mundane trash our ravenous, bulimic society recycles.” sin must be placed: From Aorearoa, 3-8-09: “’Thousands of the worst families in England are to be put in sin bins in a bid to change their bad behaviour,’ Ed Balls announced yesterday.” Satan is green: If the “underworld recycles,” it follows the devil must be green, just as he was in Chaucer’s “Friar’s Tale.” mole slumming: The moles will not be content in middle management. CNN.com, 6-6-07: “During the first GOP presidential debate last month in California, three Republican candidates raised eyebrows by indicating they did not subscribe to Charles Darwin's theory of evolution.” detecting welfare scum: One member, according to the Urban Dictionary 2010 calendar, would likely be a “scummy mummy,” a “dirty bitch who has kids for one reason only, to get welfare money.” cheaper than training: And certainly less expensive than incarceration. filibuster on Foster: Dr. Henry Foster was filibustered and blocked as a nominee for U.S. Surgeon General in 1995. Eric Zorn, writing in the Chicago Tribune, 8-22-09, explicates the word filibuster that “originally meant ‘pirate’ and referred to the U.S. mercenaries who invaded and seized Caribbean and Central American territories in the 1800s. Wordsmiths saw a similarity between these pirates and the senators who seized control of legislation by stalling debate to thwart majority rule.” WILL WORK FOR FOOD: An early appearance of an anomaly. slackers under stones: Stoning may be the oldest method of execution. Tom Head, on about.com, writing about civil liberties, explains how it works: “The prisoner is buried either up to his waist (if male) or up to her shoulders (if female) and then pelted with stones by a crowd of volunteers until obviously battered to death. Under the terms of most fundamentalist courts, the stones must be small enough that death cannot reasonably be expected to result from only one or two blows, but large enough to cause physical harm.” rental truck packed: During the early preparations for the Oklahoma City bombing, according to Delphic Wikipedia: “On April 14, 1995, [Timothy] McVeigh paid for a motel room at the Dreamland Motel in Junction City, KS. The following day he rented a Ryder truck under the name Robert D. Kling, an alias he adopted because he knew an Army soldier named Kling with whom he shared physical characteristics, and because it reminded him of the Klingon warriors of the Star Trek media franchise.” Here’s McVeigh, later, reflecting on his victims’ deaths: ”Think about the people as if they were storm troopers in Star Wars. They may be individually innocent, but they are guilty because they work for the Evil Empire.” want a revolution: The Beatles: “You say you want a revolution / Well, you know, we all want to change the world.” For a case in point, see Sam Green and Bill Spiegel’s The Weather Underground. Tell the ferryman to stick it: But only if you possess a few coins and have remarkable bartering skills. Charon: In Greek mythology, Charon is the ferryman of the dead, a daimon in service to underworld king Hades. His fee was an obolos (coin) placed in the mouth (or two coins covering the eyes) and collected from only the properly buried dead. rant on the House floor: Today’s filibusters are bad theater and so literal-minded. Where are yesteryear’s surrealist 24-7 readings of cookbooks? Third Wave: Both the 1980 book by futurist Alvin Toffler and the 1967 experiment in high school fascism conducted by history teacher Ron Jones. On his web site, Jones says he invented “a class salute by bringing his right hand toward his right shoulder in an outwardly curled position, resembling a wave.” Despite Third Wave’s ontological likeness to Third Reich, Jones claims he “borrowed the term from beach folklore.” Big Bird’s resume: According to a Usenet post on alt.tv.sesame-street, 7-17-08, Caroll Spinney, the performer who plays Bird Bird, “remembers a visit to Georgia Tech in 1972, when the costume was ‘ravaged’ by ROTC students. When he found Big Bird, one of the eyes was hanging off.” your Viking funeral: I will have to get my own. The Contract: The Contract with America, a document released by the Republican National Party in 1994. President Bill Clinton sarcastically referred to it as the Contract on America. pirate-for-life Scalia: Antonin Scalia has been vigorously boosting booty from textualism and originalism on the U.S. Supreme Court since 1986. burial at sea: American director Alfred Hitchcock, dead April 29, 1980, said: “There is nothing quite so good as burial at sea. It is simple, tidy, and not very incriminating.”
_____________________________________________________
Terry Wright teaches creative writing at the University of Central Arkansas and serves as Associate Editor of the Exquisite Corpse Annual. Terry believes his sunrise can beat up yours.
_____________________________________________________
Godlessness is dead but even the underworld recycles. Each sin must be placed in its own colorful asbestos bin. Outed with shame you look like trash. Satan is green again. The preacher is a pol or a mole slumming on your school board. His mindset set on detecting welfare scum. Take care smoking out body mass counts. Blame is cheaper than training. Stage a filibuster on Foster and stall that minimum wage hike. Scrawled in magic marker WILL WORK FOR FOOD is guillotined by your tinted power window. Cast deep six cheats and slackers under stones and block grants. Toss around mandates like a rental truck packed with fertilizer. You say you want a revolution. Tell the ferryman to stick it as you rock the boat on talk radio. Charon’s stuck in a hell of a service job without a signal flare. No way he’s got a future or a free laptop. No success story here to rant on the House floor or ride out the Third Wave. Downsize everything. Big Bird’s resume reads better anyway. She’s a flamer and will pole you across in a blazing nest. Hey. It’s your Viking funeral. You’ll burn out and drift with the herd before docking. No crock or urn will hold what’s left. You signed on and the blood’s still damp on The Contract. The hit man is not Mafia but pirate-for-life Scalia and burial at sea sounds good to me.
Author’s Notes: “Neo-Humanist Graph” is from a prose poem series entitled “Graphs.” I once described the series as follows: “In the physical or digital world, graphs display data using a pictorial device. In mathematics, graphs abstractly represent a set of objects, some of which are linked and shown with abstractions called vertices, while the links that tie pairs of vertices are known as edges. Graphs often take the form of diagrams that show a relationship, sometimes functional, between two sets. Generally, these sets take the form of points or numbers, but, here, in these diagrams, other relationships are displayed as the vertices become abstract forms of the heart and mind, and the edges tie together context, whether social, political, cultural, or personal.”
underworld recycles: Michiko Kakutani, in a NY Times review of Don Delillo’s Underworld, describes the controlling metaphor of the novel as “waste, with chemical and nuclear toxins, as well as the more mundane trash our ravenous, bulimic society recycles.” sin must be placed: From Aorearoa, 3-8-09: “’Thousands of the worst families in England are to be put in sin bins in a bid to change their bad behaviour,’ Ed Balls announced yesterday.” Satan is green: If the “underworld recycles,” it follows the devil must be green, just as he was in Chaucer’s “Friar’s Tale.” mole slumming: The moles will not be content in middle management. CNN.com, 6-6-07: “During the first GOP presidential debate last month in California, three Republican candidates raised eyebrows by indicating they did not subscribe to Charles Darwin's theory of evolution.” detecting welfare scum: One member, according to the Urban Dictionary 2010 calendar, would likely be a “scummy mummy,” a “dirty bitch who has kids for one reason only, to get welfare money.” cheaper than training: And certainly less expensive than incarceration. filibuster on Foster: Dr. Henry Foster was filibustered and blocked as a nominee for U.S. Surgeon General in 1995. Eric Zorn, writing in the Chicago Tribune, 8-22-09, explicates the word filibuster that “originally meant ‘pirate’ and referred to the U.S. mercenaries who invaded and seized Caribbean and Central American territories in the 1800s. Wordsmiths saw a similarity between these pirates and the senators who seized control of legislation by stalling debate to thwart majority rule.” WILL WORK FOR FOOD: An early appearance of an anomaly. slackers under stones: Stoning may be the oldest method of execution. Tom Head, on about.com, writing about civil liberties, explains how it works: “The prisoner is buried either up to his waist (if male) or up to her shoulders (if female) and then pelted with stones by a crowd of volunteers until obviously battered to death. Under the terms of most fundamentalist courts, the stones must be small enough that death cannot reasonably be expected to result from only one or two blows, but large enough to cause physical harm.” rental truck packed: During the early preparations for the Oklahoma City bombing, according to Delphic Wikipedia: “On April 14, 1995, [Timothy] McVeigh paid for a motel room at the Dreamland Motel in Junction City, KS. The following day he rented a Ryder truck under the name Robert D. Kling, an alias he adopted because he knew an Army soldier named Kling with whom he shared physical characteristics, and because it reminded him of the Klingon warriors of the Star Trek media franchise.” Here’s McVeigh, later, reflecting on his victims’ deaths: ”Think about the people as if they were storm troopers in Star Wars. They may be individually innocent, but they are guilty because they work for the Evil Empire.” want a revolution: The Beatles: “You say you want a revolution / Well, you know, we all want to change the world.” For a case in point, see Sam Green and Bill Spiegel’s The Weather Underground. Tell the ferryman to stick it: But only if you possess a few coins and have remarkable bartering skills. Charon: In Greek mythology, Charon is the ferryman of the dead, a daimon in service to underworld king Hades. His fee was an obolos (coin) placed in the mouth (or two coins covering the eyes) and collected from only the properly buried dead. rant on the House floor: Today’s filibusters are bad theater and so literal-minded. Where are yesteryear’s surrealist 24-7 readings of cookbooks? Third Wave: Both the 1980 book by futurist Alvin Toffler and the 1967 experiment in high school fascism conducted by history teacher Ron Jones. On his web site, Jones says he invented “a class salute by bringing his right hand toward his right shoulder in an outwardly curled position, resembling a wave.” Despite Third Wave’s ontological likeness to Third Reich, Jones claims he “borrowed the term from beach folklore.” Big Bird’s resume: According to a Usenet post on alt.tv.sesame-street, 7-17-08, Caroll Spinney, the performer who plays Bird Bird, “remembers a visit to Georgia Tech in 1972, when the costume was ‘ravaged’ by ROTC students. When he found Big Bird, one of the eyes was hanging off.” your Viking funeral: I will have to get my own. The Contract: The Contract with America, a document released by the Republican National Party in 1994. President Bill Clinton sarcastically referred to it as the Contract on America. pirate-for-life Scalia: Antonin Scalia has been vigorously boosting booty from textualism and originalism on the U.S. Supreme Court since 1986. burial at sea: American director Alfred Hitchcock, dead April 29, 1980, said: “There is nothing quite so good as burial at sea. It is simple, tidy, and not very incriminating.”
_____________________________________________________
Terry Wright teaches creative writing at the University of Central Arkansas and serves as Associate Editor of the Exquisite Corpse Annual. Terry believes his sunrise can beat up yours.
_____________________________________________________
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
JERRY SPRINGER MIND
by Susan Supley
Paparazzi business plan
Gone to hell in a basket,
No one hides anymore.
All the walls made of glass
Every hero wears clay feet.
Wayward members beneath the miter
Threaten the Roman treasure.
No lines drawn to follow,
Nowhere for it to go, will find
A friend on Face Book
To tell the problem to, so
All can share opinions
Without solution or absolution
That might present an obligation
To do the right thing and spoil
Somebody’s fun in Farmville.
Susan Supley lives in Upstate New York. She is a retired nurse. Not having to work for a living, she can now live as a poet.
_____________________________________________________
Paparazzi business plan
Gone to hell in a basket,
No one hides anymore.
All the walls made of glass
Every hero wears clay feet.
Wayward members beneath the miter
Threaten the Roman treasure.
No lines drawn to follow,
Nowhere for it to go, will find
A friend on Face Book
To tell the problem to, so
All can share opinions
Without solution or absolution
That might present an obligation
To do the right thing and spoil
Somebody’s fun in Farmville.
Susan Supley lives in Upstate New York. She is a retired nurse. Not having to work for a living, she can now live as a poet.
_____________________________________________________
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
FALL ALLERGIES
by Earl J. Wilcox
Political pollutants taint the air this time of year---
Worse than ragweed pollen, loblolly pines,
Queen Anne’s lace, grasses galore. Yard signs,
TV sound bytes, slick flyers, Internet yahooing,
Robodialing, stump meetings, word of mouth
Disease threatening our health more than Swine Flu.
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.
_____________________________________________________
Political pollutants taint the air this time of year---
Worse than ragweed pollen, loblolly pines,
Queen Anne’s lace, grasses galore. Yard signs,
TV sound bytes, slick flyers, Internet yahooing,
Robodialing, stump meetings, word of mouth
Disease threatening our health more than Swine Flu.
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.
_____________________________________________________
Monday, October 04, 2010
ABRACADABRA
by James Penha
“Yes it's happening again." --Darun Ravi
"Jumping off the gw bridge sorry." --Tyler Clementi
Soaring out of body by a lover’s magic
when a different breed of mate lying
in wait with one fiddleback
webs him on invisible waves even higher
a crisscrossed angel levitation so misdirected
not even the pigeon knows he is on the air
until he sees himself naked and gut-strung
to a link fence infinitely
tweeting caged-bird ejaculations
no prayer can answer
unless houdini in reverse
he will escape into the river
manacled and disappear forever
sorry
James Penha edits The New Verse News.
_____________________________________________________
“Nobody deserves that. I don't care who you are.
A college freshman was...tied to a fence, and left
for dead in Wyoming this week. --The Laramie Project
for dead in Wyoming this week. --The Laramie Project
“Yes it's happening again." --Darun Ravi
"Jumping off the gw bridge sorry." --Tyler Clementi
Soaring out of body by a lover’s magic
when a different breed of mate lying
in wait with one fiddleback
webs him on invisible waves even higher
a crisscrossed angel levitation so misdirected
not even the pigeon knows he is on the air
until he sees himself naked and gut-strung
to a link fence infinitely
tweeting caged-bird ejaculations
no prayer can answer
unless houdini in reverse
he will escape into the river
manacled and disappear forever
sorry
James Penha edits The New Verse News.
_____________________________________________________
Sunday, October 03, 2010
OCTOBER OLIVE HARVEST
by Bonnie Naradzay
The time for harvesting olives heightens the ancient moan of violence.
Palestine, your olive oil has survived the deadly zone of violence.
The sound of Arabic floats above silvery trees in ancient olive groves.
Whole families, visible in the fields: targets for stone hurling violence.
Our trees, bulldozed. We’ll plant more, and water them with our tears.
Arson has carried away our harvest with its fiery wind-blown violence.
O Hebron, the IDF militants are complacent and look the other way.
Trespassing, masked settlers swing chains: bone breaking violence.
What use, coming to the table, weakly mouthing conciliatory terms?
I tell you, Nablus reels from rubber bullets, the harsh tone of violence.
The police station’s located in an illegal settlement. Why complain?
Eye-witness alone are left to smuggle the word of this unknown violence.
Where are the village festivals and celebrations at olive harvest time?
Instead of sowing seeds, our children grow to anger, honed from violence.
Bonnie Naradzay lives in Silver Spring, Maryland, earned an MFA from the University of Southern Maine (Stonecoast) in 2008, and has published in numerous print and online journals.
______________________________________________________
The time for harvesting olives heightens the ancient moan of violence.
Palestine, your olive oil has survived the deadly zone of violence.
The sound of Arabic floats above silvery trees in ancient olive groves.
Whole families, visible in the fields: targets for stone hurling violence.
Our trees, bulldozed. We’ll plant more, and water them with our tears.
Arson has carried away our harvest with its fiery wind-blown violence.
O Hebron, the IDF militants are complacent and look the other way.
Trespassing, masked settlers swing chains: bone breaking violence.
What use, coming to the table, weakly mouthing conciliatory terms?
I tell you, Nablus reels from rubber bullets, the harsh tone of violence.
The police station’s located in an illegal settlement. Why complain?
Eye-witness alone are left to smuggle the word of this unknown violence.
Where are the village festivals and celebrations at olive harvest time?
Instead of sowing seeds, our children grow to anger, honed from violence.
Bonnie Naradzay lives in Silver Spring, Maryland, earned an MFA from the University of Southern Maine (Stonecoast) in 2008, and has published in numerous print and online journals.
______________________________________________________
Saturday, October 02, 2010
WRITTEN DURING THE OIL SPILL: THE TYLER LIBRARY'S CONFEDERACY MEMORIAL
by Paul French
When he saw that it was good, he snatched it,
weak wax paper folding, falling to the ground--
the boll of grape flavored candy bare on the stick.
Unveiled, some teeth in a grin;
he raised the confection
like a baton and marched down book aisles
while his father stared into a display filled
with Confederate dolls and plastic roses;
a gilded cavalry sword lying beside UDC pamphlets,
their sallow sheets highlighting the forward push
of flint-chinned infantry, lining up in defense
of the profit gushing from black
labor marking fields up to their horizons--
their bodies
dipped and rose
like well oiled
machines.
When the Father turned around and found
his son, he noticed that the child
was using his mouth's every muscle
to suck.
The work of Paul French, a young poet, has appeared in Din Magazine.
_____________________________________________________
When he saw that it was good, he snatched it,
weak wax paper folding, falling to the ground--
the boll of grape flavored candy bare on the stick.
Unveiled, some teeth in a grin;
he raised the confection
like a baton and marched down book aisles
while his father stared into a display filled
with Confederate dolls and plastic roses;
a gilded cavalry sword lying beside UDC pamphlets,
their sallow sheets highlighting the forward push
of flint-chinned infantry, lining up in defense
of the profit gushing from black
labor marking fields up to their horizons--
their bodies
dipped and rose
like well oiled
machines.
When the Father turned around and found
his son, he noticed that the child
was using his mouth's every muscle
to suck.
The work of Paul French, a young poet, has appeared in Din Magazine.
_____________________________________________________
Friday, October 01, 2010
YOU'VE DONE ENOUGH
by Steve Hellyard Swartz
While we’re waiting for Superman and Godot, might as well wait for Mr. Welch, who said to Senator McCarthy :
You’ve done enough
Dharun Ravi
Remember that name
Molly Wei
Remember hers, too
Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei
Dharun, the roommate of
Tyler Clementi, whose name isn’t that important, he was only 19, just a kid
But Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei
Those two you’re going to know
Mr. Welch, where are you? Superman and Godot are lying low, but you – Mr. Welch?
In dorm rooms, in playgrounds, in McDonald’s, in chatrooms, Mr. Welch Where is your -
You’ve done enough
It wasn’t there when we needed it
Not there when Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei set up their video equipment to
beam Tyler Clementi, the just a kid, having sex with another just a kid who just so happened to be a man
You’ve done enough
was nowhere in the mix when
Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei broadcast Tyler and the other guy
having sex
Live on the internet
You’ve done enough
wasn’t anywhere in the ether, either, when Seth Walsh, 13, just a kid, only a littler kid, was taunted again and again, so much so that he hanged himself in his backyard
I wonder if Tyler, standing on the railing of the George Washington Bridge, as cars sped by behind him and the Hudson flowed to the sea below
I wonder if Seth, with the noose tightening around his neck
I wonder if Tyler and Seth, two just a kids of the many thousands who kill themselves or try to every year, I wonder
if right before they closed their eyes for the last time, if they didn’t think that this was the only way out, the only way for them in a world where we never ever seem to learn that we have done enough
Steve Hellyard Swartz is Poet Laureate of Schenectady, NY. He is a frequent contributor to New Verse News. Swartz is a 2011 Pushcart Prize nominee for Poetry. His poems have appeared in The Patterson Review, The Southern Indiana Review, The Kennesaw Review, and online at Best Poem and switched-on gutenberg. He is the winner of a First Place Award given by the Society of Professional Journalists for Excellence in Broadcasting. In 1990, Never Leave Nevada, a movie he wrote and directed, opened at the US Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah.
_____________________________________________________
While we’re waiting for Superman and Godot, might as well wait for Mr. Welch, who said to Senator McCarthy :
You’ve done enough
Dharun Ravi
Remember that name
Molly Wei
Remember hers, too
Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei
Dharun, the roommate of
Tyler Clementi, whose name isn’t that important, he was only 19, just a kid
But Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei
Those two you’re going to know
Mr. Welch, where are you? Superman and Godot are lying low, but you – Mr. Welch?
In dorm rooms, in playgrounds, in McDonald’s, in chatrooms, Mr. Welch Where is your -
You’ve done enough
It wasn’t there when we needed it
Not there when Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei set up their video equipment to
beam Tyler Clementi, the just a kid, having sex with another just a kid who just so happened to be a man
You’ve done enough
was nowhere in the mix when
Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei broadcast Tyler and the other guy
having sex
Live on the internet
You’ve done enough
wasn’t anywhere in the ether, either, when Seth Walsh, 13, just a kid, only a littler kid, was taunted again and again, so much so that he hanged himself in his backyard
I wonder if Tyler, standing on the railing of the George Washington Bridge, as cars sped by behind him and the Hudson flowed to the sea below
I wonder if Seth, with the noose tightening around his neck
I wonder if Tyler and Seth, two just a kids of the many thousands who kill themselves or try to every year, I wonder
if right before they closed their eyes for the last time, if they didn’t think that this was the only way out, the only way for them in a world where we never ever seem to learn that we have done enough
Steve Hellyard Swartz is Poet Laureate of Schenectady, NY. He is a frequent contributor to New Verse News. Swartz is a 2011 Pushcart Prize nominee for Poetry. His poems have appeared in The Patterson Review, The Southern Indiana Review, The Kennesaw Review, and online at Best Poem and switched-on gutenberg. He is the winner of a First Place Award given by the Society of Professional Journalists for Excellence in Broadcasting. In 1990, Never Leave Nevada, a movie he wrote and directed, opened at the US Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah.
_____________________________________________________
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