DID YOU KNOW?

by Steve Hellyard Swartz


Did you know that Obama's trip to India is costing one trillion dollars per day, and that's a conservative estimate?

Did you know that we have sent 100,000 Persian cats, each one a certified black-belt sensei, on several Navy warships, to the Gulf of Bombay, just in case?

Did you know that a cabal of liberal Jewish filmmakers, led by a dozen Judd Apatow-lookalikes, are filming Obama's triumphal return to his birthplace of Indonesia, which will have its world premiere in front of a delirious crowd of 150,000 octaroon Hitler Youth at a rally in Nuremberg, Germany just in time for the Presidential election of 1936?

Did you know that when my mother broke her hip on Saturday morning, the hospital ER admission clerk gave me a dirty look when I said: "You still accept Medicare here"?


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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FORTUNE COOKIE NO. 4: DEMAGOGUERY

by Patricia Barone

        for Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachman

You are far more influential than you think.
Not thinking makes you far more
influenced yourself,
that’s for sure.

The full content of your heart
is an aneurysm in your brain, ballooning
flatus: You feel and so you influence
Americans, who only want to be
in the warm fluid of us, of US,

we who despise the ones who think
and confront US
with facts,
who stir up
dark people below
who want to have our lives,
destroy our marriages,
with their fluency.

You are. Far more influential than Jesus,
you think you think but you don’t—
you hate, “refudiate,” refuse
to think of the harm
you cause.

 
Patricia Barone, who expects the No-Nothings to ultimately defeat themselves, has published a book of poetry, Handmade Paper, and a novella, The Wind, with New Rivers Press. Her work recently appeared in The Wind Blows, The Ice Breaks, Poems of Loss and Renewal from Nodin Press. She has received a Loft-McKnight Award of Distinction in poetry.
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O HAITI

by George Held


O Haiti, what you done to be so punished?
Earthquake, cholera, hurricane—
You musta done something mighty bad
To be punished like a gal what broke
All Ten Commandments.

O Haiti, what you done to be so punished?
Earthquake, cholera, hurricane—
Was it you squatted in the middle of the sea
Or lost the war with the Dominicans
And were left in “the land of high mountains”?

O Haiti, what you done to be so punished?
Earthquake, cholera, hurricane—
Was it you let the French take out l’Ouverture,
Let the U.S. Marines bring back slavery,
Let Trujillo kill thousands of gens de couleur?

O Haiti, what you done to be so punished?
Earthquake, cholera, hurricane—
Does le bon Dieu have a special place
In Hell for you? What you done, what
You done to be so punished?


George Held’s poetry chapbook Phased is available in a print-on-demand version at amazon.com.
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OPEN YOUR EYES

by Salman Ahmad with Peter Gabriel‬


‪
Pakistani rock band Junoon's founder Salman Ahmad has composed and recorded this special song for Pakistan Flood relief called "Open Your Eyes". The intention is for "Open Your Eyes" to help bring focus on Pakistan's plight and the urgent need to rebuild lives ravaged by the unrelenting floods. Donations for Pakistan flood relief can be made through Salman and Samina Global Wellness initiative.
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THE BALLAD OF SARAH PALIN

by Karen Greenbaum-Maya


Glenn Beck would burn his cards to please her,
leaks real tears each time he sees her.
You’d think she’d brought the Holy Grail in,
the way they roar for Sarah Palin.

If her lipstick sent a message,
we all know what it would presage.
Sarah says she’s called by God,
and no one even finds it odd.

She named her kids Track, Trig and Bristol.
For peace of mind, she shoots a pistol.
She doesn’t finish what she starts
(in Sarah’s case, this breaks no hearts).

A country gal who rakes the cash in
(don’t say someone brought the trash in),
there is no lie too mean or low
if Sarah gets her pot of dough.

Look out—she’s seizing on some word
that didn’t mean quite what she heard.
She took offense, she bellowed “Foul!”
Today, those words are what she’ll howl.

She goes for those designer suits
that show off boobs and hard-worked glutes.
She runs to trim her thighs and hips:
she’s cheerleader for the Apocalypse.

She’s gleeful when she causes sorrow;
she talks like there’ll be no tomorrow.
But teeth will gnash, and there’ll be wailin’,
if we get stuck with President Palin.


Karen Greenbaum-Maya is a clinical psychologist in Claremont, California.  She came of age politically when she was 12, and her mother compelled her to make phone calls for Barry Goldwater.  Karen complied, but added her own voice, namely, that her mother had signed up for the job, and that if she didn’t care enough about the candidate to do it herself, they probably shouldn’t vote for him.  Her mother still doesn’t know about this.  In an earlier life, she was a German Lit major so that she could read poetry for credit.  Her poems have appeared recently in:  The Dirty Napkin, Off the Coast, Umbrella, qarrtsiluni, Poemeleon, Lilliput Review, and Abyss & Apex. Others are forthcoming in Sow’s Ear Poetry Review.  She was nominated for the 2010 Pushcart Prize.
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FINAL REPORT OF AUTOPSY

Host of the Gelato Poetry Series, instigator of the San Diego Poetry Un-Slam, and an editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual, Jon Wesick has published over two hundred poems in journals such as the The New Verse News, New Orphic Review, Pearl, Pudding, and Slipstream. He has also published forty short stories. Jon has a Ph.D. in physics and is a longtime student of Buddhism and the martial arts. One of his poems won second place in the 2007 African American Writers and Artists contest.
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MR. OBAMA, IT'S TIME FOR SOME POETRY

by Nicholas D. Kristof in The New York Times.

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STREET PEOPLE

by Elly Cummens


I met a brave traveler today,
The woman and I talked.
Have a place to stay? I asked.
Not tonight . . . apartment rent
Cost me too much, she said.
But it’s okay. My kid is going
To college on a scholarship!
Her smile lost a front tooth.
It will be all right this time,
I’m headed for Portland.
St. Vincent’s is cheaper.

I can eat good over there.
All I need is a bus ticket.
Her eyes asked do you care?
Being a proud woman, too, I
Have a soft spot for my sex.
We make up the most poor
Of the very poor, they say.
I watched her gather up her
Bundles for the trip. It was
Something to keep in mind.
A moment to remember.

Always giving, feeding and
Volunteering . . . unless you
Get hooked on satisfaction.
I can’t be satisfied for long.
I love poetry, and when it
Rings clear, I gloat happily.
But who can be satisfied for
Long when injustice walks
The streets without a bed,
And she only needs one gift:
A ticket to Portland?


Elly Cummens is a teacher in the visual arts and lecturer. She plays in a recorder ensemble and is a volunteer for special music and arts programs in local schools. She lives in Eugene, Oregon. She has received grants and awards and is published in Passager, Binnacle, The Canada Poetry Journal, Argus News, The Black Book, Lakeland's Paradise (a book she also illustrated), Oregon Writers' Colony, and others.
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RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT FROM THE FRONT PORCH

by Gary Lehmann


In 1896, running for President of the United States was simple for Republican William McKinley.  All he had to do was sit on his front porch in Canton , Ohio and answer reporters’ questions as diplomatically as possible.  The idea was not to offend anyone.

He was the clear front-runner and had few opponents.  Grover Cleveland, the Democrat who held the presidency before him, had ushered in a period of economic depression.  The nation was tired of Democratic Depression.  Time for a change.

McKinley carefully engineered his campaign so that he didn’t need to take a stand on any of the burning issues of his day.   Why should he speak up on the currency question and take the chance of offending people who were already set to vote for him?

McKinley’s campaign was over-funded and lacked any real opposition.  Like James Garfield and William Henry Harrison before him, McKinley sat on his front porch and said, if the press wants to talk with me, they know where I live.  Stop by and have a chat.

While McKinley’s opponent, William Jennings Bryan gave over 600 speeches and traveled the country over by train, McKinley ran a winning campaign by doing nothing.  He sat back in his rocking chair, smoked a few cigars, and talked nice to people.

McKinley’s campaign organizer, Mark Hanna, spent millions of dollars putting up posters all over America.  A vote for McKinley is a vote for Republican Prosperity.  Who’s going to vote against that? This running for President is a breeze.


Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Gary Lehmann’s essays, poetry and short stories are widely published. Books include The Span I Will Cross [Process Press, 2004], Public Lives and Private Secrets [Foothills Publishing, 2005], and American Sponsored Torture [FootHills Publishing, 2007].
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ODE TO CALIFORNIA AND DELAWARE

by J. D. Mackenzie


I miss the honest Senators
the ones from Rome of old
whose coffers swelled with stolen loot
their togas hemmed in gold

Their pay included shameless bribes
like young boys, nymphs and wine
their power stretched across the land
from Carthage to the Rhine

They held some strange religious views
that never seemed to matter
no one cared which gods they served
which vices made them fatter

Their campaigns spoke of honesty
through eloquent debates
informed enough to tell between the
Furies and the Fates

So as this dreadful season ends
I cannot help but note
Christine and Carly don’t have game
and have not earned your vote


J. D. Mackenzie, having patiently observed the psychiatry of the current crop of conservative candidates, now deeply regrets leaving the mental health profession twenty years ago.  His poems can be found in The New Verse News and other political publications.
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MID-TERM HALLOWEEN

by Earl J. Wilcox


‘Tis not a children’s night, not a costume party,
this season when goblins and ghosts rule the land.
Take heed, all you who are sober and sane.
Keep a wary eye on covens controlled by candidates
who dabble in witchcraft, who want to clean out
Washington with ammo treats from the Second Amendment.

Pray for a gracious harvest moon to shed light
on those who scour the land to trick naïve, foolish,
unsuspecting independent-minded children not yet
schooled in the old game of hide the truth, seek evil.


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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MICE IN A FISH TANK

by Howie Good

Someone has posted
a picture of Somali
child soldiers
on telephone poles
around town.
The only store open
is out of the pills
you take. You can’t
fall asleep without
dreaming you’re
calmly being stabbed.
When you leave home
the next morning,
the mice you keep
in a fish tank
dash their heads
against the glass.
Your office-mate sulks
over your imagined
slights. What do you
think I should be
for Halloween?
he later asks.

Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of 18 print and digital poetry chapbooks and a full-length collection of poetry, Lovesick (2009).
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REPEATS

by Len Kuntz


My son says he sees Tutsis, Hutus
and machetes in his sleep.
He says there’s an imposter looming outside his window.
When I tell him the Tutsis are safe now,
he asks how I can be sure.
I pull back the sheer curtain
to take study of the twilight and tell my boy,
“No, it’s the same moon.  We only get this one.”

In school he learned that history repeats.
Now he gives examples—Hitler, Pol Pot, Idi Amin.
I tousle his hair, kiss his sweaty forehead and hum songs until he nods off.
Outside the moon looms like a glowing onion,
daring me not to think of evil men in other countries
too busy for sleep themselves,
scheming to make my son correct.


Len Kuntz lives on a lake in rural Washington State with an eagle and three pesky beavers.  His short fiction appears in places like Camroc Press Review and Right Hand Pointing.
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ONCE MORE WITH VIGOR

by Robert Farmer


we scatter blame as if it were healing
over a landscape littered
with broken tools and standards,

lift clashing political visions like swords,
variations on some common theme
we've lost again.

At eighty, this "eternal recurrence"
impels me to settle it all
with my grandchildren's "whatever"
and another Jack-straight-up/beer back.


Robert Farmer is a retired university professor of forest ecology who views the world from Cleveland, Ohio. 
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