by Michael Monroe
A light grey sky
hangs over Baltimore
like a harbinger of snow,
perhaps another white apocalypse
as I read the online news:
Was the killer a left-wing nutjob
impatient with the progress
of promised progress?
Or was he a right-wing tea-bagger
exercising his second amendment rights
to overthrow government?
Or was he just a lone wacko,
a lonely man lost in his
self-created world
of drug-induced delusion?
He didn’t know
that no matter who’s in charge,
the poor stay poor
and the rich stay rich,
the sun still rises in the morning
and falls in the evening,
and nothing can stop the snow.
Michael Monroe is a Baltimore poet whose work has been or will be published in Gargoyle Magazine, the Lyric, Struggle, the Blue Collar Review, Manorborn, the Loch Raven Review, Floiate Oak, and various other publications. His poems have also previously appeared in New Verse News. Two of his poems were recorded on the Words on War CD produced by Birdhouse Studios and he often does poetry readings with Gimme Shelter Productions to raise money for the homeless in Baltimore.
_____________________________________________________
Friday, January 14, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
OPENING OF THE 112th CONGRESS
by Tony Brown
We all know where this is going
Right down to the contentious opening volley
and the tensing of sword hands
Right down to the bloodied noses
and the swing and miss journalism
What do they want to sell us
between the stage shows
and the sham of battle
We know they've sold us out
but we won't even mind all that much
as long as we get ours
Oh we're watching the news
and shaking our heads at them
Deep down we know marketing when we see it
and though it's nothing we care for that much
it's a hell of a lot better than no country at all
Speaker gavels the chamber to order
This is gonna be good
They're going to read sacred texts
and unicorns are gonna appear
And they love to sell unicorns
and jabberwocks a-burbling near nonsense
Anything mythic, really
and boy do we love to shop
Tony Brown, of Worcester, MA, has been writing for over 40 years. He recently released his third CD with his poetry and music ensemble, The Duende Project, and is currently completing a full length manuscript.
_____________________________________________________
We all know where this is going
Right down to the contentious opening volley
and the tensing of sword hands
Right down to the bloodied noses
and the swing and miss journalism
What do they want to sell us
between the stage shows
and the sham of battle
We know they've sold us out
but we won't even mind all that much
as long as we get ours
Oh we're watching the news
and shaking our heads at them
Deep down we know marketing when we see it
and though it's nothing we care for that much
it's a hell of a lot better than no country at all
Speaker gavels the chamber to order
This is gonna be good
They're going to read sacred texts
and unicorns are gonna appear
And they love to sell unicorns
and jabberwocks a-burbling near nonsense
Anything mythic, really
and boy do we love to shop
Tony Brown, of Worcester, MA, has been writing for over 40 years. He recently released his third CD with his poetry and music ensemble, The Duende Project, and is currently completing a full length manuscript.
_____________________________________________________
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
WINTER'S BORDER
by David Chorlton
A mountain turns its face away from Mexico
in the morning mist
and the border disappears.
Silence in English
cannot be distinguished
from silence in Spanish. Jaguars return
to occupy lost territory,
the map cracks along a seam of frost
and snowflakes fall
like shreds of torn visa applications.
The only written language
is that of deer tracks on the softly dusted
ground. Any word
becomes a cloud as soon
as it is spoken, footsteps are the sound of shoes
breathing, crystals over the heart
are a guard’s badge, and woodsmoke
rises like grey flags
above lonely houses where all night
fire keeps watch. A few branches
are scratched into the atmosphere; otherwise
white is layered over white, page
upon page of blank paper
granting free passage until peace melts.
A mountain turns its face away from Mexico
in the morning mist
and the border disappears.
Silence in English
cannot be distinguished
from silence in Spanish. Jaguars return
to occupy lost territory,
the map cracks along a seam of frost
and snowflakes fall
like shreds of torn visa applications.
The only written language
is that of deer tracks on the softly dusted
ground. Any word
becomes a cloud as soon
as it is spoken, footsteps are the sound of shoes
breathing, crystals over the heart
are a guard’s badge, and woodsmoke
rises like grey flags
above lonely houses where all night
fire keeps watch. A few branches
are scratched into the atmosphere; otherwise
white is layered over white, page
upon page of blank paper
granting free passage until peace melts.
David Chorlton travels when he can to his favourite landscapes in the south of Arizona where he and his wife enjoy the wildlife and trails.
_____________________________________________________
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
SHAMPOO, RINSE, REPEAT
by Steve Hellyard Swartz
On the side of the bottle it reads
Twist hair
Grimace
Watch the news
Scream for an hour on and off
Tell your Mom - IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS -
I DO NOT WANT DINNER!!!!
Get keys
Drive to Sportsman's Paradise
Buy gun
Drive to Wal-Mart
WHAT???? NO BULLETS????
Drive to second Wal-Mart
Buy bullets
Sleep
Don't sleep
All part of the conspiracy
Glenn is right, Glenn is right, Glenn is right
Drive to rally
Walk with purpose
SHOOT, SHOOT, SHOOT
Reload
Scream
GOLD IS GOOD,
BUT LEAD IS BETTER!!!!!!
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.
_____________________________________________________
On the side of the bottle it reads
Twist hair
Grimace
Watch the news
Scream for an hour on and off
Tell your Mom - IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS -
I DO NOT WANT DINNER!!!!
Get keys
Drive to Sportsman's Paradise
Buy gun
Drive to Wal-Mart
WHAT???? NO BULLETS????
Drive to second Wal-Mart
Buy bullets
Sleep
Don't sleep
All part of the conspiracy
Glenn is right, Glenn is right, Glenn is right
Drive to rally
Walk with purpose
SHOOT, SHOOT, SHOOT
Reload
Scream
GOLD IS GOOD,
BUT LEAD IS BETTER!!!!!!
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.
_____________________________________________________
Monday, January 10, 2011
SIMPLE WISHES
by Howie Good
Bullets would always miss. We’d screw
on the green couch even though
it’s not Scotch-guarded. Hobos would
become Republicans – or, better yet,
Republicans would become hobos.
It’d snow every night, but only just enough
that it’s never really completely dark.
Howie Good is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011).
_____________________________________________________
Bullets would always miss. We’d screw
on the green couch even though
it’s not Scotch-guarded. Hobos would
become Republicans – or, better yet,
Republicans would become hobos.
It’d snow every night, but only just enough
that it’s never really completely dark.
Howie Good is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011).
_____________________________________________________
Sunday, January 09, 2011
GEORGE WASHINGTON
by Nickolas Butler
I tell you now that on the teevee yesterday there was a woman
talking about america being ripe for a revolution and she was
talking to a group of people call themselves the tea party. But
the truth of the matter is that most people don’t have no notion
of revolution. The word, it conjures up in them good feelings
about george washington and samuel adams and paul revere,
but you go ask people in guatemala what revolution looks like.
ask someone in chechnya. It aint just talk. It is people getting
killed. People losing their homes and their land and their farms.
Land mines and bombs and automatic weapons. I shook my
fist at the teevee, because I don’t need america getting torn apart
like that in my lifetime. I can point a finger to a gravestone in
gettysburg and show you my distant kin. America saved the world
seventy years ago, and now we got people saying that things are
so bad we need a revolution. I tell you what it is, plain and simple.
A bunch of goddamn greedy people who don’t want to pay their
taxes. We ain’t talking about a king or an emperor. We talking
about sidewalks and atomic bombs. We talking about highways
and bridges. School-houses and hospitals.
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.
___________________________________________
I tell you now that on the teevee yesterday there was a woman
talking about america being ripe for a revolution and she was
talking to a group of people call themselves the tea party. But
the truth of the matter is that most people don’t have no notion
of revolution. The word, it conjures up in them good feelings
about george washington and samuel adams and paul revere,
but you go ask people in guatemala what revolution looks like.
ask someone in chechnya. It aint just talk. It is people getting
killed. People losing their homes and their land and their farms.
Land mines and bombs and automatic weapons. I shook my
fist at the teevee, because I don’t need america getting torn apart
like that in my lifetime. I can point a finger to a gravestone in
gettysburg and show you my distant kin. America saved the world
seventy years ago, and now we got people saying that things are
so bad we need a revolution. I tell you what it is, plain and simple.
A bunch of goddamn greedy people who don’t want to pay their
taxes. We ain’t talking about a king or an emperor. We talking
about sidewalks and atomic bombs. We talking about highways
and bridges. School-houses and hospitals.
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.
___________________________________________
Saturday, January 08, 2011
WILD WEST SHOW
by Alan Catlin
Now that the Wild West
bang bang shoot 'em ups
are a way of life
and packing heat
to political rallies
is thought of as:
fashion accessories
"They Shoot
Congressman
Don't They?"
is not a movie
script pitch but
a real life event
the moral of which
is when you target
people for political
extinction real folks
get shot
Alan Catlin has published numerous chapbooks and full length books of poetry and prose. Pygmy Forest Press is publishing the collected "Deep Water Horizon" poems.
_____________________________________________________
Now that the Wild West
bang bang shoot 'em ups
are a way of life
and packing heat
to political rallies
is thought of as:
fashion accessories
"They Shoot
Congressman
Don't They?"
is not a movie
script pitch but
a real life event
the moral of which
is when you target
people for political
extinction real folks
get shot
Alan Catlin has published numerous chapbooks and full length books of poetry and prose. Pygmy Forest Press is publishing the collected "Deep Water Horizon" poems.
_____________________________________________________
SUNSET IN PURGATORIO
by Earl J. Wilcox
They do tours like rock stars, divas
belting out one final aria, fading baseball
players trotting the bases one more time.
Political hacks take farewell tours as if
they have brought peace in our time,
fed the hungry, clothed the sick, secured
justice for all, found cures for cancer,
HIV, diabetes, dyslexia, bulimia, herpes—
or heartbreak. Backslappers gather round,
give a rousing sendoff to the governor
who discovered his soul mate in Argentina ,
dumped his wife and four sons, abandoned
the people who elected him. Oh ancient Homer,
Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare where are you now
that we need you to remind us once more
of the frailty of man, the duplicity of those
in high places, the gullibility of all who work
for progress, hope in vain for leaders we seek.
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.
_____________________________________________________
They do tours like rock stars, divas
belting out one final aria, fading baseball
players trotting the bases one more time.
Political hacks take farewell tours as if
they have brought peace in our time,
fed the hungry, clothed the sick, secured
justice for all, found cures for cancer,
HIV, diabetes, dyslexia, bulimia, herpes—
or heartbreak. Backslappers gather round,
give a rousing sendoff to the governor
who discovered his soul mate in Argentina ,
dumped his wife and four sons, abandoned
the people who elected him. Oh ancient Homer,
Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare where are you now
that we need you to remind us once more
of the frailty of man, the duplicity of those
in high places, the gullibility of all who work
for progress, hope in vain for leaders we seek.
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.
_____________________________________________________
Friday, January 07, 2011
ODE TO A GILA MONSTER Part 4
by Rochelle Owens
When as an incarnation
mother of the milky way
in the triumphant twenty-first century
O monster of harmonies
flying descending
into this world
descending
O Gila monster O virgin queen
imperial reptile
hatched from the egg of the sky
flying Gila
descending into this world
around her a spreading hibiscus
O philosopher with lidless eyes
all-seeing
eternal wunderkind
devoid of dread and shame
O head and fatty tail
majestically formed with yellow
and black beadlike tubercles
pure as alabaster shining gold
mother of the milky way
of metamorphosis
her gift of spit
her healing reptile spit
spit of power spit of cure
vulnerable flesh eater
spiritual carnivore
wafting incense sanctifying
the four directions
slowly slowly slowly slowly
scuttling over the sand
a cold blooded messenger
a monster of rapture
in harmony
with the rays of the sun
Rochelle Owens is the author of eighteen books of poetry and plays, the most recent of which are Plays by Rochelle Owens (Broadway Play Publishing, 2000) and Luca, Discourse on Life and Death (Junction Press, 2001). A pioneer in the experimental off-Broadway theatre movement and an internationally known innovative poet, she has received Village Voice Obie awards and honors from the New York Drama Critics Circle. Her plays have been presented worldwide and in festivals in Edinburgh, Avignon, Paris, and Berlin. Her play Futz, which is considered a classic of the American avant-garde theatre, was produced by Ellen Stewart at LaMama, directed by Tom O’Horgan and performed by the LaMama Troupe in 1967, and was made into a film in 1969. A French language production of Three Front was produced by France-Culture and broadcast on Radio France. She has been a participant in the Festival Franco-Anglais de Poésie, and has translated Liliane Atlan’s novel Les passants, The Passersby (Henry Holt, 1989). She has held fellowships from the NEA, Guggenheim, Rockefeller, and numerous other foundations. She has taught at the University of California, San Diego and the University of Oklahoma and held residencies at Brown and Southwestern Louisiana State. This section of "Ode to a Gila Monster" is Rochelle Owens' seventeenth New Verse News poem.
_____________________________________________________
When as an incarnation
mother of the milky way
in the triumphant twenty-first century
O monster of harmonies
flying descending
into this world
descending
O Gila monster O virgin queen
imperial reptile
hatched from the egg of the sky
flying Gila
descending into this world
around her a spreading hibiscus
O philosopher with lidless eyes
all-seeing
eternal wunderkind
devoid of dread and shame
O head and fatty tail
majestically formed with yellow
and black beadlike tubercles
pure as alabaster shining gold
mother of the milky way
of metamorphosis
her gift of spit
her healing reptile spit
spit of power spit of cure
vulnerable flesh eater
spiritual carnivore
wafting incense sanctifying
the four directions
slowly slowly slowly slowly
scuttling over the sand
a cold blooded messenger
a monster of rapture
in harmony
with the rays of the sun
Rochelle Owens is the author of eighteen books of poetry and plays, the most recent of which are Plays by Rochelle Owens (Broadway Play Publishing, 2000) and Luca, Discourse on Life and Death (Junction Press, 2001). A pioneer in the experimental off-Broadway theatre movement and an internationally known innovative poet, she has received Village Voice Obie awards and honors from the New York Drama Critics Circle. Her plays have been presented worldwide and in festivals in Edinburgh, Avignon, Paris, and Berlin. Her play Futz, which is considered a classic of the American avant-garde theatre, was produced by Ellen Stewart at LaMama, directed by Tom O’Horgan and performed by the LaMama Troupe in 1967, and was made into a film in 1969. A French language production of Three Front was produced by France-Culture and broadcast on Radio France. She has been a participant in the Festival Franco-Anglais de Poésie, and has translated Liliane Atlan’s novel Les passants, The Passersby (Henry Holt, 1989). She has held fellowships from the NEA, Guggenheim, Rockefeller, and numerous other foundations. She has taught at the University of California, San Diego and the University of Oklahoma and held residencies at Brown and Southwestern Louisiana State. This section of "Ode to a Gila Monster" is Rochelle Owens' seventeenth New Verse News poem.
_____________________________________________________
Thursday, January 06, 2011
FALL FROM THE SKY
by Carmen Tafolla
Birds fall from the sky
Fish drown in the river
Citizens sweep up the trash,
discard, forget
Scientists pronounce the deaths
(five thousand birds,
eighty-five thousand fish)
totally unrelated
Ignoring what
we do not fear,
we pack the shopping bags and debit cards,
put the car in gear,
vote to fight more enemies
of faith or color
or immigrants to a Lady Statue
whose promise is forgotten
Dirty – Discard.
Dirty – Discard.
Dirty – Discard.
Perhaps there is another
continent less polluted
than the one these brown illegals
were once proud owners of
If not, perhaps we white elite can
buy a ticket to a cleaner planet
whose native sons
can then be dispossessed
and centuries later
declared illegal,
as the messengers
fall from the sky
Carmen Tafolla is the author of more than twenty books, including Sonnets to Human Beings, The Holy Tortilla and a Pot of Beans, and Tamales, Comadres & The Meaning of Civilization. She is the recipient of many awards, including the Américas Award, the Charlotte Zolotow Children’s Book Award, the Tomas Rivera Book Award, and the Art of Peace Award. Her family has lived in San Antonio since before it was the United States, the Republic of Texas, and the Republic of Mexico, but they still struggle to pay the rent.
_____________________________________________________
Birds fall from the sky
Fish drown in the river
Citizens sweep up the trash,
discard, forget
Scientists pronounce the deaths
(five thousand birds,
eighty-five thousand fish)
totally unrelated
Ignoring what
we do not fear,
we pack the shopping bags and debit cards,
put the car in gear,
vote to fight more enemies
of faith or color
or immigrants to a Lady Statue
whose promise is forgotten
Dirty – Discard.
Dirty – Discard.
Dirty – Discard.
Perhaps there is another
continent less polluted
than the one these brown illegals
were once proud owners of
If not, perhaps we white elite can
buy a ticket to a cleaner planet
whose native sons
can then be dispossessed
and centuries later
declared illegal,
as the messengers
fall from the sky
Carmen Tafolla is the author of more than twenty books, including Sonnets to Human Beings, The Holy Tortilla and a Pot of Beans, and Tamales, Comadres & The Meaning of Civilization. She is the recipient of many awards, including the Américas Award, the Charlotte Zolotow Children’s Book Award, the Tomas Rivera Book Award, and the Art of Peace Award. Her family has lived in San Antonio since before it was the United States, the Republic of Texas, and the Republic of Mexico, but they still struggle to pay the rent.
_____________________________________________________
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
MAMACITA
by Margaret S. Mullins
mamacita, mamacita
grab those babies
and run for the border
swim across the river
walk through the desert
hold tight the babies
take the first job
cleaning the toilets
and then the second
vacuuming offices
sleep with the babies
work on the weekends
washing dishes
at the tex-mex place
where they let you eat
take in others' kids
whose mamas work nights
tuck them in bed with you
snuggle them tight
take them to free clinics
feed them tortillas
send them to school
to learn how to read
shop at the thrift store
go to the library
play at the green park
watch them grow strong
watch them grow smart
watch them start college
call their grandma at home
but don't cross back over
your babies are here
and they need you now
to hug them tight
as they fill out the papers
that make them point blame
at you who brought them
and taught them to love
the nation that says
they should never have come
Margaret S. Mullins splits her time between the quiet of rural Maryland and the rumpus of downtown Baltimore. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in Alehouse, Creekwalker, Sun, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Loch Raven Review, New Verse News, Chesapeake Reader, and Magnapoets, among others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the editor of Manorborn 2009: The Water Issue (Abecedarian Press.)
mamacita, mamacita
grab those babies
and run for the border
swim across the river
walk through the desert
hold tight the babies
take the first job
cleaning the toilets
and then the second
vacuuming offices
sleep with the babies
work on the weekends
washing dishes
at the tex-mex place
where they let you eat
take in others' kids
whose mamas work nights
tuck them in bed with you
snuggle them tight
take them to free clinics
feed them tortillas
send them to school
to learn how to read
shop at the thrift store
go to the library
play at the green park
watch them grow strong
watch them grow smart
watch them start college
call their grandma at home
but don't cross back over
your babies are here
and they need you now
to hug them tight
as they fill out the papers
that make them point blame
at you who brought them
and taught them to love
the nation that says
they should never have come
Margaret S. Mullins splits her time between the quiet of rural Maryland and the rumpus of downtown Baltimore. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in Alehouse, Creekwalker, Sun, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Loch Raven Review, New Verse News, Chesapeake Reader, and Magnapoets, among others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the editor of Manorborn 2009: The Water Issue (Abecedarian Press.)
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
TERRITORIAL IMPERATIVES
by David Feela
“There is forty square feet of retail space
for each living person in America.”
-- a news item
What I want to know is
when did things go on sale
in my forty square feet?
And who are these strangers
milling around, carrying bags,
touching my stuff?
Will someone tell me why
the windows look out on a parking lot
instead of a breathtaking view?
And if I decide to homestead,
where are the keys,
and does it have clean bathrooms?
David Feela's work has appeared in regional and national publications. He is a contributing editor and columnist for Inside/Outside Southwest and for The Four Corners Free Press. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas, is now available.
__________________________________________
“There is forty square feet of retail space
for each living person in America.”
-- a news item
What I want to know is
when did things go on sale
in my forty square feet?
And who are these strangers
milling around, carrying bags,
touching my stuff?
Will someone tell me why
the windows look out on a parking lot
instead of a breathtaking view?
And if I decide to homestead,
where are the keys,
and does it have clean bathrooms?
David Feela's work has appeared in regional and national publications. He is a contributing editor and columnist for Inside/Outside Southwest and for The Four Corners Free Press. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas, is now available.
__________________________________________
Monday, January 03, 2011
THE YEAR THAT WAS
by Anne Davies
2010 had little to recommend it
And not many partisans to defend it,
Except Speaker John and cheeky Mitch
Who thought it went without a hitch.
Even God felt less than matey,
Fire and brimstone pounded Haiti
Pakistan, in its aftermath,
Bore the brunt of Allah¹s wrath
Down south Big Oil earned the blame
When BP¹s rig went up in flame
Though many miners died entombed.
Coal mine profits cheerily zoomed.
Afghanistan stayed an open wound
Parties bickered, the debt ballooned
Democrats took a dreadful shellacking
Which finally got the President cracking.
Lame-duck session machination
Brought forth vital legislation
But with the Republicans ascendant
Obama, alas, must be dependent
On bipartisanship and good will
Currently absent from Capital Hill.
Does the Tea Party really want to nix
All progress since 1776?
Despite grim evidence empirical
I¹m hoping for a political miracle.
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.
__________________________________________________
2010 had little to recommend it
And not many partisans to defend it,
Except Speaker John and cheeky Mitch
Who thought it went without a hitch.
Even God felt less than matey,
Fire and brimstone pounded Haiti
Pakistan, in its aftermath,
Bore the brunt of Allah¹s wrath
Down south Big Oil earned the blame
When BP¹s rig went up in flame
Though many miners died entombed.
Coal mine profits cheerily zoomed.
Afghanistan stayed an open wound
Parties bickered, the debt ballooned
Democrats took a dreadful shellacking
Which finally got the President cracking.
Lame-duck session machination
Brought forth vital legislation
But with the Republicans ascendant
Obama, alas, must be dependent
On bipartisanship and good will
Currently absent from Capital Hill.
Does the Tea Party really want to nix
All progress since 1776?
Despite grim evidence empirical
I¹m hoping for a political miracle.
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, January 01, 2011
BLOOMBERG HAIKU
by Patricia Carragon
Bloomberg’s blizzard
municipal Ice Age
buries the outer boroughs
Bloomberg’s snowplows
only work
in Manhattan
Abominable Snowmen
snowdown
at Gracie Mansion
Frosty the Snowman
gets ugly
slushballs at Bloomberg
Patricia Carragon is a New York City writer and poet. Her work can be found online and in anthologies. She hosts the Brooklyn-based Brownstone Poets and is the editor of its annual anthology. She is the author of Journey to the Center of My Mind (Rogue Scholars Press, 2005). Her latest book is Urban Haiku and More (Fierce Grace Press, 2010). She is a member of Brevitas, a group dedicated to short poems.
Bloomberg’s blizzard
municipal Ice Age
buries the outer boroughs
Bloomberg’s snowplows
only work
in Manhattan
Abominable Snowmen
snowdown
at Gracie Mansion
Frosty the Snowman
gets ugly
slushballs at Bloomberg
Patricia Carragon is a New York City writer and poet. Her work can be found online and in anthologies. She hosts the Brooklyn-based Brownstone Poets and is the editor of its annual anthology. She is the author of Journey to the Center of My Mind (Rogue Scholars Press, 2005). Her latest book is Urban Haiku and More (Fierce Grace Press, 2010). She is a member of Brevitas, a group dedicated to short poems.
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