FOR LEONARD NIMOY

by William Cullen Jr.





On the day Spock died
some thought the world
became a better place
freed of one less voice of reason
the elemental powers rejoiced
but the Id of the universe
did not take part
knowing eternity’s too long a time
to wait for another
sparring partner.


William Cullen Jr. is a veteran and works at a non-profit in Brooklyn, NY. His poetry has appeared in Canary, Gulf Stream, Right Hand Pointing, Spillway, Word Riot and Written River: A Journal of Eco-Poetics.

AMERICAN LOVE STORY

by Chris O’Carroll

Rudy Giuliani Is Now Trump, Minus the Hair. 

--Frank Rich, New York Magazine, February 25, 2015

“Barack Obama doesn’t love me!” Giuliani cries.
“Rudy, chill.  Nobody does,” the whole wide world replies.

But then Hizzoner takes it up a notch: “He doesn’t love
America, which is the country he’s the POTUS of.

“I know he doesn’t love this nation.  If he did, he’d say
That Islam’s always evil, and so’s marriage if you’re gay.

“He’d say that workers shouldn’t have the right to unionize.
Protecting the environment is something he’d despise.

“Of birth control and women’s right to choose he would be scornful,
And when black guys get killed by cops, he wouldn’t be so mournful.

“He’d shut up about plans to keep the poor insured and healthy,
And dedicate himself to lower taxes for the wealthy.

“He’d say non-Christians aren’t protected by the Constitution,
And there’s no evidence for climate change or evolution.

“From Fox News he would take his cues about what’s patriotic.
As you can see, I’m not irrelevant or idiotic.”


Chris O’Carroll has published a number of poems in The New Verse News.  Some Americans love his work.  Others, not so much.

SELF-MADE MAN

by Tom Russell

I gave birth to myself.

I discovered fire so that I could eat
whatever I, alone, produced.

I didn’t read your books,
you read mine.

I coined all the phrases.

I invented the wheel
and built all the roads
that wheels carry my money on.

I did all this with no help from anyone.

I created the dial tones and cyberspace
and made all the deals.

I forged all my own tools,
and that includes you.

Now you want to abuse me
with your regulations and taxations.
Blathering about responsibility
and shared sacrifice.

Suck it up, weasels.
Next you’ll be wanting your own bootstraps.

I don’t care who among you
gets sick or dies.
It pleases me
to see the spite you have for each other.

You are blind and weak.
Even if you could see my curtain
you wouldn’t be able to move it
and know that I am there.


Tom Russell works for the Omaha Public Library in Omaha, Nebraska. His poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Shot Glass Journal, and Crab Fat Literary Magazine.

TO A YOUNGER FRIEND PREFERRING BOYHOOD OVER BIRDMAN

by Rick Mullin

 

Of course you can relate.  After all,

you were a boy once too. And you might
marry and put one through the system yourself.

I hardly recommend it. But despite

having raised three girls and never having beaten
my wife, I can tell you that Linklater got it right.

He gave us life… to a point.

On technical concept, let’s call it a draw.

But as for my favorite of the two, allow me

to share my experience in movie-going:

Detesting all inside-theater baseball,

I checked out in the early scenes, allowing
confusion to hold sway over narrative.
 

I sought entertainment in light and color,

haircuts, tits and ass in wardrobe, repartee,

until I saw myself, POW!, who was once a boy

and survived all that. Who was loved but wonders now.
Who has exited the stage door, boarded planes,

attended conferences in underpants or worse,
a recurring dream of dashing to a suitcase
or a car in which my legs are iffy
and the voices in my head surmount facetious,

glib, forgotten or remembered joke.

You didn’t like the ending? Well, I would say

[no spoiler] that the bird was captured by the day.

I will honor your opinion, friend.

But when you are old, and your future is behind you,
watch these films again! Especially if your future
was comprised of bogus costume heroics and
one or two memorable spots on Letterman.

Rick Mullin's poetry has appeared in various journals and anthologies. His most recent book, Sonnets from the Voyage of the Beagle was published in December by Dos Madres Press, Loveland, Ohio.

OSCAR POSTS ON FACEBOOK

by Earl J Wilcox

What a night! I was hugged, fondled,
stroked, laughed at, cried upon, nestled
in the arms of a dude who encouraged
every weird person to stay weird,
molded into chocolate and stuck under
Oprah’s seat, then found myself staring
at this chick who had no panties on,
plus getting too close to a very mature
Doogie Howser who paraded his package
in tighty-whities. But the highlight
of the evening for this Oscar came
when old J. K. finally grasped me,
waved and yelled to everyone
about calling their parents. Dang
if that Oscar After-Party didn’t go
on all night while I sat on tables,
on leather limo seats, on toilet seats,
and on one cute little table during a one-
night stand between you’ll never guess
who, but I am not telling, though I will
say this: not everything is a theory anymore.


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.

NO WAY BACK

by David Chorlton

Image source: Mars One

            "To me, when someone asks, 'why would you want to go?'

            all I can think of is, why wouldn't you want to go?" she added.

                                    -Leila Zucker, one of the 100 Mars One finalists

                                    selected to train for a mission to Mars

A room is waiting

in a place where the wind

has nothing to hold on to,

where it’s colder than Fargo

at Christmas and the atmosphere

is so thin there’s never any rain,

just an occasional shower of snowflakes

that turn into illusions

before they can touch ground.

It has a bunk that rocks on thunder,

windows so small they reveal

only specks of the surroundings,

and furnishings in a gray

that chills the eye. This

                                      could be home

for anyone seeking answers

to questions a monk once asked

in his medieval cell. Voices

marinated in persuasion

offer invitations to be a part

of history . . . to inspire people

around the world and make

isolation as attractive

as embarking on a tour with all

meals provided, time to relax

and read, play games, write, paint

 work out in the gym, watch TV,

use the Internet, contact friends at home

as life becomes more and more

like fingering a tiny device with a screen

to busy your hands while sitting

on a bus you can never get off.

Who has what it takes

                                never to return?

Who will seek claustrophobia

in the midst of boundless

space? Who has what it takes . . .

Who believes our future

cannot be confined

we must explore and look up
court death by radiation

                                        or life

so deep in boredom

the only consolation

is that . . . . the future

belongs to those who believe

in the beauty of their dreams

                                              even

if the dreams come quietly

and turn into a nightmare

at the moment

of the ultimate goodbye,

in realizing a particular tree is the last

you’ll ever see; the mailman

won’t stop at your house again;

you’ll never hold money, hear

sparrows, go out

to a restaurant meal. Rivers

will finally have flowed off the edge

of the Earth, we’ll be back

to the first of all questions: where

are we from? As if the answer

could be found by going

where nobody belongs.


David Chorlton came to Arizona in 1978 after living in England and Austria. He has spent more than three decades stretched between cultures and writing poetry, the pick of which has just appeared as his Selected Poems, from FutureCycle Press.

OH, MOTHER EARTH

by Gil Hoy

Boston, MA. Photo by Sarah Levy via National Weather Service, January 28, 2015.

Oh, mother earth,
Is this global warming
or climate change?

Atop this particular Goldilocks
planet, on this particular 22nd
day of February, in this city
this particular hour

: "Frankly, my dear, I don’t
give a damn." I’m freezing
My toes are cold. Where

the hell is the Congress
Did it think the Tennessee
senator's words an inconvenient
truth?  I’ve got ice dams in

my living room  Snow statues
surround my home. Oh, mother
earth,  To lie down on one
of your sizzling beaches.  With no

Headless Coptic Christians
in orange death masks,
Where the hot orange sun

never glistens on freshly

red-tainted steel. My gutters
are filled with frozen things
Sixteen minutes exposure to
life-giving air causes corporeal

damage  Eight feet of God’s
cold stuff already on the ground,
But    Boston

is a tough nut to
crack.

Oh, mother earth,
Americans have hardy souls.
Terrorists, beheadings, cruel wars
Snow cannot stop Us.  Frozen crystals

of atmospheric vapor have their
redeeming qualities, although to this
particular poet, in this particular state

of mind, on this particular Sunday,

they seem few and far between
in the New England tundra.


Gil Hoy is a regular contributor to The New Verse News.  He is a Boston trial lawyer and studied poetry at Boston University, majoring in philosophy. Gil started writing his own poetry and fiction a year ago.  Since then, his poems and fiction have been published in multiple journals, most recently in Third Wednesday, Stepping Stones Magazine, The Potomac and The Zodiac Review.

READING RICHARD CURREY

by ayaz daryl nielsen





again, sleeping in a VW van
the back parking lot of
hospice's southern office
early morning, the
Trident Coffee House,
enough change for caffeine

at the discount table
reading Richard Currey's
'Crossing Over The Vietnam Stories'
memories of Jeff Beatty,
class clown '65, killed shortly
after enlisting, my reaction
long ago tempered by my
own draft notice. . . no extra
money for Currey's poetry,
even at this price, nor can I
find the stack it came from. . .
carefully balancing Currey's
poems across two other
stacks where a discount
book paramedic will find it

waiting quietly
   the empty coffee cup
      hangs from my finger

one drop, two, three
   a slow four, five
      finally, a sixth. . .

and where are
   the paramedics for
      discount warriors?


ayaz daryl nielsen, x-roughneck(as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/125+ issues). Homes for poems include Lilliput Review, SCIFAIKUEST, Shemom, Shamrock, Kind of a Hurricane and online at bear creek haiku.

COLONY COLLAPSE DISORDER

by Gus Peterson

Stressed young bees that are forced to grow up too fast could largely account for disastrous declines in populations of the insects around the world, research suggests. Photograph: Qmul/PA --The Guardian, February 10, 2015

At first, it’s a funny thought:
worker bees leaning back from desks,

loosening neckties, rubbing that ache
between two disco ball eyes.

Drones discreetly opening
opaque bottles of pollen pills.

And everywhere the hexagonal:
the creaking swivel chair,

keys on the keyboard.
The ceiling tiles overhead.

Even love is a six leg scramble
with one winner.

No wonder the young fly out
into the geometry of the world

before rain is artillery,
the wind a map to home –

where death stings just once.


Gus Peterson lives in Maine alongside the Kennebec and works in sales.  Work has appeared various journals online and The Aurorean.  Recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize, his first chapbook, When The Poetry's Gone, is forthcoming this spring from Encircle Publications.

DEPORT YOURSELF, IT'S GREATER THAN YOU THINK

by Joseph Pacheco

A decision from the federal district court in Brownsville, Texas, has thrown the U.S. immigration system into chaos. As the Obama administration prepares an appeal in order to carry out its plan to grant a legal status to some four million undocumented immigrants, a close look at the opinion by Judge Andrew S. Hanen reveals some ... misleading or ill-informed passages. These might not have much bearing on the legal dispute in court, but they're worth addressing. If a federal judge has these misconceptions about immigration, plenty of ordinary Americans probably do too. --Max Ehrenfreund, “Wonkblog,” The Washington Post, February 19, 2015

to the tune of:




Deport yourself, it’s greater than you think,
Deport yourself, or you’ll end up in the clink.
The year’s gone by, economy’s on the blink
Deport yourself, deport yourself, it’s greater than you think.

You’ve worked at jobs no gringos want, you’re always on the go,
To make enough for your family here and the one in Mexico,
But every time you settle down and think you’ve got it made,
You lose your latest job again to another Migra* raid.

Deport yourself, it’s easier than you think,
Deport yourself, stop standing on the brink,
When you’re back home, your life will be in synch,
Deport yourself, deport yourself, have a tequila drink.

You’ll let our tomatoes go unpicked and rot upon the vine,
There won’t be places cheap enough where we can sit and dine,
Our lawns and grounds will go ungroomed, our beds will be unmade,
But you’ll be rich in your home town where no one’s ever paid.

Deport yourself, your green card’s long extinct,
Deport yourself, get back into the pink,
Your wife and kids will either swim or sink,
Deport yourself, deport yourself, it’s greater than you think.
                                               
*Immigration authorities


Joseph Pacheco is a retired New York City superintendent  living on Sanibel Island.  His  poetry has been featured several times on National Public Radio’s Morning Edition, Latino USA and WGCU. He has performed his poetry with David Amram’s jazz quartet at the Bowery Poets Café and Cornelia Street Café in New York City.  He writes a poetry column for the Sanibel Islander and his poetry has appeared in English and Spanish in the News-Press.  In 2008 he received the Literary Artist of the  Year award from Alliance for the Arts.  He has published three books of poetry, The First of the Nuyoricans/Sailing to  Sanibel, Alligator in the Sky and most recently in June, Sanibel Joe’s Songbook.

THE IMPORTANCE OF A BLIZZARD

by Michael Carosone

Exeter, NH, February 16, 2015. Photo by Emmaline Kim.

 
It takes a blizzard to stop time

to stop the hamsters from turning the wheels
            to stop the mice from running in the mazes
                        to stop the rat race

to make people slow down

and breathe
             and appreciate
                        and think

to make people realize

that they are not hamsters
            not mice
                        not rats


Michael Carosone is a writer, educator, activist, and native New Yorker from Kings Bay/Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. With his partner, Joseph LoGiudice, he wrote and edited the book, Our Naked Lives: Essays from Gay Italian American Men (Bordighera Press, May 2013), a collection of 15 personal essays on the lives of Gay Italian American men. His poems and essays have been published in a variety of books and journals. He writes on personal, political, and social topics and issues, including marginalized peoples and literatures, especially Italian Americans and people of the gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender and queer (GLBTQ) community. He is pursuing his Doctor of Education (Ed.D.) degree in English Education at Teachers College of Columbia University, and his dissertation will focus on incorporating marginalized literatures and writers—Queer and Italian American—into the English classroom, in grades K-12 and at the college level. He lives in the Hell's Kitchen neighborhood of Manhattan, with his partner, Joseph LoGiudice.

12.2

by Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote

I do believe in spooks

Invisible to bloodshot barenaked eyeball

Ignorance prejudiced bias accepted dogma

Gut inclination not proof enough

Dybbuk casting creepy-crawly demonic spell

Displaced castoffs drowned at sea

Hopeless strangers in strange land

Unwelcome foreign aliens begrudged handouts

Vulnerable orphans arriving without parents

Lost generation challenge staying alive

Every child matters deserving respectful

Dignity rehab to break out

Homeless adolescents deprived of childhood

Poverty-stricken hungry for kindness recognition

Maybe expectations improbably not self-taught

Learning iffy makeshift life lessons

Leaky drowning pool victims struggling

To stay afloat overburdened lifeguard

Ignoring desperate cries for Help

Choking on own regurgitated vomit

I do believe in ghosts

Making difference for haunted dispossessed

12.2 million Syrian refugees in

Urgent need of Ouija support

http://www.humancaresyria.org/

No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson and Mr. Saknarin Chinayote proudly present YouTube mini-movies @ YouTube – CharlesThai1 

BOSTON PRE-SPRING TRAINING

by Kathy Conway

Boston braced Sunday night for a life-threatening deep freeze after a blizzard bombarded parts of the region with nearly 2 feet of snow and gale-force winds. The sixth winter storm in three weeks made February Boston’s snowiest month on record, with 58.5 inches, besting by more than 15 inches the previous record set in January 2005. --Jennifer Smith and Jeremy C. Fox, Boston Globe, February 15, 2015. Photo by Sean Proctor, Boston Globe.

Plant feet shoulder-width apart on
non-slippery surface.
Bend knees slightly.
Grab mid-handle with non-dominant hand.
Place dominant hand at handle top.
Bend knees further to scrunch, suck in belly
while keeping back straight.
Lean in to thrust handle.
Dig. Lift. Twist. Heave.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.

Necessary gear includes boots, hat,
gloves and shovel.
Repeat heave, higher.
Repeat heave, higher.
Repeat heave, higher.


Kathy Conway has published the chapbook Bacon Street about growing up in a large Boston Irish Catholic family.  She has contributed to The New Country, Getting There and the upcoming So To Speak.  She lives and writes in Arlington, MA and Brunswick, ME.

MORTIFIED BY NATURE'S BOUNTY

by Philip Lee

(CNN February 15, 2015) 'Rescuers on Saturday refloated 66 pilot whales stranded on a remote beach in New Zealand as a race to save their lives continued. Nearly 200 whales were beached Friday in Farewell Spit on New Zealand's South Island. Scores got back in the water, only to return to land -- leaving more than 100 dead. When the incident started, 140 conservationists and experts rushed to water down the giant mammals, cover them and try to refloat them back into the water. "Refloating stranded whales is a difficult and potentially dangerous job," said Andrew Lamason, the department's services manager for Golden Bay.' Photo source: BBC, February 14, 2015

conservation nuts pilot whales
stranded in shallows harder
than the decks of wooden boats
though no less shark infested

fished by a moon
they drill in lines
like infant schools
reciting quadrilles
of revolting poetry

do as we say not as we don't

such human sounds not just
their spluttered song but

of death throes letting out


Philip Lee, originally from Liverpool in the UK,  has lived in Bursa, Turkey for over two decades. The broken sonnet is his most common medium.