DRY SEASON

by William Marr

So let me be clear: climate change is an emergency.  —Joe Biden, July 20, 2022

even the shadows

are dried to the bone

their whiskers sparse and brownish

 

with no dewdrops to moisten their throats

birds won't come to the window

to chirp

to waken dreams

to inspire

 

holding a dried-up pen

a poet stares at the blank sky

where not a single trace of cloud

is in sight

 

don't expect

tears of joy

anytime soon

 

 

William Marr, a Chinese American scientist/poet/artist, has published over 30 collections of poetry and several translations. His poetry has been translated into more than ten languages and is included in high school and college textbooks in Taiwan, China Mainland, England, and Germany. A former president of the Illinois State Poetry Society, he now lives in Chicago.

FIRE

A Poem for Ada Limón, using her words

by Pauletta Hansel

Ada Limón Is Named the Next Poet Laureate: Poetry, she said, can help the nation “become whole again” in a fraught, divided moment. Photo by Carla Ciuffo for The New York Times, July 12, 2022

                                

Sometimes I imagine all my lovely poets 

out there in the world of their bodies

having a poetry party

with dry red wine uncorked and pimento cheese 

spread out on a warm lawn, or gathered 

around the inside of a picture window,

still black water holding the stars, 

talking poems made 

            in the white heat of the moment… or 

            written from inside the well ...

Reminding themselves that

            when things are bad, 

            we still have our words

            and each other.

And then I get on Facebook

and I see it really is true. 

            When the day calls for fire 

            and your friends have all the matches 

            to burn it down, Ada posts,

and I know these friends,

some of them anyway,

and the R.J Corman rail line

running by her house,

            surrounded by wild things, 

            green trees, grasses.

 

But never mind my invitation

lost on the internet,

I’ll read myself in

between the lines—

            “If you want to win anything—your race, your self, your life—

            you have to go a little berserk”—this woman even gets good fortune cookies, 

and on the radio now Ada Limón is talking 

about female rage and how

                        sometimes we need

                        to step into that room and make ourselves

                        fully known and fully seen.

 

Even “The Onion” loves this woman, the railroad spike

bisecting Trump’s hypothalamus and he calls a meeting 

to name her poet laureate.

            When we name things we are more tender to them…

            But I am also aware of the hubris of naming things.

 

She’s not my friend,

even though she seems to live inside my body,

            more tired than I should be, 

            …hurting more, 

            my brain keeps saying 

            “this country hates women, 

                        this country hates women”

                                    over and over…

            And of course women are hesitant

            about our subject matter. 

            Of course we are. 

            We’ve been taught that from the very beginning

to ask ourselves,

            Should I take the “I” out? Should I erase my being?

But there she is, Ada Limón, singing the song 

of our shared bones, and, yes,

sometimes the song 

is enough.

Author's Notes:

Italicized lines are from the following sources: 

Ada Limón's Facebook timeline, October 2018

https://soundcloud.com/kutnews/this-is-just-to-say-ada-limon-and-carrie-fountain https://www.cleavermagazine.com/a-conversation-with-ada-limon-author-of-the-carrying-interview-by-grant-clauser/

https://politics.theonion.com/calm-measured-trump-hard-at-work-after-freak-accident-1829686798

“The Poetry of Perseverance: An Interview with Ada Limón,” Poets & Writers September/October 2018.

 

The final lines reference “A New National Anthem,” The Carrying, by Ada Limon

 

Pauletta Hansel’s newest poetry collection is Heartbreak Tree, an exploration of the intersection of gender and place in Appalachia. Her writing is featured in Oxford American, Rattle, The New Verse News and Poetry Daily, among others. Pauletta was Cincinnati’s first Poet Laureate and is 2022 Writer-in-Residence for The Cincinnati and Hamilton County Public Library. 

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH

by R.W. Rhodes

  after the war poem of Wilfred Owen

In Texas we still prize our purebred cattle

   while monstrous Leftists plot to take our guns.

For us a rifle's like a baby's rattle,

   with cartridges we measure out in tons.

Our cemeteries are such peaceful places.

   And there are countless young in other schools,

so we can just forget these names and faces.

   Let none restrict our guns by stricter rules.

We'll light more candles and repeat more prayers,

   and freely arm more boys, and one and all.

A maniac not armament's the slayer,

   as on our kids we place a bloody pall.

The floral tributes in the heat turn rotten.

And by the dusk these dead will be forgotten.

R.W. Rhodes was a teacher for over 40 years before retirement. His classes ranged from global religions to death & dying. He published a series of hand-crafted books, many for children, with The Catbird-on-the-Yadkin Press in North Carolina.

AS A TEN-YEAR-OLD OHIO GIRL

by Laura Grace Weldon

file photo… not the author

I lived the lives I read in books.

I wandered English moors,

raced my horse past Russian wolves,

befriended dolphins, spoke in whistles,

made my home in a hollow tree.

Made a pact with Kim—we’d never

grow breasts, agreeing the encumbrance

made girls act stupid. Boys, stupider.

I’d grown well past playing house

so no longer stuffed a baby doll

under my shirt, letting it drop

into my hands to make me a mama.

I hadn’t grown out of stuffed animals,

Barbies, hula hoops, or bubbles.  

At ten I rode my bike, climbed trees,

giggled with girlfriends. I wasn’t old

enough to babysit. Wasn’t sure

what sex was, exactly.

Now a ten-year-old girl 

is deemed old enough 

in Ohio to be the mother

of her rapist’s child.    

Laura Grace Weldon served as Ohio’s 2019 Poet of the Year and is the author of four books. Laura lives on a ramshackle Ohio farm and as a book editor. 

AMERICAN DREAM ‘22

by Scott C. Kaestner

The American Dream Art Print by cindy nguyen

We have to unlearn everything 

we’ve come to know.

Forget the past so as not to

forsake the future.

Be the change coming.

Believe it’s possible.

The Milky Way understands.

Asteroids do slam into planets.

And dinosaurs will disappear.

Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, writer, dad, husband, and deadbeat dreamer extraordinaire. Google ‘scott kaestner poetry’ to peruse his musings and doings.

THE NEW USA

by Wendy Hoffman

The Supreme Court #2

voted 24 to 1

not to allow men to impregnate

female humans, plus to find guilty

all those who ‘aid and abet’ them

in this endeavor

such as florists, chocolatiers,

romantic restaurateurs,

violinists,

other musicians,

and makers

of 400 thread Egyptian cotton sheets.

Oh, and it ruled that only females may carry guns.

Wendy Hoffman has published three memoirs, The Enslaved Queen, White Witch in a Black Robe, and in 2020 A Brain of My Own.  The Enslaved Queen has been translated into German. Her book of poetry Forceps was also published along with a book of essays, From the Trenches, written with Alison Miller. Her most recent memoir After Amnesia is published on the SmartNews and Survivorship websites. It has been translated into German. What gives her life meaning is helping other surviving victims.

TOO GRAPHIC

a poem found

by James Penha

in “Why the Austin American-Statesman chose to publish video from inside Robb Elementary,” July 12, 2022.

Above: screenshot of the video.

We have also removed

the sound of children

screaming

as the gunman entered

the classroom.

James Penha edits The New Verse News.

AFTER LISTENING TO THE JANUARY 6TH HEARINGS

by Moira Magneson

After William Blake

 

Each day

I am thunder-

struck by the

howling storm

of lies, the fly-

swarm pox.

O beloved rose,

I am through

pretending

I could ever know

anything.

No wits about me.

What is left

is simply local

noticing—sugar

dissolving in

a cup of tea.

The sharp stink

of skunk on

the country road.

The mourning

dove's tender

three-note woe.

 

Moira Magneson calls the Sierra foothills home and has taught English for many years at Sacramento City College. Prior to teaching, she worked as a river guide throughout the West. Her work has appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies, including Persimmon Tree, Plainsongs, Canary, and California Fire and Water—a Climate Crisis Anthology. She looks forward to the day when our nation will no longer be in thrall to the 45th president.

I JUST SAW IT IN THE NEWSPAPER

by Penelope Scambly Schott

The Senate is back in town for the first time since the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade—with no clear legislative path to respond. Unlike House Democrats, their Senate counterparts don't plan to move any abortion-related bills over the next four weeks they're in session, mostly because they lack the support of 10 Republicans needed to overcome a filibuster. The Washington Post, July 12, 2022

The white-faced ibis, the black-necked stilt,

and the great-tailed grackle

have all returned to the Steigerwald Refuge

but the prune-face McConnell, the no-neck Cruz,

and the turn-tail Manchin

are still in the U.S. Senate—

I wish they’d go dunk themselves

in Steigerwald Lake

Penelope Scambly Schott is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Her newest book is On Dufur Hill, poems about the cycle of the year in a small wheat-growing town.

TELESCOPE WEBB

by Ioanna Gika

Yesterday, President Biden unveiled one of the James Webb Space Telescope's images of deep space (above) as a preview of what's ahead: NASA, in partnership with ESA (European Space Agency) and CSA (Canadian Space Agency), will release the rest of the first full-color images and spectroscopic data during a live broadcast beginning at 10:30 a.m. EDT today, July 12, from NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland. Released one by one, these first images from the world’s largest and most powerful space telescope will demonstrate Webb at its full power as it begins its mission to unfold the infrared universe. Each image will simultaneously be made available on social media, as well as on the agency’s website at http://www.nasa.gov/webbfirstimages .

We spin

polyimide film and beryllium 

into sunshields thin as hair;

set gold mirror to sail on armed ships.

With the river dredged,

the whites of fish eyes look like scattered stars.

Their bodies flop on muddy banks.  

Overshot by billions

rockets launch, ripping into space.

Silver dollars and catfish behold their final sky,

and through the biggest telescope

we will see further than any—

to the vanishing point,

to the infinite,

to ourselves

staring right back.

Ioanna Gika is a Greek American musician and poet. She has performed at festivals such as Coachella, Lollapalooza, and her work has been covered by The New York Times, Rolling Stone, and Time Magazine. Her writing has appeared in places such as The Creative Independent and Oberon Poetry. Recently, her lyrics were quoted by Booker Prize winner Arundhati Roy in her best selling book The Ministry Of Utmost Happiness. She is located in California where she is signed to Sargent House.

THE ALPHABET IS NOT ENOUGH

by Miceala Morano

From an experimental alphabet by Max Morin combining real paintings with digital manipulation. In collaboration with Jim Lepage.

We learn, but we never do. 

A as in apple, B as in ball, C as in cat,

D as in the desks we shield soft bodies with. 

Rewind, repeat. A as in active shooter situations.

B as in blood, scarlet staining the halls. 

Rewind, repeat. A as in America, is this 

what you meant by red, white and-

B as in blue lips, C as in CPR. 

I am shielding their bodies in the grocery store, 

in the classroom, in my nightmares each night. 

It is still not enough to protect them. 

C as in clear backpacks. D as in 

don’t make a sound. E as in ending, 

as in breath interrupted. Rewind, repeat

repeat, repeat. A as in active shooter,

F as in freedom, delegated to weapons 

and never to women. We throw our alphabet

at the bullets, B for books, C for chairs, D for desks, 

the classroom deconstructed into a war zone, 

our breaths deconstructed into silence. 

A as in America, never learning. B as in bullets, 

falling like rain.

Miceala Morano is a writer from the Ozarks whose work is published or forthcoming in Berkeley Fiction Review, Eunoia Review, Kissing Dynamite, The Shore, Gone Lawn, and more. Find her on Twitter @micealamorano .

NO CONFIDENCE

by William Doreski

Boris Johnson returns inside 10 Downing Street after making his resignation speech on July 7. Photographer: Chris J. Ratcliffe/Bloomberg

Because I found the ticket

for the cold-storage locker

on the outskirts of Frankfort,

I must reclaim the rumpled corpse

of the long-debauched hero

and somehow arrange to return it

to the nation he led until

his wingspan shrank and he fell.

 

The attendant speaks only German

and I speak only the crudest slang.

He unlocks the locker to allow

inspection of the earthly goods.

The familiar upturned face,

sallow professional smile,

arched gothic eyebrows grinning

and bruise-blue eyes unwinking,

opens its wired jaws to speak.

 

Everyone warned me that even

fifty years after death he’d claim

airtime to unleash his grievance,

a fiction he wrought in Parliament

as the members shook and groaned.

The chill in the locker numbs me.

I drop the lid before he mouths

a syllable of pious cant.

 

His blond shock and beer-stained suit

signaled a feckless charisma

that faded long before death.

No one wants him to recur

half a century after his prime.

The attendant sneers and offers

a snort of schnapps to calm me.

I accept despite the agony

of all those clashing “S” sounds.

 

Let the British consul handle

transport to Westminster Abbey

where a few curious old folks

may wish to fondle the corpse.

I step outside into Europe’s

painterly light and soak it in,

bracing political virginity

against history and brazen lies.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Dogs Don’t Care (2022).  His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.

PINK

by Sandra Anfang

I didn’t think they’d do it

I thought it was a bluff.

 

Fifty years of progress

and the promise of more 

wrung like rags and tossed away.

 

Metal hanger signs dot the crowd. 

Bitter copper paints my tongue.

 

Red tears defile our cheeks

divide us into stars and stripes.

Iodine and salt set the stain

 

as the monthly blood of women 

swirls in pinwheel patterns

 

down the snowy drains

of smug old men who mock

our mock democracy.

 

Is that Sisyphus ahead

pushing his bloody burden up the hill

of fat white lies? Senators puff stogies

 

turn on their heels to leer as the

pageant of female flesh flows by

 

shouting, pumping fists and rage

marching in our pink pussy hats.

 

I can see from their lewd smiles

that this is entertainment of the

you look pretty when you’re angry kind.

 

It’s time to take a knee, sisters, every time

that cursed pledge is mouthed.

 

With liberty and justice for all we stand

united, ready to lift each other up.

We are at your cervix, America.

Author’s Note: My small town held a rally and march on Saturday that attracted hundreds of protestors, including many men and children. I'm holding the big sign in the photo by Beth Schlanker in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat, with my ninety-year-old friend.

 

Sandra Anfang is a California poet, teacher, and artist. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals including Rattle, The New Verse News, The MacGuffin, and Spillway. Her poetry collections include Looking Glass Heart (Finishing Line Press, 2016), Road Worrier (Finishing Line Press, 2018), and Xylem Highway (Main Street Rag, 2019). Kelsay Books will publish her chapbook Finishing School in early 2023. She’s been nominated for a Best Short Fictions award, Best of the Net, and a Pushcart Prize. Anfang is founder and host of the monthly series, Rivertown Poets (established 2013), and a poetry teacher in the schools.

ENERGY CRISIS

by Robert McParland 

hurry down this poem
this poem is running out of gas
this poem just pulled in and
this poem is low on fuel—it’s fuming
line by line this poem is standing
in a line—this poem is limping
toward the pump this poem is running
out of gas this poem is facing
high inflation reading this poem
wasting your energy this poem
is trembling toward the pump
coughing “Help us, Henry Ford”
damning Detroit and the Arabs
standing on the brake this poem is
braking as it stands this poem has moved
four inches aching toward five-dollars a gallon
this poem is running out of
gas and
this poem is running
out of… this poem
is running out of gas… pph…
gas…pph… this poem is
running out.


Robert McParland is the author of Beyond Gatsby: How Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Other Writers of the 1920s Shaped America and From Native Son to King's Men: The Literary Landscape of 1940s America. He is a teacher of English, History, and Humanities.