WE ARE FAMILY

by Susan H. Case


I’m reading about another country going nuclear
and how we, this collective we, have snuck in
undercover to get information on what to strike.
I hope we don’t.
Because maybe someone’s here, doing the same
thing, and could retaliate, destabilize my favorite park
bench, where I take my dogs.
How could I know this bench sits on a secret stash
of proliferating enriched uranium?
I worry about quotidian concerns—like the pigeon shit
on the window ledge; I’m waiting for
the next big rain storm to wash it all away, not
thinking about sabotage,
regime change—while the window, everything
may be about to blow.

We are all one family. Aren’t we?

Here’s a story about families:
my dad and uncle don’t talk to one another for twenty-five
years. Finally, I say—this is ridiculous,
let’s have a little détente—and I drive my father
to New Jersey for a reunion before one of them dies.
In my uncle’s nursing home room, they sit, snipe
at each other, not even clandestinely, for the afternoon.
Later, my dad says he’s glad he went—it makes him happy
to compare their lives, to see his brother ended up worse.


Susan H. Case, professor at the New York Institute of Technology, has recent work in many journals, including: Eclipse, Georgetown Review, Gulf Stream Magazine, Oyez Review, Pebble Lake Review and Saranac Review, as well as the anthology, Rough Places Plain: Poems Of The Mountains. Recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she is the author of The Scottish Café (Slapering Hol Press, 2002), Hiking The Desert In High Heels (RightHandPointing, 2005), and Anthropologist In Ohio (Main Street Rag Publishing Company, 2005).

RUMSFELD REFUGEE IM DEUTSCHLAND

by Bill Costley


Lent 2007, Weyhe-Sudweyhe,
nr Bremen, norDeutschland

(NichtsNachtNeues.de)

Recently-deposed SECDEF, Donald H. Rumsfeld
sought refuge in the chilly fields of norDeutschland
& wept to Deutsche Welle (TV) he’d "ever doubted
the deepest resources of the great German people"
as he knelt on the soil his Deutsche forbears tilled.

During the media build-up towards Gulf War 2,
he had promised to "punish treacherous Germany"
for not joining his war & was exposed by CBS-TV.

"I have not had a peaceful night's rest since then,"
Rumsfeld snarled. "In my heart I knew I was right;
in war, politics always kneels to highest necessity."

Hearing this deluded self-defense, many Germans
declared he now reminded them of Adolf Hitler.

"It is dreadful our cousin prosecuted such a war
against Iraq," said Karin Rumsfeld Cecere (59),
"We are now embarrassed to be related to him."

Her 85-yr-old mother Margerethe was incensed:
"We do not want to know him now he is deposed
American defense secretary. For God's own sake!
Did not he, himself, start this miserable war!?"

Bremen’s Rumsfelds welcomed him warmly
before the war; this time they insisted coldly
he crawl on his knees up to their brick house
in a public-housing project; then they silently
shared a cold, penitential Lenten sour-soup.


Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union. Volume Two of his epic-in-progress The CHENI@D appears here on The New Verse News.

WAR RANT

by Joan Gelfand


Alaina says she wants more passion
Andrea quit reading the morning news
Yvette sees “The Devil Wears Prada” –
Twice – her savior is in fashion.

I check my e-mails, avoid over long queues,
And await my daily dose of inspiration
Wondering each day if I’ve paid enough dues.


Adam watches the blogosphere
For flash mobs, trends and hot spots
And we all fret about the biosphere
While white girls don’t do much hip hop

But for me, I can’t help it –
Rhythm and words are my companions, true and loyal
So forgive me now if I don’t exactly know how to do it –
Just say it’s a rant, peace and love style:

I want to save the world, do it now, don’t get caught
By indecision, paralysis, missteps or overwrought.
But the world and I have conflicting views
On how to end this madness. Stop the bombing, end the wars,
I cry - but no one listen to my news.

My nighttimes glisten with the sweat of murder,
Mayhem and slaughter.


I could just go over there, I think,
Land smack down on the pavement.
I’d put on my white gloves; make a stink
Shout “What a horror!” while dancing on the griddle
Of hot sand, tar: “There is no left, no right, no middle
C’mon stop the killing! End the riddle.”

But I’d be dead before you could say red
And then I think:
“If not now, when?”
Wasn’t it I, who called myself a warrior?


Every day new news arrives stinking,
Reeking with tragedies undreamed –
Tidal waves, heat waves, bodies downstream.
A wave of bombings on an unsuspecting train
We seek for terror but what about D.C.? “We can’t explain.”

I voted right, I mean left - is my persistent refrain
I took myself off the list of dinner parties where people complain
Of gas prices and fish prices and politics not spoken
Cuz I’m getting sick of being powerless, feeling broken.

So c’mon people do one thing today for peace
Save a tree, save a child, sign a paper, beg for release
Of fighters and lovers, for peaceniks and hippies
This battle of west meets east is not what we ordered.


Winner of the 2005 Chaffin Fiction Award, Joan Gelfant’s letters, essays, poetry and stories have appeared in numerous national literary journals and anthologies including The New York Times Magazine, Poets & Writers, If Women Ruled the World, and The Streets of New York. Her story “The Art Critic” was nominated for a 2006 Carver short story award. Joan holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Mills College in Oakland, California. A compelling moderator and speaker, Joan founded Salon CIEL, a group of interdisciplinary artists. She is currently serving as Vice-President of the Women’s National Book Association.

INCREDIBLE DISCRIMI-NATION

by Charles Frederickson


In Thai Dutch Treat is
Colloquially American Share splitting check
And balance perverse unethical immorality
Abuse of power shameful mistreatment

Alien fondue melting pot dipped
Poking unconventional Geneva cheesy holes
Wonder bred to vino illusions
Passed off as supernatural miracles

Painting copper kettle black magic
Tinhorn values imposed on jailbait
Bragging rights uncivil wrong injustices
44.99% pure Ivory Tower soapsuds

Opportunity knockoff copies secondhand chances
Genuine antiques Made to Older
7-11 open 24 hours closed
Seeth heareth speaketh boll we-evil

Swede hot dish smorgas-bored ennui
Foreign affairs exes and Oreos
Democratic-tac-toe naughts & crosses
Republic-cantankerous unkempt bullyrag-a-muffins


Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American-Thai 4midable, 10acious, cre8ive 1derer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poem for each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com/. This maverick uniquecorn is a member of World Poets Society, based in Greece, with 100+ poetry publication credits on 5 continents, such as: Ascent Aspirations, Auckland Poetry, Blind Man’s Rainbow, Both Sides Now, Caveat Lector, Cordite Poetry Review, Dance to Death, Fullosia Press, Greatworks, Green Dove, Indite Circle, Language & Culture, Listen & Be Heard, Living Poets, Madpoetry, Melange, Newtopia, New Verse News, Planet Authority, Poetry Canada, Poetry of Scotland, Poets for Peace, Poetry Superhighway, Pyramid, Sz, Ya’Sou, and Ygdrasil.

NIGHT-CRIME

by David Radavich


Our raccoon robs in a masterful way.
A careful, charming thievery.

Almost an art, with big
round eyes, fur sleek and tailored,

partying at night outside our patio door,
careful to wash hands thereafter.

A guest one could almost invite.

Too bad the cat-food he savors
belongs to another. Life is sometimes unfair.

This is becoming an ownership world,
with a few taking all and the host left to starve.

Let the clever fellow steal his million
morsels from houses far grander than ours.

I could almost stand the shifty
enterprise: so long as we’re not left

the political dupes.


David Radavich's poetry publications include Slain Species (Court Poetry Press, London), By the Way (Buttonwood Press, 1998), and Great Hits (Pudding House Press, 2000), 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.

WE BREATHE FREEDOM

by Robert Emmett


we breathe freedom
freely as
soldiers bleed blood
for those who
would deceive us
when the lie is cast
the called won’t refuse
as high-born chums
work their gums
then snigger at
their ruse

the alarum is triple tested
the spells time-released
the hidden anti-alchemist
and the military priest
debase their craft
with a sleight
of tongue
as chosen bidders
up the ante
take liberty with the gold
and leave every mother’s child
free and clear
worth their weight in lead

teach your children
to beware
when vows vanish
in thick air
even a mangled incantation
by the feeble jester
lights a ready fuse
of caustic resolve
begets a shambles
a maniac’s manifesto
shivers the fundament
to bits
and commands silence
of the dumb
with a sliver
through the tongue

oh how we love freedom
we go to
and fro
and peddle the cross
across the arched door
and here’s how free we are:
we’re free to sell the arsenals
free to hide the cost
free to bluster what we’ve won
and bury what we’ve lost
free to exceed our enemy
and plow his people low
free to stack the cadaverous deck
and reap just what we sow
the trumped-up situation
is mouthed with a well-worn phrase
so we’re free to keep on doing this
for the rest of your born days

and the only nagging question
like a shard in the back of your brain
is how we deserve so much freedom
while ignoring all your pain
though we didn’t write the story
we still claim it as our own
since we’ve borrowed all the collateral
and welshed on every loan


Robert Emmett writes from the wooded hills of Michigan what else-wise he ought utter for a muse meant it be that way.

HOMELAND SECURITY

by Alan Catlin


The police must be raiding
houses, their sirens on full
blare, searchlights waving
like crazy magic wands made
out of lasers, though imprecise
at fixing locations, finding what
is hiding out there in the dark

For a moment the light is
terrific, enough to read by,
if you were so inclined, that is,
if you had the time or were not
otherwise occupied

by all this chaos
all this confusion

No one questions what is
going on, no one asks who has
the authority or what for

Why bother?
Asking will not change what
has already begun, what is going on

They must know what
they are doing, these policemen
and women
Knocking on doors in the night

Yelling, "Open up, open up!
It's the police!"

We have no doubts about what
they are doing

We always open up
We have no choice


Alan Catlin's latest chapbook is a long poem, "Thou Shalt Not Kill", an updating of Rexroth's seminal poem of the same name. Whereas Rexroth riffs on the abuses of the Eisenhower adminstration, the update observes abuses of power in the current administration with particular attention to the cynical, criminal behavior towards the Katrina hurricane victims. One year later, the victims are not forgotten. No matter how many candles the Bushes light, the appalling lack of humanity and the blatant hypocrisy of the folks in charge is as apparent as the disenfranchised, the homeless, and the poverty stricken people of the Gulf states.

HERMITAGE CURATOR SOLD ART WORKS FOR MEDICINE

by Rochelle Ratner


Some of the finest treasures in the world are in back
rooms here. Jewelry. Relics. Icons. People are
mesmerized just walking through these halls. (She
has diabetes). Even curators get paid a fraction of
what they're worth, and she's only an assistant. She
lives in a cramped apartment in not exactly what
you'd call a good neighborhood. (She has Type 1
diabetes). For years she's watched people above her
being given trinkets. She's watched workers stuffing
them in pockets. And she knows art dealers more
than willing to pay. (She's 52 years old). First time in
a decade they've done an inventory. All this dust can't
be good for her. (She has to see the doctor yet
again). In the park across from the Medical Center an
intern sleeps on a bench, tie loosened, mouth wide
open, pager on his belt. Grass protrudes through the
octagonal paving stones. Another section of the park
has been cordoned off. (Do you have any idea how
much an overdose of insulin costs)? She goes back to
her desk. She slumps over.


Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.

PSALM

by Stan Marcus


        A grenade was tossed into a soldier's pocket.
He paused, aware of the sudden weight on his
buttocks. It could have been an orange or an apple,
but, no, it was a grenade, a metallic fruit,
although not a gift from an aunt forced upon
him at a family gathering when he was eight
to alleviate his intense boredom. Nor a stone
that had levitated from the Mesopotamian sand.
        It happened spontaneously, not like a thunderstorm
when the sky is suddenly blackened by fierce clouds
unsatisfied with occupation and demanding autonomy,
freedom, but more like a snake crushing an ankle as
one passes a burnt-out shrub. Then soldiers adjacent
to him, tense and compliant, heard a curious pop
like a balloon bursting at a birthday party where the
festivities went on until the mothers had had enough.


Stan Marcus's poems have appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Stand, The Journal of New Jersey Poets, Poetry East, The Literary Review, Prairie Schooner, The Minnesota Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Denver Quarterly, College English, The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Confrontation, Permafrost, GW Review, Ironwood, Kansas Quarterly, and other periodicals. Two of his poems were included in the anthology For a Living: The Poetry of Work, published by the University of Illinois Press.

INANNA THINKS

by Beth Winegarner


It's not so much that I descended
into the earth as that
I became the earth.
In that time Heaven exhaled its breath
into the lungs of the land
and you could not separate the two.
Back then I walked among crops
fed by two fertile rivers
whose names are now the mantras of history books
but otherwise unmentioned.
Now the ground is as dry as the dust
one of their gods -- I forget his name --
said the people would return to.
They deny their own end,
every day shouting and firing their guns
as though their vacant blood
will nourish the land,
as though it matters whose footsteps
running through the streets
of Baghdad, of Babylon, of Sumer
will awaken me.


A native of Northern California, Beth Winegarner is a poet, author and journalist living in San Francisco. She is the author of the non-fiction book Sacred Sonoma; of Dream Brother, a chapbook of stories, poems and collages; and of two upcoming works: Beloved, a novella, and Read the Music, a collection of essays and articles on music. In addition to working as a full-time news reporter, she has freelanced for The San Francisco Chronicle, Addicted to Noise, ROCKRGRL and Crescent Magazine. Her poetry has appeared in Bardsong and Lime Green Bulldozers.

BRITAIN

by Mark Murphy


Britain my father loved W.H. Auden and all his poetics.
        I loved them both and all their after-dinner conversation
though neither had the answers I was looking for.
Britain when I was 15 I read The Communist Manifesto.
I fought alongside the miners – those history makers,
those heroes of the class struggle – I thought
we could change the world.
Britain it’s 20 years since I joined the disaffected.
I never played the stock-markets.
I never climbed the social ladder or doffed the cap.
I never believed in the sanctity of the family or marriage
or went to church on Sunday’s.
Britain I never learned how to kill another human being.
Britain I would’ve converted to Buddhism but couldn’t grasp
        their need for prayer.
Britain I’m strung out with thoughts of smouldering bodies.
I’m wired with thoughts of unexploded cluster bombs
and flattened cities.
Britain when does a bomblet cease to be a bomblet?
What is the evil scourge of terrorism?
Who will write the history of the world?
Britain I’m afraid to sleep in case I dream my dream
        of the dead.
So many millions.
So many millions of delicate humans.
So many millions gone forever.
I’m on the side of the angels.
I’m larger than you think.
I contain multitudes.
All there is of love I contain it.
All there is of loss I contain it.
Britain where does the history of infamy begin –
Ireland … North America … India ?
Britain I am the redeemer of the oppressed.
I never meant to do you harm.
I’m dying all over again.
I’m history repeating itself.
I’m the children of the Gael burning at Drogheda .
I’m the Indian nations dying of smallpox.
I’m the walking dead in the lanes of Skibbereen
I’m the ghost people of Tasmania .
I’m James Conolly, my body all holes.
I’m the city of Dresden burning by starlight.

Britain did you civilize the Mau Mau? Those damn Kikuyu
        always were trouble.
Do you still follow your humanitarian impulses?
When will you eradicate the propaganda of the left?
Britain I’m not joking.
You must defend the free world from state terror.
Britain there’s no need for excuses.
There is no insignificant enemy.
You’ll rewrite international law when the time comes.
Those rogue states must be dealt with.
They are like academics with their cock-eyed view of reality.
Past atrocities can remain safely forgotten like summer fetes.
What everybody says must be true.
Ah, those halcyon days.
Ah, those salad days.
Those heady days of empire.
OK you might not lead the new imperial order.
You might only be the junior partner but you must keep
        your eye on the ball.
Britain it’s a thankless task being faithful to the bitter end –
O cover ups…assassinations…dirty wars!
It’s time to enlist.
It’s time to dole out fig leaves for the dead.
Fig leaves for the tortured.
Fig leaves for the displaced.
Fig leaves for the dispossessed.
Fig leaves for the disenfranchised.
Fig leaves for the poor.
Fig leaves for the unholy.
Fig leaves for Kosovo.
Fig leaves for Iraq .
Britain taking afternoon tea won’t change history.
It won’t sweeten the pill.
It won’t strengthen your hand.
It won’t save your skin.
Britain the future is a long time.
And the wearing of cricket whites won’t impede the truth.
And the donning of tennis whites won’t delay the verdict.
And being British won’t excuse you from court.
And brass bands playing in park pavilions on a Sunday afternoon
won’t bring back the dead.
Britain we can be sure of this.


Mark Murphy was born in 1969 in Yorkshire. He studied philosophy and poetry at university. His first pamphlet was published in 1996 and was called Tin Cat Alley (Spout Publications). He is presently looking for a new publisher.

RETURNEE / 5 FINGERS

by Spiel


1.

how it was back then
his long finger down there
her mouth so wide
frosting all over her nose
his knuckles so buried
with white sugar stuff
his fist almost looks like a giant
double hollyhock

how she can almost hear herself
gag on frosting and joy
and the heat of his finger
every time she polishes its glass
then wishes she’d sprung for a nicer frame

2.

how they scream when they wake afraid of
the bad guys where he is now
how they stick to her ankles
how they cling to her breasts
how they are sticky with kool-aid and mud
they are so cute they want to know who is he
why does he not come back home for them
why is his finger stuck
down her throat with that white stuff laughing

how she hears only herself
as she weeps in their bedroom mirror
for the taste
of his long sugar finger

3.

how he comes back
how they all come back in battalions
how they don’t know their homes
they look at their pictures but
they don’t know who that is
how they glance over their shoulders
how they wear shields on their backs
how they don’t trust their fingers

how they know their triggerbrain
will snap at so little
as the glimpse
of a frosted donut cast down on a curb

4.

how just the two of them are so anxious
how they say this: how they have waited so long
for this moment for this joy of life opportunity
how no one can possibly know how
they have waited to be alone
for this touch
how she has fixed her hair new short blonde
perfumed and cleansed herself

drawn his clumsy trigger finger
down there but
it is frigid and
estranged

5.

how they have agreed to meet
at a safe public place with security guards
like this wal-mart lunch room
where they will talk about it

how she brings the kiddies
for hotdogs and cokes but
the kiddies stick to him
like frosting on a cake
how they want him
to sleep with them in their bedrooms
to keep them safe
from the bad guys where he used to be

how he does not know them he does not know
her they have nothing to say
how his fingers have become so thick and so coarse
as they approach her throat

(how it is that they never trained him to be a lover
how it is that they never trained him to be a daddy)
how it is that what they trained him to do
best is what he knows best

how the security guards will see to it
that the children are taken away to be cared for


Spiel was 6 months old when the dark years of WWII were unleashed. He was 50 and in psychotherapy when it dawned on him the fear present in his parent’s bodies at that time of unprecedented upheaval surely must have had a profound and lasting affect on him. He is now 65 and frequently writes poems about war. "returnee: five fingers" is one of several "returnee" pieces which are about soldiers suffering with post traumatic stress syndrome (PTSD). It will be included in the fall release of his new chapbook they put it in the water published by Four Sep Publications.

AN UNTERPOPE'S CONFESSIO

by Bill Costley


I am the pope below the Pope you know.
If mistakes need to made, I make them.
If clarifications need to be clarified, our
Office of the Propagation Of the Faith
churns out engaging filigrees of faithery
that few of the media can read/penetrate;
anyone can quote an unter Pope; few can
really explain an uber Pope; few even try.
Can you really grasp my sub-significance,
comprehend my sub-utility to uber Popery?
You say you can, but you lack terminology
to justify my position vs the uber Pope’s.
Think: Caliban to Ariel; road to rubber.
Lie down & we will slowly flatten you.


Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union. Volume Two of his epic-in-progress The CHENI@D appears here on The New Verse News.

A NEW PLACE

by Tony Reevy

with apologies to e.e. cummings

So, how do you like
your blue-eyed baby
boys now, Mr. Death?
They’ve been cascading
in from Oklahoma and
the Center and the
outer limits and we’re
fresh out of cradles and
I think, Senior Muerto,
that you have to get
a larger place or
we’ll all be packed
in here like anchovies
when you roll
back the lid,
Mr. Death.


Associate director for advancement of the Carolina Environmental Program at The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Tony Reevy is a graduate of North Carolina State University, UNC-Chapel Hill and Miami University. His previous publications include poetry in Asheville Poetry Review, Bath Avenue Newsletter, Charlotte Poetry Review, Now & Then, Pembroke Magazine, The Poet's Page, Writer's Cramp and others, as well as non-fiction and short fiction. His poems are anthologized in 2000: Here’s to Humanity, Earth and Soul: An Anthology of North Carolina Poetry, Poets for Peace: A Collection, and others. His books are Ghost Train!: American Railroad Ghost Legends, A Directory of North Carolina’s Railroad Structures (with Art Peterson and Sonny Dowdy), Green Cove Stop and Magdalena. He resides in Durham, North Carolina with wife, Caroline Weaver, and children Lindley and Ian.