MUSA QALA

by Lex Runciman

Image source: IRN

Seventeen people were beheaded as punishment for a mixed-gender party in Musa Qala in Helmand - a village battered by fierce fighting between coalition forces and the Taleban. --New Zealand Herald


Like music, this name, a distant place.
Story, Musa, muse – my small education
trying for connection.
Seventeen beheaded bodies
found, we are told now, in this place.
Because they sought a fever and release,
intensity and company.  They wanted to dance.

Graceful, the passive voice, no who did what,
and we do not want to imagine being
that person drawn by its smell to a room,
smell blood-sweet and nauseous, fear
rising in the gullet, sound of flies, a hot place
but green along the river, Musa Qala,
Fortress of Moses.

Through this doorway
passed human arms and hands carrying a body
shot in the dark, decapitated, the intimate
bone-and-flesh effort that took,
seventeen times hands and arms full,
hands and arms emptied.
Windows shut, quiet room.

The bodies wrapped and red.
It must be I am now past outrage.
Who are these stilled, no urgencies of wish,
all song and wonder stopped?
How do I know them?
How to say this – where do we look?
Where are their heads?

Today, this early morning not in any news,
my window open a few inches
into August just gone, I want to say
the truth is – and I stop, the sentence
as unfinished as summer for every deciduous leaf,
breeze desultory with wheat chaff,
sun slanting in, listening, waiting, seeing it all.


Lex Runciman is a professor at Linfield College, in Oregon.  He has published four books including most recently, Starting from Anywhere, from Salmon Poetry (Ireland) in 2009. 
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ON THE OPENING OF THE 2012 REPUBLICAN NATIONAL CONVENTION

by Karl Kadie

                       For Bill Costley

The speakers are all talking about

themselves: me, me, me;

How I made it by myself,

how great it is to be me,

And with an example like me

Someday you become the destined you.

When New Jersey Boss Chris Christie says

What’s needed is leadership,

I’m surprised: I didn’t know I asked for a new boss –

Ding, ding!

– To keep my kids out of the schools and hospitals

To neglect the roads I drive,

To make it easier for the corp lords to

Reduce my pay or cut my job,

To build the black, wrought iron fence

‘Round Christie’s house with a

Healthy, stealthy electric charge.

Ding, ding!. 

The Ninety-Nine Percent bell rings in my head once more.

Yet when I think about the present alternatives,

I can barely breath.  A public meeting at the

Library, whose moldy air sets the stage

For dark coffins of paper to drop

Off the edge of the age’s edifice,

Treasures to trash, a handy metaphor

For our own marginalization.

We enter the meeting,

Arms full with gifts, voices, and money,

And leave by the red exit,

Our hearts vacuumed out, our hands empty.

Standing on the margins

Of a new edifice of power,

I know I’m a Ninety-Nine Percenter,

And when I hear Chris Christie say

What’s needed is leadership,

I suspect I have much more to lose,

And muse that connecting

With my community

May be the only prayer

Ever to be heard.

Karl Kadie has poems in The New Verse News, The Santa Clara Review, Haiku Headlines, and poetry blogs, and featured at Poetry in Song and Cupertino Winter Light.  Karl is a native Californian, and holds an MA in English from San Francisco State University.
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SUPERABLED

Poem by Charles Frederickson Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote

Paralympics 26 sports 39 disciplines

Ethos

Determination Inspiration Courage Equality

Facing every endurance test head-on

Prideful smiles emanating from within

These very special gifted athletes

Making most of God-given talents

Rigorous training empowers buoyant resilience

Determined to improve personal bests

Defeatist attitudes the real disability

Victors simply refuse to lose

Also-rans brilliant in valiant attempts

Gaining confidence next time victorious

Dominated by latest greatest hi-tech

Prosthetic limbs running on stilts

Wheelchairs of Fire blazing passionately

Steely flint nerves sparking victory

Success calculated choice not chance

Quitting not true grit option

Uncompromising pursuit of plucky excellence

Olympiad moments forever cherished memories

Respectful dignity treatment is non-negotiable

Heroic struggle overcoming daunting obstacles

Reaching beyond dark horse

 blinders

Lubricated hugs soothe heartache kiss-offs

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

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SONNET TO ISAAC

by David James Olsen

Image source: Skye

Dear laughing Isaac, listen if you please:
Don't dig your wells in New Orleans now tame.
I beg of you to curve your course with ease
And twirl out toward the sea from whence you came!
For seven years ago your sis did lick
This city's soul and break its levees large,
But screw their courage have they done to stick
And stand against your Grendel's gutt'ral charge.
A pact: like Milton, sell my sight I might
If you'd turn your blind eye at my request.
Ironic and coincidental blight:
Speed not o'er land, just ocean without rest.
Present your cruel account on waves of blue,
And leave pure hearts of people dry and true.


David James Olsen is a 29-year-old writer/actor living in NYC.
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MOONWALK

by Wayne Scheer

I may be the only person in America my age
who didn't watch Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.
It was a conscious choice.
Talk of patriotism and courage
was too much for me to handle
that July of '69.
I would soon be on my way to Basic Training
and Vietnam after that, I assumed.
After a year of fighting the draft,
I was too filled with hatred and fear
and the resignation that comes with defeat
to give a damn about somebody walking on the moon.


Since his retirement from a college teaching career, Wayne Scheer has published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems on line and in print, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories, published by Thumbscrews Press.  His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net.  He lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer(at)aol.com.
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GODSPEED NEIL

by Jon Wesick

Dad handed me the binoculars.
I stared into the Florida sky.
In the distance the big Saturn V
was a splinter atop an inch-long, orange flame.
Five days later we watched
humanity’s thousand-year dream come true
on a black and white TV.
A man had stepped on another world.

There was no end to the possibilities –
moon bases, footsteps on Mars,
travel to the edge of the solar system
but the fickle public grew bored
voted with their pocket books for coffee,
cigarettes, and liquor instead.
Once we raised our eyes to the stars.
Today we look at our shoes.



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 fifty poems in journals such as The New Verse News, Pearl, Pudding, and Slipstream. He has also published over fifty 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. Jon was fortunate enough to see the Apollo 11 liftoff in 1969.
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ELECTRIC-BLUE EYES

by Bill Costley

Bill Costley has served on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco Bay area chapter of the National Writers Union. He lives in Santa Clara, CA. The latest volume ( Number Eleven)  of Costley's  New Verse News epic The Chen@id can be accessed by clicking here.
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CHECKPOINT

by Sari Krosinsky


After the bus at the head of the line
is de-boarded, inspected, and re-boarded,
the dew-faced, khaki-clad blond asks us
if we’re citizens. All three of you? she asks.

Yes, we chorus a second time. We’re all
white, so our word is good. I couldn’t bear
to be kept from you, the way borders
are thrust between other lovers.

After the blond releases us, I’m impatient
with every pause, every mile that divides
me from you. If I’d been born a little south
instead of a lot east, iron might divide us.

The glass glitter of Albuquerque reflects
below as we top the last hill. Soon, you’ll
be holding me. Soon, the dew-faced blond
will stop someone she won’t let pass.


Sari Krosinsky's first full-length book, god-chaser, is forthcoming from CW Books. She co-authored a chapbook, Yossele: a tale in poems, with Robert Arthur Reeves. She publishes Fickle Muses, an online journal of mythic poetry and fiction. Her poems appear regularly in literary and genre magazines. She received a B.A. in religious studies and M.A. in creative writing from the University of New Mexico. She lives in Albuquerque, N.M., with her partner and cat.
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THE CANDIDATE PLAGUE

by Sarah Brown Weitzman


In the beginning
     they will come in swarms
clogging the air
     waves, spewing abuse
as much on each other
     as on their common enemy
the Incumbent
   
And they will multiply in grass
     roots movements
stirring dissent and fear
     even among billionaires
Casting blame like stones
    in endless debates

In a hail of accusations
    they will denounce
each other as false prophets
     with the harshest epithets:
Conservative, Ultra-conservative,
     Liberal, Intellectual

Bringing the affliction
     of the Handshake
they will be visited upon cities
     and small towns alike
like celebrities drawing crowds
     of the media who will scrutinize
their wives, past utterances,
     past wives, voting
records and tax returns

But nothing will shake
    the enthusiasm of the Followers
who will not let them go
    off the stage
without, youbetcha,
    the prophesy of Cheers

And women will weep
     as they hold up their First Born
high over the crowds
     to let them glimpse
Him who may be
     the Chosen  One

So it will come to pass
      that people in no great percentages
will be called Deciders
    and will be hunched
in narrow private cubicles
     touching the name
of their Candidate
     on a small lighted screen
with reverence like worshipers
     before a sacred relic


Sarah Brown Weitzman has had work in numerous journals and anthologies including The North American Review, American Writing, Potomac Review, Art Times, The Bellingham Review, M.I.T.Rune, Rattle and Slant.  Her second chapbook, The Forbidden was published by Pudding House in 2004 followed in 2005 by Never Far From Flesh, a full-length volume of poetry (Main Street Rag).  She received a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship in 1984.  Her latest book, Herman and the Ice Witch, a children’s novel, was published in 2011 by Pure Heart/Main Street Rag.  A former New York academic, Sarah Elizabeth Brown [Weitzman] is retired and lives in Florida. Sbwpoet(at)aol.com
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SKINNY DIPPING IN THE SEA OF GALILEE

by Dana Yost

House Member Is Rebuked After Nude Swim in Israel--NY Times

Sacred pond,
shimmering pond wet eyes of grief.
Consecration becomes desecration
becomes humiliation becomes castigation:
the frat boys frolic,
drunken choir boys exposed:
they’ve been faking their way through the notes.
Sacred pond,
sullied, soiled by the unholy flesh,
buck naked, ass dragging
through the fishermen’s waves.
An old ruse: playing at God,
but acting the thug.
All hubris, always undone,
often with raw, feral relish:
Mussolini, hung and shot by the mob.
Henry VIII, brain a syphilitic rot.
Ted Haggard, methed up and messed up.
And so many more: a helluva list.
And these merry boys, who filthed-up our pool:
their stain is real,
unlike their pose.


Dana Yost is the author of two published books, 2008's Grace, a collection of new poems, and 2010's The Right Place, a collection of essays and poems. His third book, A Higher Level: Learning Life's Large Lessons Through Small College Sports, is a work of local, cultural and sports history and will come out this fall from Ellis Press. His poems have appeared in a variety of magazines and journals. Yost was an award-winning daily newspaper editor and writer for 29 years until June 2008. His wife and he live in Forest City, Iowa.

SONG FOR TODD AKIN

by Kimberly Poitevin

      to the tune of “I am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General”

     

When the raping is legitimate, a pregnancy will not occur.
I’ve talked to doctors and I know that some of them with me concur.
The female body has a way to try to shut that whole thing down,
And if it won’t, the broad is probably one that likes to sleep around!

It’s true I do maintain that there are rapes that are not forcible—
Like ones that happen when a gal is simply too seducible.
To say I’m a misogynist is wrong, even abhorrible
When I’m protecting baby girls who might have been abortible.

It’s not like when a girl gets raped I can’t be empathetical
When sharing knowledge I possess of truths gynecological.
It might sound paradoxical, but my supporters will agree
That life is life but rape’s not always rape when there’s a pregnancy.

If I misspoke and women's bodies aren't so very magical,
You’ve made mistakes, too—why not try to be more sympathetical?
Abortion is the mortal sin, stupidity’s forgivable.
A simple off-the-cuff remark shouldn’t make me unelectable.

I think myself the model of a modern day Republican:
Compassionate, conservative and red blooded American.
Though Romney, Ryan, and even Sean Hannity abandoned me,
I know that with God's grace I'll win the Senate race in Missouri.

 
Kimberly Poitevin writes poems sometimes. Some of them have appeared in other print and online journals including 14 by 14, Poetry Quarterly, Mobius, elimae, and the Midwest Literary Magazine.
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$TOP NEEDING, $TART LEADING

Poem by Charles Frederickson

Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote

Untaught lessons worth knowing how
2B loved & loved back
Schools don’t instill moral values
Wisdom compassion kindness work ethic

Overdeveloped nations ignore climate change
Child poverty abuse arid desertification
Submersion of barely floating islands
Irresponsible golden rule sliding backwards

Low income outcome dismal failure
Unfair play luxury lap dance
Broken promises supra-wealthy tax breaks
Mutiny of the bountiless 99%

Rich old men start wars
Poor youth filling proxy ranks
Wretched refuse thirsty hungry underlings
Shorn lambs led to slaughter

Accept that all is oneness
Show & tell tolerant multiversity
Undifferentiated mirror image same – sameness
Respecting character something everything around

You’re not in competition with
Anybody except self-imposed limitations
Spirit uplifted to higher altitude
Soaring beyond unattainable lofty heights

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

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THE SUMMER AFTER HIS SOPHOMORE YEAR

by William Aarnes

Source: Dr. Goodword's Office

Their son comes home from college
thinking his parents have piddled
their promise away teaching public school.

He brags how he’ll profit from the A
he’s earned on a paper that maintains
the Constitution is near defunct.

He’s majoring in Poli Sci,
he tells his hometown buddies,
so next spring he can intern
for a high-ranking Representative
who’ll recognize his worth.

He tells his parents that his prayer
is by thirty to win a House seat
as a step toward serving
on multiple corporate boards.
Yes, he’ll make billions.

Before he’s forty, he tells them,
he means to be an oligarch.
And when he visits the house
he’ll build for them wherever they want,
he’ll fly in with his bodyguards
on one of his eight-passenger jets.

He’ll have occasion, he reassures them,
for giving the needy their due.


William Aarnes lives and teaches in South Carolina.
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BANKSTER RAP

by Jon Wesick (a.k.a. MC Dimon)

Financial bungle – Sometimes I blunder
nearly take the nation under.
Financial bungle – Sometimes I blunder
nearly take the nation under.

Gangsters’ cash everywhere
in the safe and on the stairs.
We launder dirty money ‘cause we just don’t care.
The folks at HSBC
make narco smuggling easy.
They won’t get caught. They got friends in DC.

Don’t push me ‘cause I’m close to the hedge
fund. I’m trying to make more bread.
Financial bungle – Sometimes I blunder
nearly take the nation under

We took the public’s money, rejected further rules.
We do what we want, play the voters for fools
We won’t pay a fine, won’t go to jail.
Me and my bank are too big to fail
so call me a dog, call me a beagle.
I got Phil Gramm to repeal Glass-Steagall.

Don’t push me ‘cause I’m close to the hedge
fund. I’m trying to make more bread.
Financial bungle – Sometimes I blunder
nearly take the nation under

Your mom on retirement, been days since she ate
‘cause the crooks at LIBOR rigged the interest rate.
You can’t find a job. Wallet’s light as neutrinos
‘cause we play global markets like giant casinos.
We take the winnings while you pay the loss.
Worship free markets no matter what the cost.

Don’t push me ‘cause I’m close to the hedge
fund. I’m trying to make more bread.
Financial bungle – Sometimes I blunder
nearly take the nation under


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 fifty poems in journals such as The New Verse News, Pearl, Pudding, and Slipstream. He has also published over fifty 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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