Guidelines



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Monday, April 01, 2013

TAKING THE MOUND

by Mick Murphy


​
Thomas Eakins
Baseball Players Practicing, 1875
Watercolor on paper
Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design


​                For Robbie

​
​You tidy up,
​as in a boys room,
​moving the earth around.

​Dirt and small bits of stone
​the rakes passed over.

​Sins of omission if
​left untended can cost you
​the game.

​Your pitcher’s crease
​is lamb white, your heart
​the same.

​Yet unmarked by the spikes
​of the enemy.

​Your arms are supple and
​ready under home
​cotton whites.

​Your glove new leather
​oiled and shaped the night before.

​You love our summer game.
​
​But they come, the people from
​the world, and you have to pitch to them.


Mick Murphy is astudent of Amy Holman at the Hudson Valley Writers center in Sleepy Hollow New York. A former business executive, he has studied and written poems for many years. His work looks at personal and spiritual issues and the intersection of these with the life of his generation. He lives in the Hudson Valley of New York. He also writes about sports.

Sunday, March 31, 2013

GETTING OFF ON THE RIGHT FOOT

by George Held


Image source: The Telegraph


I

My God, what’s this old bugger doing,
down on his knees, pouring water out that silver pitcher,
washing my feet, his bald dome at my knees?
I hear him huffing and puffing, muttering
about humility and service.

What’s he doing now—kissing my feet!
My God, no wonder the warden made us
wash them before we came here to meet
this new pope, the hope of the Church
that no one goes to anymore.

Now he’s washing the feet of a girl,
a ho’ and a Muslim—she’s wearing a head rag—
who lucked out in the draw at the Casal
del Marmo, where we’re detainees
till the judges decide our fate.

Christ, I should get released now that I’ve
had my friggin’ feet kissed byil papa. Maybe
I’ll win the lotto now so I don’t have to mug
any more tourists. What to make of this feat –
having the pope wash and kiss my feet?

It’s a friggin’ miracle, ain’t it?


II

My son, allow me, your humble servant,
To kneel before you and lift your foot
So I can pour this holy water on it
And wash it clean of dirt and sins to boot.

I have done this in the streets of Buenos
Aires, where I have served as head Jesuit,
Then archbishop and cardinal, till raised
To the Seat of St. Peter, the top of it,

The Roman Catholic Church, so besotted
With scandal with which I must deal.
Let, O Lord, this ritual washing and kissing
Of feet be a symbol of my desire to heal.

Soon God will help me figure how to quash our woes –
Abuse, corruption; now I bow to kiss these humble toes.


An occasional contributor to The New Verse News, George Held occasionally blogs at www.georgeheld.blogspot.com

Saturday, March 30, 2013

MOVING THE QUEEN

by Tricia Knoll



All she wanted when she fled up
north was to keep her child and man --
she hummed her song all along.   
All she wanted from mother’s day
was for her son and another
mother’s boy let each other live.

All she wanted from her locked chain
on the White House fence was to vote 
for a man for President.
All she wanted from a wheelchair
rolling her body to the voter’s booth
was a death with dignity.

All she wants running for office
is to oust the jerks who tell her
to do more with less and love it.   
All she wants from her website
is for Muslim and Jewish women
to read each other’s poetry.

All she wants from a pink t-shirt
is to walk with womenfolk
who celebrate survival.
All she wants from bumper stickers
is for neighbors to know
she yearns to marry Isabelle.

All she wants to find online
is work that lets her feed her twins
more than macaroni and cheese.
All I want from holding the queen
is to slide her fleet-foot fury
to checkmate the cross-head king. 


Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet. She never burned a bra but she walked in a Yale graduation in 1970 without one.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

WHAT DOES THE TRUTH MATTER?!

by The Bangkok Bards Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote


Whose fault is it anyway?
Pledging allegiance to whatever flag
Unfurls condemned property claims dismissed
Blame endgame pawns checkmating kings

Rockabye cradle of civilization treetops
Humanimals disappearing from soiled earth
Desert rats replaced by insects
Aphid borer bugs worms beetles

Emerald green caterpillars metamorphosis curtailed
Short-horned grasshoppers exodus flights cancelled
Nomads stripping crops infesting fields
Nymphs form bands adults swarms

Murky often contradictory mixed messages
False pretences invasion propaganda vilified
Imperial superpowers’ vacuum cause uprooted
Both sides conducting war crimes

Oily motives struggling to control
Corrupt harsh authorities brutal regimes
Military contracts favor wealthy elite
Convoluted natural resources geopolitical biases

Global financial crisis youth unemployment
Rising costs of living dangerously
Major ethnic religious faction confrontations
Plentiful share never quite enough

WHOSE WORLD IS IT ANYWAY?!


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

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

IT HAD BEEN WINTER

by Roger Aplon




She came to him followed 
by her mother & her three daughters. He waited
sipping strong black coffee 
& reading the interview with Dayan’s wife &
how the country’s moral 
fabric was being shredded, how power soils men.
It had been winter, they’d
made a pact, to plant in the spring, invite neighbors, 
the way it had been then,
as their grandfather’s dreams had been written down, how
the land would bear fruit for those 
who dig the wells, bend to furrow & set the seed.
In his dream, his kids play hard 
ball in Gaza when Rachides’ play in Tel Aviv.
In his dream, the Likud
who strut like crowned-kings in Jerusalem, ignore 
their spite, open the cells, call
off the dogs – demolish these blood corrupting walls.


Roger Aplon was a founder & editor of Chicago’s CHOICE Magazine with John Logan and Aaron Siskind. He has published one collection of short stories (Intimacies) & nine collections of poetry, most recently, The Man With His Back To The Room (2007) & It’s Only TV (2013). He occasionally reads his work with musicians from Wormhole & Trummerflora Collective in Yokohama, Japan & the US: San Diego & New York City. He was recently awarded an arts fellowship from the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation in Taos, New Mexico.

Monday, March 25, 2013

HOLY WEEK 2013

by James M. Croteau




Making dinner
with my lover
while NPR covers
gay marriage hearings
in the Supreme Court,
Inconceivable
in my boyhood
when nothing
was covered, or
everything
was covered, hearing
confined to mother’s words
warning of dirty
old men after little boys
in filthy public restrooms.
There will be no Easter
miracle, I’m sure,
I’ll not live to see
marriage in Michigan
where we cut our vegetables,
but simply standing
here with him,
this simple meal we make
is empty tomb enough
for that gay boy in me.



James M. Croteau lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan with his partner of 28 years, Darryl, and their two Labrador retrievers. Jim grew up gay and Catholic in the southern United States. He recently had his first poem accepted for publication in Hoot: a Postcard review of {mini} poetry and prose.

Sunday, March 24, 2013

PALM SUNDAY AT RABIEH, MOUNT LEBANON

by Antony Johae


This early April the sun’s suddenly hot
good for summer suits, light dresses
and children’s spangled frocks.
Church bells jangle invitation to enter
into AC away from open heat and glare.
Candles are carried in procession
olive branches in lieu of palm.
This boy holds a sprig of rosemary, scented for Sunday.
This woman struggles with her wet baby,
she’s breaking out in tears.
Some come in out-worn dresses
pre-nuptial, before male seed misshaped them into mothers
their men baldish, bellies loose-belted.

But here’s a well-formed girl chaste as Mary, Beatrice-beautiful
coming in as the Lord’s Prayer is said:
“ . . . lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil . . .”
This man’s tripped on the west door steps
chagrined that he’s grazed a knee.
That woman’s bra-strap is showing. Does she know it?
These girls’ skirts are short, leg muscles winter-white.
This old woman’s hair is dyed black – and that man’s moustache
camouflage for untold years.
Those dark-skinned maids are looking on as strangers,
some too young to have traveled – they don’t look troubled.

Outside, power pylons stretch up tapering like spires
and thick cables overhang a church of stone
– modern wit enough to make the Lord laugh.
Or is perhaps the joke inverse?
Human circumstance absurd.


Antony Johae lives in Lebanon and is a freelance writer. The poem is taken from a collection in progress: Lines on Lebanon. His work has appeared previously in The New Verse News.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

SAP'S RUNNING

by Laura Rodley


http://www.earthhour.org


The hearts of trees are sleeping,
But the sun’s warmth wakes them up
A fever from root to bud
A raging that froths the ground
Boiling bubbles, time to start
Tapping, collect their tears
Drink them as boiled sugar
Syrup for hot pancakes, sausage links.


Laura Rodley’s New Verse News poem “Resurrection” has won a Pushcart Prize and appears in The Pushcart Prlze XXXVII: Best of the Small Presses (2013 edition). She was nominated twice before for the Prize as well as for Best of the Net. Her chapbook Rappelling Blue Light, a Mass Book Award nominee,  won honorable mention for the New England Poetry Society Jean Pedrick Award. Her second chapbook Your Left Front Wheel is Coming Loose was also nominated for a Mass Book Award and a L.L.Winship/Penn New England Award. Both were published by Finishing Line Press.  Co-curator of the Collected Poets Series, she teaches creative writing and works as contributing writer and photographer for the Daily Hampshire Gazette.  She edited As You Write It, A Franklin County Anthology, Volume I and Volume II.

FOUR HUNDRED YEARS AGO IN OREGON

by Tricia Knoll

The Bybee Timber Sale proposes logging directly adjacent to Crater Lake National Park. Crater Lake is Oregon's only National Park and the backcountry forests that surround one of the purest lakes in the world should not be subject to the harmful effects of logging.

The Bybee logging project would log 1,300 acres in the proposed Crater Lake Wilderness. This would effectively cut off several intact wildlife corridors with logging and road building.  The project includes 12 miles of new roads. The logging would be enough to fill 7000 log trucks, which, if parked end-to-end, would stretch 73 miles from Medford to the boundary of Crater Lake National Park.

Not only would the Bybee Timber Sale imperil the fragile ecosystems of the park, but much of the logging would occur in the headwaters of the world famous Rogue River. The gushing, narrow canyons of the Upper Rogue should not be polluted by the sediment and logging debris from the Bybee Timber Sale.


People moved across this land, hunting,
blessing the roaming prey, practicing
plant wisdoms and reciting
chains of lineage. Fireside stories
from before the gathering of time
told of Llao from the
underworld and sky god Skell -- the battle
of their rising and falling, of Mount
Mazama and the cratered lake.

In that wildness of trees, rain, waves,
and crystal creeks, the people called themselves
the Bannock, the Chasta, the Chinook, the Kalapuya,
the Klamath, the Mollalla, the Nez Perce, Takelma
and Umpqua. Many journeyed to Celilo Falls
for the great trading, before
the dam and the rocks walls
that bore their picture stories
of ocean, gods and volcanos at war
slipped under the floodwaters.
Spaniards sailed the rocky coast,
never venturing to find that caldera
of water bluer than skies, or trees
rounding battleground of gods, scoured by fire,
scrabbling in rock, lifting to Skell
and rooting to Llao

before the people became ill
or furs traded out for hats and coats,
two hundred years before Meriwether,
the Oregon trail, railroads, statehood,
and or telling the people falsehoods.
Today: the men come to fell trees sprouted
in that long ago -- trees ten times the girth
of the human belt. Skell and Llao,
forces of below and above,
watch, the old war yet undone,
this battle of up and down,
over and over again. 


Oregonian Tricia Knoll knows that four hundred-year-old trees in Oregon are really BIG.

GLOBAL WARMING

by Howie Good

   
               

“Everything
I leave
behind,”

a dying
Thoreau
instructed,

“is to be
 burned.”

Birds ignite
in mid-air.


Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. He has a number of chapbooks forthcoming, including Elephant Gun from Dog on a Chain Press. His poetry has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology. goodh51(at)gmail.com.

Friday, March 22, 2013

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A DRONE PILOT

by Ann Bracken



     Based “Dreams in Infrared” by Nicola Abé 
     posted at Spiegel Online International, December 14, 2012.

He works in a windowless, air-conditioned container somewhere in New Mexico.
The pilot and his co-workers sit in front of fourteen computer monitors
and four keyboards.
Drone pilots at work.

The container is the cockpit where no one flies. They sit at controls
watching the Predator drone circle in figure eights
high above Afghanistan,
6,250 miles away.

The pilot sees a house made of mud
and a shed used to house goats comes into focus in the crosshairs.
He receives an order to fire and presses the button with his left hand.
Then he marks the roof with a laser.

The pilot next to him
pulls the trigger.
Releases a hellfire missile.
Sixteen seconds to impact.

The moments freeze, ticking by in slow motion.
The pilot can still divert the missile.
No one is on the ground. Three seconds to impact.

A child walks around the corner of the goat shed.

Second zero. The pilot’s digital world collides with the village
between Baghan and Mazar-e-Sharif.
The pilot sees a flash on the screen.
The explosion
the building collapses
the child disappears.

The pilot’s stomach plunges.
Did we just kill a kid? he asks the pilot next to him.
Yes, I guess it was a kid.
“Was it a kid?” they write in a computer chat window.

Someone they don’t know answers.
Someone sitting in a military command center.
Someone far away who observed the attack.
“No, that was a dog.”


Ann Bracken is a writer, poet, educator, and expressive arts consultant whose poetry, essays, and interviews have appeared in Women Write Resistance: Poets Resist Gender Violence, Little Patuxent Review, Life in Me Like Grass on Fire:Love Poems, Praxilla, The Museletter, The Gunpowder Review and Reckless Writing Anthology: Emerging Poets of the 21st Century. Her company, The Possibility Project, offers expressive arts programs for women of all ages. Ann is a lecturer in the Professional Writing Program at the University of Maryland.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

MEMORIAL

by Eric A. Weil


Image source: WN / Sayali Santosh Kadam


Twenty acres of cabbages
ranked in military green,
harvest coming soon.
My nostrils twitch
with that raw-earth smell,
and I think
of soldiers’ helmets
on rifle stocks
standing between
pairs of boots
in the sand.


Eric A. Weil lives and teaches in Elizabeth City, NC.  This poem is from a series tying the landscape and wildlife of eastern NC to an inescapable weariness about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Eric has published two chapbooks, A Horse at the Hirshhorn and Returning from Mars.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

ARAB SEASONS SPRING ETERNAL

by Earl J. Wilcox

     
Clay Bennett,
 Chattanooga Times Free Press, Aug 20, 2002
EditorialCartoonists.com
(click here to view)

Ten years have passed—
Ten long winters and ten long summers,
Ten long springs and ten long autumns.
Yet the WMD are still absent as they were
When the first waves of shock and awe
Killed the first ten thousand.


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.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

SWINDLED

by George Held

Barack Obama - Caricature

The handsome President
Wears his black suit gracefully;
Articulate, suave but earnest,
He is the paragon of a graduate
Of the homeland’s finest schools.

The President promised to repel
The Mammon, the Bain brain who
Would lead Capital’s raid on “entitlements,”
To which we are entitled because
We paid for them every paycheck.

But now the President offers our
Social Security and Medicare
As bargaining chips
While the croupier with “GOP”
On his green visor methodically

Rakes in profits for the house,
Which never loses at gaming
The system and we, the losers,
Broke and broken, limp from the table
Dimly aware we’ve been swindled.


An occasional contributor to The New Verse News, George Held occasionally blogs at www.georgeheld.blogspot.com.