THE MONARCHS

by Roger Stoll

Soon, monarch butterflies that sipped nectar in your backyard will heed an ancient call. These tiny, black and orange insects will rise high in the air, hitch a ride on the thermal updrafts and fly until they reach their winter home in a Mexican forest, 2,000 miles away. Climate change has also taken a toll, Sarikonda said. Drought kills milkweed and other pollinator plants; cold snaps keep caterpillars in that stage longer, leaving them more vulnerable to predators, she said. Steps toward helping the monarchs are showing progress. Many parks and nature centers hold programs in the fall asking volunteers to help catch and tag monarchs so that scientists can gather data about their migration habits. —Julie Washington, The Cleveland Plain Dealer, September 9, 2015. Photo credit: Katharine Auld Breece.

The Monarchs have returned.
It’s taken them four generations,
but they made it;
a few of them anyway,
fewer by a quarter, by a half.

Their overwintering forests
have been logged and burned.
The climate is too hot,
drying out the eggs, cooking the larvae.
Milkweed, the larvae’s only food, has been decimated by herbicides.

This time they’ve come prepared.
They picked up what they could along the way,
balancing it on fragile bodies
suspended beneath spectacular wings:
helmets, blast-proof armor, grenades, light arms.

They’re not going quietly this time.
After a few weeks,
once they’ve copulated, laid their eggs,
and before they die,
they plan to take a few of us with them.


Roger Stoll is a retired music teacher living in San Rafael, California.

THE DOLTS' NEXT DEBATE

by Ralph La Rosa

Image source: DonkeyHotey

Don’t ask about earth science
Don’t ask about the poor
Don’t ask about one’s conscience
Such thinking is a chore.

Don’t ask about The Street
Don’t ask about the schools
Don’t ask about deceit
Such issues break our rules.

Do ask if we like kittens
Do ask about the wife
Do ask if we like mittens
Such questions about life.

Do ask if we hate taxes
Do ask if we pray daily
Do ask if we love crises
Such issues never foil us because we always behave like totally deranged assholes

—stupidly.

Ralph La Rosa lives in southern California where he daydreams and writes.

CHANCE ENCOUNTER

by Robert M. Chute

Found at the annual library sale, stained but
solid and readable, a New Directions Paperbook:
The Collected Poems Of Wilfred Owen for
twenty-five cents. Chance may lead you to the light.

The book discovered on a cluttered table
like some long buried, corroded, unexploded
World War I artillery shell French farmers still
turn up by chance — bones long leached away.

Varying brown stains, mostly on the cover and
edge of pages (coffee we assume), made
random illumination fitting for his last-minute
mis-chance death, that particular bullet

not seeking him in particular as the war wound down.
“Nothing personal,” Death said: November, 4, 1918.


Robert M. Chute's first poem for TheNewVerse.News was posted on August 6, 2008. Chute's book of poetry based on scientific articles, Reading Nature, is available from Amazon or Barnes and Noble. 

OLD GLORY

by Thom Young

we're not alone
there are aliens
with moon bases and ancient pyramids
in a vacuum
because that's what the universe
is
no chance and no wind.
but you saw Old Glory
waving
as
 Neil danced
his small steps for man
while
the women never got mentioned
again.
there's a chance they're lying
to us
but I wonder what
comes on channel 5
tonight?


Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His work has been in The Commonline Journal, 3am magazine, Word Riot, 48th Street Press, and many other places. A 2008 Million Writers Award nominee for his story "Perico".

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS

by Sister Lou Ella Hickman





streets and alleys flood with color
a confetti of noise
explodes into the night
yet we know all too well
the violence in the shadows
all we have left is our poverty
our fiesta
this is our courage
and we must dance—
it is in our blood


Sister Lou Ella Hickman is a member of the Sisters of the Incarnate Word and Blessed Sacrament. She has been a teacher on all levels and she has worked in two libraries.  Presently she is a freelance writer as well as a spiritual director. Her poems and articles have been published in numerous magazines as well as a poem in After Shocks: Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events edited by Tom Lombardo and a poem in Down the Dark River edited by Philp Kolin. Her first book of poetry, she: robed and wordless, published by Press 53, was released September 1, 2015.

PURSE POWER

by Gil Hoy

Image source: Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence

                1.

“A well regulated Militia,
being necessary to
the security of a free State,
the right of the people
to keep and bear Arms,
shall not be infringed.”

                2.

2015,  as if
in a Dream.   No one’s
      talking guns for a militia.  The army's ready,
Already armed, to protect America from any invading
        Power.    Smoke and fire,      Feel the wool
Wig pulled over the
                         Peepers to camouflage thundering
                         Profits  for piece manufacturers and
      The political power such
                        proceeds will buy.      Go ahead, pull open Oz’s curtain,
Not a constitutional leg to stand on.


Gil Hoy is a Boston trial lawyer, writer and poet. He studied poetry at Boston University, while receiving a BA in Philosophy and Political Science. Gil received an MA in Government from Georgetown University and a JD from the University of Virginia School of Law. He served as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman for four terms. His poetry has appeared most recently in The Eclectic Muse, Third Wednesday, Montucky Review, The Potomac and TheNewVerse.News.

THERE IS THIS GUY

by Howard Winn

Image source: DonkeyHotey

who believes the Earth we live on
is six thousand years old and
says the geological evidence
is all malarkey as is the physical
data that verifies much of
Mr. Darwin’s theory about the
creation of homo sapiens which
this particular gentlemen says
he can refute in a few slick minutes
if questioned about the source
of what he believes without question
while at the same time insisting
his god made the world of Adam
and Eve in six days ending with
the Sabbath which our current
calendar created by the Greeks
and Romans a few years back
places as Saturday while our
Sunday is the first day of the
week and all those days in-between
named from classic mythology
are when this God parceled out
his chores of creation since he
apparently did not want to be
overwhelmed by trying to do too
much in the twenty-four hours
someone controlling the sun had
placed in each day so named
which leads one to ask just who
was the original engineer in charge
who put limits on this God The Papa?


Howard Winn’s fiction and poetry, has been published recently by such journals as Dalhousie Review, Taj Mahal Review (India), The Long Story,  Cold Mountain Review, Antigonish Review, New Verse News, Chaffin Review, Thin Air Literary Journal, and Whirlwind. His B. A. is from Vassar College. He has an M.A. in Creative Writing from Stanford University. His doctoral work was done at N. Y. U. He has been a social worker in California and currently is a faculty member of SUNY as Professor of English.

A PARLIAMENT OF OWLS

by Edmund Conti

A school of fishytalkers.
A pride of manes.
A host of tax-cutting angles.
A passel of brats.
A pod of spiels.
A Parnassus of asses.
A crash of egos.
A peep of politicians.
A drift of attention.
A tidings of mudpies.
An unkindness of ravers.
A knot of yes-men.
A sounder of whiners.
A clowder of candidates.
A mustering of stories.
A barren of mules.
A murmuration of startling proposals.
A pencil of one-liners.
A set of bushes.
A squat of daubers.
A poverty of ideas.
A neverthriving of number jugglers.
A cluster of gripes.
A blare of trumpets.
A piddle of puppies.
A wince of viewers.


Edmund Conti gets venereal with a pittance of poets.

OHIO BILL WOULD BAN ABORTION IF DOWN SYNDROME IS REASON

by Mary Leonard

CLEVELAND — Opening a new front in the abortion wars, abortion opponents are pushing Ohio to make it illegal for a doctor to perform an abortion if a woman is terminating her pregnancy to avoid having a baby with Down syndrome. The legislature is expected to approve the measure this fall because lawmakers endorsed by the National Right to Life Committee, which supports the bill, make up more than two-thirds of both houses. Photo: Protesters outside Preterm, an abortion clinic in Cleveland. Credit Michael F. McElroy for The New York Times —NY Times, August 22, 2015

Yesterday in yoga class, a handsome man arrived
            with his child. He placed her mat in front of mine.
 She was small, 13, 18?  with brown hair pulled back

 in a pony tail.  It wasn't until she turned
            and I saw her eyes, I knew
 she was a Down Syndrome child. As we stretched

 to the right, to the left, she was 30 seconds
            behind but kept up, didn't seem distressed,
 soldiered on, even when she couldn't do what the teacher said.

 When we did pranayama, followed by sighs
            hers were late and loud. The teacher said,
"That was very good sigh," smiled.

 The rest of us did not pay attention to the girl
             but to our own struggles with the asanas.
I looked up to see the child bend in half,

 fold over from her hips all the way down
            to her toes while the rest of us  stretched
 forward a few inches, our hands clutching our mats.

I thought about the handsome man, the father, I assumed,
              saw his athletic moves and his face
lined with worry. Where was the mother?

 Did the parents have a choice when they heard
            the fetus was Down's syndrome?

When the girl touched her toes,
             when she tried to follow,
I thought this child is a gift.

 But what did I know
            about this life: hers, his, theirs.
  I could only hope  that no law demanded,

"This fetus is a person and must be born."

Maybe difficult to think abortion with a child in front of me
            but not  difficult when a law could deny choice, making parents
 feel ashamed and dictate what life is and could be for all.


Mary Leonard has published chapbooks at 2River, Pudding House, Antrim House Press and RedOchreLit. Her poetry has appeared in The Naugatuck Review, Hubbub, Cloudbank. She lives in an old school house over looking the Rondout Creek.  Away from her own personal blackboard, she teaches workshops for all ages through Bard College.

SORRY

by Janice D. Soderling

On Aug. 26 in Idomeni, Greece, a cousin of Ahmad's, Nisrine Majid, looked out of the train that would carry the refugees through Macedonia, to its border with Serbia. SERGEY PONOMAREV FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES

When war comes to your country,
it will not just come to other towns than your town.
It will not just come to people you don't like anyway.
Sorry.

When war comes to your country,
the milk you buy at your corner grocery store
will not be there for the buying.
It will never be on your breakfast table again.
Sorry. No breakfast table.

When war comes to your country,
your children will be crying on live television.
Sorry. Life isn't always fair.

When war comes to your country,
it will bring you new knowledge.
Words which you never fully understood
will gain a deeper significance. Chlorine gas.
Barbed wire. Tear gas. Batons. Bread.
Sorry.

When war comes to your country,
when you flee with your family,
what should you take, what leave behind?
Family photos? Your new espresso machine?
No, be smart. Take bottled water,
a pan to cook in, soap, a towel,
band-aids for minor cuts and scratches.

When war comes to your country,
take sturdy walking shoes, woolen blankets.
Be prepared for a long wait. The borders are defended.

Sorry about any inconvenience.



Janice D. Soderling has previously contributed to TheNewVerse.News. She is featured poet at the October Quill and Parchment  and has forthcoming fiction at Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine and Wasafiri.

LEAVING SYRIA

by Marilyn Peretti

“On the Way,” by Lorenzo Mattotti.

She folds a light blanket, knowing
her child likes softness by her cheek,
stuffs it into plastic, leaving
the half bombed-out apartment,
the long dreaded task.

Father carries two-year-old Amira
and the bag of belongings.
Mother carries a bag of dry clothes,
walking beside their son, Mahdi, five.

After eleven miles
shoes feel tight, blisters swell.
Garbage bag ponchos keep out
only part of the rain.

Under a plastic sheet at night
baby touches the soft blanket.
Her eyes flutter shut as mother
hums. Just 80 km to go.

What to find ahead?
How to be received?
The hell they left forces them on.
They only need water, bread

soap and socks. Train doors
slam shut before them;
now to walk to the next point
where it’s colder. Amira
is swaddled in the damp blanket.


Marilyn Peretti still lives near Chicago, and still loves it that concise words of poetry can express the egregious events in nations' interactions. She has been published in various journals, Pushcart nominated, and published several poetry books at blurb.com/bookstore.

POUND OF FLESH, PINT OF BLOOD

by Catherine McGuire

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” began Judge [Marvin] Wiggins, a circuit judge here in rural Alabama since 1999. “For your consideration, there’s a blood drive outside,” he continued, according to a recording of the hearing. “If you don’t have any money, go out there and give blood and bring in a receipt indicating you gave blood.” —NY Times, October 19, 2015. Photo of Judge Marvin Wiggins from Diverse Issue in Higher Education. It accompanied a August 5, 2014 story on Wiggins’ ouster by Gov. Robert Bentley from the Board of Trustees of Alabama State University.

So you’re broke, and cannot pay –
we’re gonna get you anyway.

The Bloodmobile awaits outside
so bare your arm and stuff your pride.

The other option’s prison for
indigence: three months or more,

where debts increase, as jail’s remittance
is layered on that once small pittance,

which balloons into a lifetime’s debt.
So pay your pound of flesh – no, wait!

I mean pint of blood, a “free will donation”
I’m not Shylock – no relation.


Catherine McGuire is a writer/artist with a deep interest in philosophy. Using nature as a mirror, she explores the way humans perceive themselves and their world. She has poems published in the US and abroad and has four chapbooks: Palimpsests, (Uttered Chaos, 2011) Glimpses of a Garden, Poetry and Chickens, and Joy Holding Stillness.

DISCOVERED TINTYPE OF BILLY THE KID AND THE REGULATORS

by Alejandro Escudé





The photograph is startling because of the humans
who pose in it; they are not from a time with cell phones
because the tall bare tree in the background
isn’t frightened of them, the hills do not appear
scorched by a radioactive sun, and even though
these are gunslingers, in the picture no one has a gun.
Sepia, holy sepia, on horseback the supposed newlyweds
unsmiling, the dirt road running along the wooden house
and the croquet mallet at his side, William, the Kid,
worshipped by some as if he were a god, an American god
striking the croquet ball under a hoop, from good to bad.
The auctioneers need Billy to stay the Billy of the darker tintype,
the pose defiant, shotgun at the ready, the wry expression
of a wise and wistful youth: you can take my picture,
but you will never take my soul. We may never know the truth,
yet we marvel at the photo, sense the unfettered breezes
that blew over the rolling hills, stroll in the orchard
above the safe house, Lincoln County, New Mexico, on that day,
the Kid wearing a red sweater, his face half-melding
with the stock of cowboy lore—so evenly spaced each ancestor,
the women, the kids, the photographer distanced enough
to halt the jittery horse of time for twelve seconds.


Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems, My Earthbound Eye, in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

BEN CARSON CHATS WITH VOLTAIRE

by Judith Terzi

V:   In Candide, I write that optimism is the madness
to claim that everything is good when it isn't.
What's your view of optimism, monsieur Docteur?

BC: Well, right now, as I see it, the hope we can repeal
Obamacare would seem the best of all possible
worlds. Mon Dieu, François, it's the worst thing
since brain cancer.

V. Oh, I heard you say since slavery on the Charlie
Rousseau show last week.

BC: Boy, I'm learning fast how to be a politician.
Yeah, I said slavery. Merde, I should have said
it in French so no one would understand. That's
esclavage, oui? Pardon my accent!

V: BTW, have you read Candide? So you think
healthcare for the people is more pernicious than
forced prostitution, child labor, mutilation, torture,
war. The Inquisition?

BC: Well, I can't say I've read it. Any form of socialism
is a no-fly zone for moi; it's right up there with
other horrors, including the Third Reich. Any
organized system helping the peeps is contrary
to the security of a free State, the right...to keep
and bear Arms.

V: Oh oui, oui, your sacred 2nd! A propos of arms,
monsieur Docteur, didn't you say that the Jews
would have had a better chance with Hitler if
they had had guns? Now just where would these
six plus million guns have come from?

BC: Well, I'm not familiar with Germany's gun laws.
Then or now. Maybe Schindler's List? Ha ha ha ha.

V: You mean la liste de Craig? So you think if
you're elected, the country could become the
healthiest of worlds?

BC: Only God knows, really. What I know is that evil
shows its ugly visage from time to time. We've
seen the cancer in these past eight years like we
saw it during WWII. Vigilance, vigilance, we
need vigilance. It's terríbul.

V. Terrible!! So what's your fix, monsieur Docteur?

BC: Well, for those mass shootings at colleges & theaters,
we have to arm each & every being who crosses
the threshold. That way, each member of a group's
well-equipped to attack an attacker. And that's my
remedy as Curer-in-Chief of this diseased nation.
And that includes arming pre-schoolers as well as
chiropractors & acupuncturers.

V: Well, my good Docteur, I guess this is no time to be
making enemies, then, is it?

BC: I used to tell my patients an apple a day keeps the doc
away. Now I tell the American people: A gun a day
keeps the killing at bay. Vive la France!


Judith Terzi's most recent chapbook, If You Spot Your Brother Floating By, is a collection of memoir poems from Kattywompus Press. Her poetry has appeared in journals and anthologies including Atlanta Review (International Publication Award, 2015), Caesura, Myrrh, Mothwing, Smoke: Erotic Poems (Tupelo), Raintown Review, Unsplendid, and Wide Awake: The Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond (Beyond Baroque). She lives and writes in Southern California.