ON THE ROAD WITH MY GRANDDAUGHTER BEFORE THE 2024 ELECTION

by Susan Vespoli

~Dedicated to the man who just macheted Trump signs in Yuma and then drove his car over them

Feeling cranky about mean election signs

along Phoenix streets that tell lies or say F**k 

one candidate’s prayers, (paid for by his Republican

opponent for Senate) yet finding myself laughing 

at the Hitler mustaches graffitied onto the upper lip 

of Trump and Kari Lake, I tell myself to breathe, 

ask my granddaughter about Addy, 

the 4th grade friend she calls talented. How so? I ask, 

and Molly replies, well, she can suck in her breath 

so hard her nostrils seal shut, and she can stand  on her head 

and balance her water bottle on the sole of one of her shoes. 

Did you see her do it? I ask. Yes, she nods. I exhale.

Susan Vespoli believes in the power of writing to heal. Her poems have been published in NVN, Rattle, ONE ART, Anti-Heroin Chic, and other cool spots.

IN TIME

by Christopher Woods

Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show Twelve from Texas was performed recently in NYC by Equity Library Theatre. His poetry collection Maybe Birds Would Carry It Away is published by Kelsay Books.

READING, WRITING, ARITHMETIC

by Ron Drummond

Sign up at Vote Forward

“The library is open.”

– RuPaul Charles

 

 

“Turn the page,” my candidate says,

and we are even more delighted 

with this ambassador of sanity 

than five-year-olds at story time.

 

I turn the page of a roll of voters

registered to the same party as me

and continue personalizing notes and

envelopes to possible “for” votes,

 

my handwriting in each letter

paired with a QR code spelling 

how, where and when to cast

their vote. I band stacks of stuffed,

 

stamped envelopes – this batch

of over three hundred going to

a state where all zips begin with

two, the numeral that allows for 

 

my finest work: a slight, lovely curve 

that swoops to a taut, crisp horizontal.

At some point, I will put on some music,

but for now, I am flying solo.

 

I picture the recipient’s odd experience 

of holding a hand-addressed envelope to be

like Sondheim’s Joanne pausing her song

to ask, “Does anyone still wear a hat?”

 

I relive the tedium of my factory job

working with extruded plastic, and those

night-shift endings at Denny’s “marrying”

the ketchups” – wedding the contents

 

of the bottles so that none are partly full, 

leaving each with the sediment of ancient 

condiment at their bottoms – when all 

I want is dawn, and to go home to bed.

 

Within reach of where I stamp and seal

is a cigar box of campaign buttons, mostly 

from lost crusades. I’m not a snob about them.  

I don’t take pride in backing failed runs. 

 

Most of the buttons promote anti-war pols,

and half are red, white and blue discs 

with the much-later-to-be-assassinated 

Allard Lowenstein’s name on them. 

 

But when this current election is over 

and I add a shiny new navy-blue one 

to my collection, I envision this old 

El Cid Corona Minors box – it once held

 

25 seven-inch (54 ring-gauge) cigars 

with open feet & capped heads – being 

transformed. It will no longer be a flat, 

hinged urn. It will no longer be a grief box.

 

“Turn the page,” my candidate repeats,

using a gesture even the non-literate

can understand.

Ron Drummond is the author of Why I Kick At Night (Portlandia). A founding editor of Barrow Street, his poetry and translations have appeared in over forty journals, as well as in anthologies and textbooks. He has received fellowships from Ragdale, VCCA, Blue Mountain Center, and the Macondo Foundation. He lives in NYC with his husband Terry Cook.

A BONFIRE OF MYTHS

by Michael T. Young

AI-generated graphic by Shutterstock for TheNewVerse.News 

I want to say what my country is like, 

to speak the wonder of its cities, 

the roads along its farm fields,

 

even while the gears grind

of so many people trying to agree

that the sun still rises in the east, 

 

and not in the west or elsewhere.

So, if I say there are blind eagles 

decorating the porches, 

 

we sigh because the words

stink of symbolism and ash,

of mythic fires choking us.

 

The smoke obscures our mirrors 

so they no longer reflect 

what we need to know 

 

about ourselves, or who we call 

to the front: that the dictator 

of a day, outlaws every tomorrow. 

Michael T. Young’s third full-length collection, The Infinite Doctrine of Water, was longlisted for the Julie Suk Award. He received a Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts. His chapbook, Living in the Counterpoint, received the Jean Pedrick Chapbook Award. His poetry has been featured on Verse Daily and The Writer’s Almanac. It has also appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals including The Journal of New Jersey Poets, Mid-Atlantic Review, Talking River Review, and Vox Populi.

NAVAJO CODE TALKER NOW AT REST

by Lavinia Kumar

The New York Times, October 20, 2024

armament ……animal ………...Navajo animal name

bomber……….buzzard ……….jay-sho

fighter plane…hummingbird …da-he-tih-hi

battleship ……whale …………lo-tso

destroyer……..shark…………..ca-lo.

 

Navajo John Kinsel lived 107 years,

decades since he was Code Talker

the Navajo Code unbreakable, critical 

to Iwo Jima Marine victory.

 

He returned, his wound healing—

to his grandfather who’d happy-cried,

to a welcome ceremony—

returned to the Navajo Nation—

received Purple Heart after 43 years,

Congressional Medal 12 years later.

 

his memory to inspire generations

his spirit resting in peace.

Lavinia Kumar’s latest book is a reprinting of her short book Beauty. Salon. Art. 

CLEARING

by Indran Amirthanayagam

Palestinians are bombed, starved, herded, 

out of Northern Gaza. The Plan is to cut 

the Strip down further, have all residents 

take their moveable belongings 

to the South where they will float between 

tents, before builders come driving bull-

dozers and cranes, and cement trucks,

driving bricklayers to make new Israeli 

homes on even more occupied land. This 

cannot be stopped unless bombs are 

no longer delivered to the executioners, 

unless the Plan’s directors are caught 

and tried, until even more life’s 

spilt during the ongoing genocide.

Indran Amirthanayagam has just published Seer (Hanging Loose Press) and The Runner's Almanac (Spuyten Duyvil).  He is the translator of Origami: Selected Poems of Manuel Ulacia (Dialogos Books). Mad Hat Press published his love song to Haiti: Powèt Nan Pò A (Poet of the Port). Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (BroadstoneBooks) is a collection of Indran's poems. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly and helps curate Ablucionistas. He hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.

WAR IS THE DRUG WE DEAL

by Gordon Gilbert

via The Guardian

As a nation, we send more military aid

to other nations than any other country does.

But it’s all a con game, the old flimflam.

 

The money stays right here at home,

our tax dollars going to corporations here

that manufacture arms, munitions & weapons of war.

 

And those in government take money from those corporations

to keep us at war, when they can, while ever always arming

the rest of the world as well, setting the stage for future conflicts.

 

Fear your neighbors! Distrust their motives!

Anger, hatred will follow. You must protect yourselves!

We can help.

 

Guns sold as peacemakers to one side, then another.

An escalating arms race? More money to be made.

Greed runs amok.

 

War profiteers. Masters of war. Dealers of death.

War is the drug we deal. Addictive. Often fatal.

Ours is the hand of Midas, destroying all it touches. 

Gordon Gilbert is a writer living in NYC's west village.  During the pandemic, he often found solace and an inner sense of peace by taking walks along the nearby Hudson River; now he does so as unwilling witness to the ongoing genocide in Gaza. 

PLEA TO A FORMER PRESIDENT

by Philip Kitcher

Deceit provoked our warfare with Iraq,

Leaving a million people dead or maimed.

How can you win your reputation back?

How is a leader’s legacy reclaimed?

 

A con-man threatens to destroy our nation,

Seduces voters into fatal choice.

Please make your country partial reparation.

You have been silent.  You could raise your voice.

 

Perhaps you still have power to shift our course.

Not speaking out will signal your consent.

Revive your party’s heritage, endorse

A woman fit to be our president.

Philip Kitcher has written too many books about philosophy, a subject which he taught at Columbia for many years. His poems have appeared online in Light, Lighten Up Online, Politics/Letters, Snakeskin, and The Dirigible Balloon; and in print in the Hudson Review.

THE VOICE OF ONE CRYING IN THE WILDERNESS

by Steven Kent

The Guardian, October 19, 2024

In Missouri, one Christian speaks truth

On behalf of some transgendered youth.

A preacher for parity

Out there's quite a rarity;

Elect this good woman, forsooth!

Steven Kent is the poetic alter ego of writer and musician Kent Burnside. His work appears in 251, Asses of Parnassus, Light Poetry Magazine, Lighten Up Online, New Verse News, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Philosophy Now, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry, Snakeskin, and Well Read. His collection I Tried (And Other Poems, Too) was published in 2023 by Kelsay Books.

WHAT’S THAT ANIMAL DOING HERE?

by Cecil Morris

In this provided photo from Oct. 13, 2024, an arctic fox is sheltered at the Bird Alliance of Oregon, after being spotted in Portland last week. After her arrival at the facility on Saturday, an exam confirmed her species, and determined the young female was hungry and dehydrated. The Bird Alliance is working with the Department of Fish and Wildlife to determine her next home. Courtesy of Bird Alliance of Oregon via Oregon Public Broadcasting.

First the deer grew bold, wandered between houses
and ate the blossoms and tender new growth
from the ornamentals we had planted.
They lifted their long heads, their mouths trailing
some asters or dahlia greens, their eyes wide
and unblinking, unconcerned by our presence.
They stood in our yards as placid as spring
their big ears unbothered by passing cars.
Yes, the crows, the jays, the shrieking seagulls
have long been fearless, ever intrusive,
like blackberry brambles pushing through fence
and dandelions lifting through the dirt,
insistent, tireless, quietly present.
And hungry cougars came down from the hills
to threaten joggers, snack on yapper dogs,
and haunt our dreams with their sleek fitness,
prowling embodiments of fear and guilt.
And now this—an arctic fox in Portland,
a seldom snowy metro area
of millions almost half way down the globe
toward the equator. Escaped, illegal pet?
Intrepid advanced scout for nature’s
reclamation of lost lands? One more sign
that we and all our works are just a part
of nature, as much its environs as ours?
Sure, she has that cute dog face and could be
a good best friend, a companion fluffy
and warm, but what will come next? Rangy wolves?
Polar bears after new blubbery foods
arranged along a street downtown? Slick slugs?
We are selfish and we don’t want to share.
We want wildlife to stay where it belongs.

Cecil Morris, a retired high school English teacher, has poems appearing in The Ekphrastic Review, Hole in the Head Review, The New Verse News, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. He and his partner, mother of their children, divide their year between the cool coast of Oregon and the relatively hot Central Valley of California.