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Friday, January 10, 2025

COVER IT

by Ron Riekki


“Everyone keeps saying 'apocalyptic,' but that doesn’t begin to cover it.” —CNN’s Karina Tsui from Pacific Palisades, January 8, 2025

 


My sister texts me saying she is sorry

to hear about my long disease [sic] and I

think of the long history of fire, how often

our world wants to be held instead of this,

now, how it’s helled.  And in the military

they put me in the burn pits, not to help,

but for punishment, no mask given, and

 

forced to stand there with the ash now

that owns me, apical scarring, and this

is the world now, scaring me, the news

where I see fire in the Ukraine and fire

in Gaza and fire in Sudan and fire in

Myanmar and fire in Haiti and I look

online at a “current large wildfire map”

 

and it looks as if all of California is on

fire and I worked in California during

COVID, a disaster healthcare volunteer,

going to all the worst-hit cities, raged

by COVID and, always, driving in, I’d

see countless TRUMP signs [sick],

almost as if COVID went wherever his

 

supporters were, a nurse yelling one

time that the OR needed to have at

least two sets of negative pressure

respirators, and I remember a shift

where all of the staff was sick, how

nobody showed up but me, and, out-

side, the horizon was ablaze, rooms

 

packed with COVID patients, one

dying every other shift, and I could

go outside for my break, but couldn’t

take my mask off outside either, not

with the planes dropping fire retardant,

and a medic telling me that the UV

in L.A. was deadly, is deadly, and this

 

doctor screaming something about

a CT scan, and a COVID patient who

came in with no ID (we took him),

and an MP from a nearby military

base who died in his 20s, drowned

in the water of his own lungs, and

how someone came in and a nurse

 

was asking if the patient couldn’t

breathe because of COVID or be-

cause of the fires and the fires were

COVID and COVID was a fire, is

a fire, and my father is in bed and

he’s flicking through the news and

it’s orange-red on the screen and

 

red-yellow on the screen and it’s

yellow-orange, all these different

hells we create—bombings and

wildfire and a Republican’s pool

in his mansion backyard drowning

in flames and the fires in Burkina

Faso don’t make our news and

 

the fires in Cameroon don’t make

our news and the fires in Mali

don’t make our news, but fires

of the wealthy are all over our

screens and the mansions are so

quickly eaten by Hell.  My son

googles the words Who invented

 

fire? and the A.I. answers, Homo

sapiens and we invented all of

this, all of this ash and smoke

and I remember when I was

standing in the middle of my

lungs being destroyed for

the rest of my life and there

 

was fence all around me and

I thought of incarceration,

how we are getting so good

at war that we are turning our

whole entire world into a prison

and the only way out of this hole

is to stop everything we’re doing.



Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press).

Thursday, January 09, 2025

KRONOS EATS HIS CHILDREN

by Susan McLean





Kronos rules a golden age.
A.I. fulfills his every whim.
He fracks to fuel his leverage.
He won't let regulations trim
his profits or his privilege.

Kronos drives an SUV:
it's comfortable; he needs his room.
When there's a place he wants to be,
his private jet can save him time,
and time is money, naturally.

You can't eat money, though, so when
the ice caps melt, the oceans warm,
droughts, floods, and hurricanes pile on,
and all the crops dry up or drown,

his kids will find he's eaten them.



Susan McLean, a retired English professor from Southwest Minnesota State University, taught a course in Greek myth and literature for thirty years, and finds that those myths continue to resonate with what's happening now.

Wednesday, January 08, 2025

A HAUNTING AND A CURSE

by Patricia Smith Ranzoni



               

     Came a land with no children but many flowers. 

Weeded out by ground thieves, God-given, they thought 

and said. Their right, being most moral to themselves.


     In mothers’ wombs slaughtered sons and daughters. 

In incubators denied power. Refused milk, starved, no matter 

their wails, no rescue or slightest mercy even water.


     Survived to toddle, shot in their heads. Walk or run, 

in knees hobbling for life. Life? Called lawn to be mowed.

At mid-youth, still alive, picked off, 


     thought of as rats on forbidden dumps. And grass 

to be cut. Bombed and drone-shot day and night til nothing

but chunks rolled in dirt like fish in flour 


     from nets also forbidden. Came a land with no 

children, a foot, arm, patch of flesh while rubble baked and 

blew away in the sun, then the absolute misery of winter 

without shelter not a dry or safe space to be had not a meal 

     and the people who wanted it that way, staked and 

claimed, liking it with no children or only childrens’ bones, 

congratulating themselves. No humanitarian aid allowed! 

No humanity for Christ’s sake!


     Came a time their stolen olive trees turned blood red 

fruiting with the colors of newborn eyes watching them.


     Their soiled window boxes boasted the lushest 

greens ever seen, breaking out with poison petals 

startlingly splendid but quick to rot. 


     Their gardens made them sick. Trees never 

stopped boiling over with tears. Yet still, they praised

themselves, thanking their gods. 


     The map to the land with no children can be found 

by the cries the wind is made of. World ‘round, it is named 

shame in laments whispered and screamed forever.


Outback Maine native Patricia Smith Ranzoni is a child veteran of WWII and retired educator nearing the land of 85. Daughter of a woodsworking paper mill rigger and farm woman, she and her second generation Italian-American husband met and married while working their way through the University of Maine (1962). With their three children they have devoted their lives to keeping the family G.I. Bill homestead for three more generations. They were the last on both sides to keep a family cow. Her mostly self-taught poetry has been published across the country and abroad, including numerous times in The New Verse News where she goes for solace.

Tuesday, January 07, 2025

BEAUTY AND THE WOOLY BEAST

by Lisa Seidenberg


Left: Archaeologist Kathleen Martinez believes a marble statue discovered at a temple site portrays the face of Cleopatra. (Image courtesy Egypt Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities via Hyperallergic. Right: Researchers inspect the remains of a baby mammoth found in the Siberian permafrost in Russia's Batagaika crater. (Image by Roman Kutukov / Reuters via NBC News.)


A female wooly mammoth was found
In the frozen reaches of the “mouth of hell”
Nestled in a crater underground

50,000 years since she made a sound
Did she leave with a tale to tell
Nestled in her crater underground?

She was named Yana, a gentle sound
We don’t know if she let out a yell
Stumbled down by chance or forced underground

Cleopatra’s stone head was found uncrowned
Along with coins and other bagatelles
Scattered near her tomb recovered underground

Burial sites are a scientist’s playground
Clues in bones, a grown-up show and tell
Treasures from an ancient lost and found

Might the wooly beast and the Egyptian Queen 
prefer their secrets to remain unseen?
Safe-keeping their private lives 
Locked away from prying eyes



Lisa Seidenberg is a writer and filmmaker who resides in coastal Connecticut. She is a nominee for the 2025 Pushcart Prize. Her recent work has been published in Asymptote Journal, The New Verse News, OneArt: A Journal of Poetry, and Gyroscope Review. She is peer poetry reviewer for Whale Road Review.

Monday, January 06, 2025

PANTOUM: THE TALIBAN TALI-BANS WINDOWS

by Steven Croft




No more open casements, no more moments at windows
Bring back the view of flowers and the love-burned orchards
Buildings now a punishment, knowing prisoners love windows
Talibs say: "Seeing women through windows is an obscene act"

Bring back the view of flowers and the love-burned orchards
To bodies now haram, faces now haram, our voices now haram
Taliban warn: "Seeing women as women is an obscene act"
Captive in darkness, dark-bitter roots till these walls come down

To bodies now haram, faces now haram, our voices now haram
At breast, our babies, throats filled with milk and woodsmoke
Captive in darkness, seeds for flowers, till these walls come down
No more subterranean, no more cavemouth blocked

At breast, our babies, throats filled by milk and woodsmoke
In the candlelit square of mirror, I hope myself, hopeless
No more subterranean, no more cavemouth blocked
But for the world I've stopped hoping, hope tombed long ago

In the candlelit ghosts of windows, I see myself hopeless
My pain bleeds down the panes, alone with my punishment
For the world will not see us, our hope tombed long ago
For the world will not see us, it stopped looking long ago


Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, 2023). His work has appeared in Willawaw JournalSan Pedro River ReviewSo It GoesAnti-Heroin ChicThe New Verse News, and other places, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

Sunday, January 05, 2025

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WORD IN THE DICTIONARY

by Arlene Weiner


“Tariff,” Donald Trump has said many times, “is the most beautiful word in the dictionary.” —The Guardian


Tariff?
More beautiful than cerulean? 
Than mother? Than home?
 
Something Arabian
about tariff: a perfume. 
Something elaborate: a fringe. 
 
Certainly more beautiful
than beautiful, bee-yoo-tiffle.
Related to giraffe? To sheriff?
 
herd of tariffs, say, gathers
high-hanging fruit. A tariff
with a posse protects. 
 
And yes, Arabian: Wikipedia: 
The English term tariff
derives from the French: tarif
 
a descendant of the Italian: tariffa,
from Medieval Latin: tariffe…  
from the Ottoman Turkish…
 
borrowed from the Persian…
The Persian term derives from Arabic:
 تعريف, ta rif.
 
To riff on tariff: What if 
the English, the French, the Italians, 
the Turks, the Persians
 
had taxed foreign tongues,
policed the borders of language,
put up walls?
We’d have no tariff, no beautiful tariff.


Arlene Weiner lives in Pittsburgh. She has been a copy editor, a den mother, a Shakespeare scholar, and a member of a group developing computer-based instruction. Her poems have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies. Ragged Sky Press has published three collections of her poetry: Escape Velocity, City Bird, and More. She also writes plays.

Saturday, January 04, 2025

DIVING DUCKS ON NEW YEAR’S DAY

by Melanie Choukas-Bradley 

Art by Doug Pifer for The WV Independent Observer


Lithe buffleheads and mergansers
Newly down from Canada
Tandem dive into the rough blue Potomac
 
Wind whips the sycamores
Causing their spheres of seeds to
Dance as clouds race above
 
Next week Jimmy Carter will lie in state
And then Donald Trump returns
 
Today ducks are diving
Let’s just watch them dive

 
Melanie Choukas-Bradley is a Washington, DC naturalist and award-winning author of eight nature books, including Wild Walking—A Guide to Forest Bathing Through the Seasons, City of Trees, A Year in Rock Creek Park, and Finding Solace at Theodore Roosevelt Island. She has had several previous poems published in the The New Verse News and many poems published by Beate Sigriddaughter’s Writing in a Woman’s Voice, including four that have won “Moon Prizes.” Her poetry has also been featured on nature-oriented websites.

Friday, January 03, 2025

NEW YEAR'S EVE IN GAZA

by Donna Katzin


Part of the humanitarian zone, around Al-Aqsa University, west of Khan Yunis. February 2024, compared to December 2024. Credit: Planet Labs PBC via Haaretz, December 31, 2024


There is no shelter to keep out the cold                                     
in Deir al-Balah—no water
safe to drink or mouthfuls of food…
famine claims the children one by one,
even infants who, though barely named,
are loved.
 
Winter winds do not appear to notice,
rip through shreds of plastic
pretending to be tents,                                       
that can no longer hold together
as unspoken words and stifled prayers
stab at throats too dry to utter them.
 
Without knocking, rain pours through the openings,
soaks clothes and bedding to the skin
for days and nights that never close their eyes,
like a lethal benediction
claiming tiny souls of unblessed babies
freezing in their mothers’ arms.
 
A world away, one million revel in Times Square 
awash in bright lights and bubbly 
on the eve of the New Year.
 
 
Donna Katzin is founding and former Executive Director of Shared Interest, investing in South Africa's democratic development, and co-coordinator of Tipitapa Partners, working with Nicaraguan mothers to feed their children.  She is also a member of the Reconstructionist Movement's Tikkun Olam (Repair the World) Commission, and a published poet honored to have been included in The New Verse News.

Thursday, January 02, 2025

DAYS OF ABSENCE

by Royal Rhodes




Trump’s promise of mass deportation throws undocumented Texans into fear, uncertainty. —Texas Public Radio, December 19, 2024


Was I asleep and missed the sudden Rapture
that took the nameless with familiar faces?
Where did they go, with all the little ones?
The guy who cut the hair of homeless Vets,
the smiling pizza boy, and couriers?
Our well-trimmed gardens are now overgrown.
Produce at the market costs much more—
no strawberries for even ready money.
And who will take our dogs for daily walks?
These days of absence seem so rude at best.
Are we supposed to give Grandma a bath?
She knew the helper more than she knows us.
Are they on retreat deep in the desert
in prayer and fasting from all food and water?
In church they took with us the bread and wine,
but sat apart or stood beside the door.
Have angels raised them up to Paradise?
Was it the Rapture or some plotted rupture?


Royal Rhodes is a poet whose poems have appeared in numerous literary journals, including several times in The New Verse News.

Wednesday, January 01, 2025

ICARUS AWAITS A NEW YEAR

by Mary K O'Melveny




We’ve long been warned:
don’t fly too close, 
that sun’s too hot,
your wings will melt.

Yet here we are.
A NASA probe,
blinking distance
from spitfire flames,

solar winds, flares,
light speed heat spots
radiating
fiery dust rings.

As a new year
dawns, the Sun will
speak its first words.
Or will it sing

a scorching torch
song that sizzles,
blisters, sears, scalds?
What did we think

when we strapped on
those beeswax wings, 
leapt out as if
we knew our fate,

the sea Petral blue,
sun gold-glazed red?
Soon enough we 
will learn how far

desire can fly
before it burns,
descending like
a blazing star.


Mary K O’Melveny, a happily retired attorney, is the author of four poetry collections and a chapbook. Her most recent, If You Want To Go To Heaven, Follow A Songbird, is an album of poems, art and music. Mary’s award-winning poems have appeared in many print and on-line literary journals and anthologies and on international blog sites, including The New Verse News. Mary’s collection Flight Patterns was nominated for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. Her book Merging Star Hypotheses (2020) was a semi-finalist for The Washington Prize, sponsored by The Word Works. Mary has been three-times nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is an active member of the Hudson Valley Women’s Writing Group and her poetry appears in the Group’s two published anthologies An Apple In Her Hand and Rethinking The Ground Rules. Mary lives with her wife near Woodstock, New York.