The New Verse News

TRANSPARENCY

2012-01-27T14:50:00.001+07:00

by David S. Pointer

Transparency

interferes with
the absence
of insightful dialogue
transmitted to people

interferes with
the preference
for high level privacy
during economic piracy

interferes with
the low pay repositories
the free people usability continuum
the lifecycle curiosity extraction

interferes with
the data purge
of financial, medical
and chemical information

interferes with
the myth, beauty, trivia
poetry professors pretending
they are above the fray

interferes with
the myth of the great man
the domestic assassination
the international assassination

interferes with
the diversionary entertainment
the familial and world peace
the quiet green horizons to come

David S. Pointer lives and writes from Murfreesboro, TN. He has recent acceptances at Rattle, Static Movement, and The Spirit of Poe anthology at Literary Landmark Press. All proceeds from the Poe anthology will go to benefit the Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Baltimore, MD that lost $80,000 in government funding.
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BBC REPORT FROM [INSERT COUNTRY NAME HERE]

2012-01-26T15:00:00.000+07:00

by Richard Storm

And now, daytime traffic is allowed again.
The smell of burning in the air.
So many families have lost loved ones.
This was something else.
A man was standing in front of his home. “Your children are okay then?” He refused to give his name.
The people here, however resilient, will need time to recover from this.

Richard Storm moved from his native Oregon to Manhattan in 1978 to pursue an acting career. A charter member of brevitas, an email poetry collective, he believes poetry need not be obscure to be poetic.
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ATTRACTED TO DISTRACTION

2012-01-25T13:40:00.000+07:00

by Kim Doyle

The big questions are, admittedly,
hard to face. It’s easier to twitter, to iPad,
or wonder if one has enough Facebook friends.

What was written on your “wall” today?
Technology lends itself to calculated
thinking on the right side of the brain -
which lends itself to "final solutions." 
Social networking is a shadow of the real thing.
The emphasis on caring in its biggest sense
is lost - caring for those who reveal the world
in all its multiple, mind piercing satisfactions -
caring for the essential business of being-ness.
How should I live the engaged life? It is a planet
filled with war and blood and ill-starred sacrifice.
The big questions have no traction.
In-authenticity is rife - the ending of a life
causes no ripples, quietness has no magnetism.
Loving the earth as oneself is just another
ecological faction.

Kim Doyle writes Op/Ed poems for The Brunswick Citizen in Brunswick, Maryland.
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OCCUPY THIS

2012-01-24T15:02:00.000+07:00

by Martin Willitts Jr

After 110 days of peaceful demonstration, Occupy Syracuse was forced out of “Perseverance Park.”

110 days to break us down,
dismantle us, like words
are deconstructed or misused
or misheard, bent
by politicians by their belief
in co-opting or shouting against us
how wasteful and destructive we are,
when all we wanted
was a chance to say something,
like kindling fire,
to make people restless
at the possibility we will disturb their dream
of what we should be and are not,
a consumer of lies, like they are, tents
folded into origami memories,
protest signs sighing,
and the things we stand for
are portrayed as destructive,
even though peaceful and supposedly our rights,
stampeded by the right,
so what we are is 110 words of loss,
what is the length of an eviction notice,
how long did it take you to notice me,
where are 110 justifications
for the wrong things we see,
the 110 things you think we are doing wrong,
taking a 110 minutes to sign
a proclamation declaring us illegal,
antlers growing and steam in your sentences
to sentence us,
110 gavels by the judge,
110 steps pacing a cell door,
110 watt light bulb flicking out on liberty’s lamp,
110 minutes for me to make one phone call
and my time was up and I am crap out of luck,
110 stars visible in the night
or is that 110 snowflakes or is it 110 degrees,
or does it matter when my freedom is withheld,
kept in check and balances,
the scales of justice tilting like a smirk,
as I count backwards from 110 to keep busy
and focus, as you wonder if I used 110 words.

Martin Willitts Jr was nominated for two Best of The Net awards and his 5th Pushcart award. He has had nine poetry chapbooks accepted in 2011 including True Simplicity (Poets Wear Prada Press, 2011), My Heart Is Seven Wild Swans Lifting (Slow Trains, 2011), Why Women Are A Ribbon Around A Bomb (Last Automat, 2011), Art Is Always an Impression of What an Artist Sees (Muse Café, 2011), Protest, Petition, Write, Speak: Matilda Joslyn Gage Poems (Matilda Joslyn Gage Foundation, 2011), How To Find Peace (Kattywumpus Press, 2011), Playing The Pauses In The Absence Of Stars (Main Street Rag, 2012), No Special Favors (Green Fuse Press, 2012), and Secrets No One Wants To Talk About (Dos Madres Press, 2011).
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3, 4 0R 5-TOED DRAGON

2012-01-23T15:00:00.000+07:00

Poem by Charles Frederickson; Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote

Year of the Dragon roars
In breathing glows-in-the-dark spitfire flames
Consumed by pulsating solar energy
Before being swallowed into oblivion

Everything old becomes new again
Recycled wishes given second chance
Shining example experiencing daily rebirth
Propitious omen foreboding divine spirit

Yesterday’s realities become tomorrow’s fantasies
Past Present Future trading places
Time-warp distorting what you see
Isn’t actually probably never was

Dreams within dreams awakening overnight
Consciousness clutching security blanket comforter
Stuffed downy pillows passionate moments
Consoling blissful suffering eternal love

Legendary mythical creature that laid
No eggs had no young
Can heal itself if injured
Salty teardrops healing mortal wounds

5-toed fifth Chinese Zodiac Sign
4-toed Korean soaring 3-toed Japanese
Golden phoenix claws clutching pearl
Auspicious symbol signifying celestial happiness

Dr. Charles Frederickson and Mr. Saknarin Chinayote proudly present 28 YouTube mini-movies @ YouTube – CharlesThai1 .
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APOCALYPTICS

2012-01-22T15:00:00.001+07:00

by David Radavich

We want
the world to burn

and everything
we dislike

destroyed in a burst
or a deluge

so there’s no
mistake

we are the good
guys, God’s favorites,

who will finally
own all
and be all

we dreamed
since

our partial
birth.

David Radavich's new book of poems Middle-East Mezze (Plain View Press, 2011) focuses on Iraq, Palestine, and Egypt. Previous poetry publications include Canonicals: Love's Hours (Finishing Line, 2009), America Bound: An Epic for Our Time (Plain View Press, 2007), Slain Species (Court Poetry Press, London), By the Way (Buttonwood Press, 1998), and Greatest Hits (Pudding House Press, 2000). His plays have been performed across the U.S. and abroad, including five Off-Off-Broadway productions. He also enjoys writing essays on poetry, drama, and contemporary issues.
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PICKING PRESIDENTS

2012-01-21T17:33:00.004+07:00

by Kathleen Flenniken

Perhaps Americans are Iowans in essence.
Granite Staters. South Carolinians. Our system teaches us
the states in the west

don’t need or have a say—speaking as a westerner—
so we don’t field candidates, in essence,
we don’t have presidents from the great northwest. Would any of us

want the presidency anyway? Kissing babies, wars, and crisis. None of us
meet these egregious sweater-vested villains in person. We moved out west
for independence and (still remember) privacy. These hand-picked states in essence

represent us. It’s essentially democracy by proxy. The west just watches on TV.

Kathleen Flenniken’s new collection, Plume, from University of Washington Press, is a very personal history of the Hanford Nuclear Site. Her poems appeared in recent issues of Poetry Northwest, Southern Poetry Review, and the 2012 Pushcart Prize anthology.
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FOR HAMZA ALI AL-KHATEEB

2012-01-20T15:00:00.003+07:00

by Peleg Held


Many tributes to Hamza al-Khateeb, such as this one drawn by a child, were posted to a Facebook group to commemorate his life and death. Source: Aljazeera.

Hamza Ali al-Khateeb, a thirteen-year old boy
tortured and killed in Syria on April 29, 2011.

He kept homing pigeons.

From my father's roof I rise, circling
the loss I cannot gather with these permeable wings

The bridge from pigeon to dove,
the broken body of a child.
From obedience to unruly honor,
the broken body of a child.

From this day forward the words
I carry will be mine alone,
home or elsewhere.
Words lifted into fury,
legs folded and burned but
still unbanded.

Peleg Held is a writer and a carpenter living with his partner and their brigand children in the southeast United States. He is a former member of Voices in the Wilderness, a campaign to lift the economic sanctions on Iraq and other failed attempts at decency.
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LEGISLATION AS EUPHEMISM

2012-01-19T14:05:00.000+07:00

by Jon Wesick

NVN Editor’s Note: This video accompanying Jon Wesick's prose poem was created by David Holmes and other journalism students at Jay Rosen's NYU's Studio 20 as part of their collaboration with ProPublica.org to build better explanations of progressive issues.

A few years ago Congress fracked over the American public by exempting hydraulic fracking from the Safe Drinking Water Act. Typical for corrupt politicians to sell us out to greedy corporations that don’t give a frack whether we get cancer from drinking poisoned water as long as there’s a quick buck to be made. I have one thing to say to the motherfrackers who voted for this obscenity. Take a flying frack at a rolling donut.

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 poems in journals such as the The New Verse News, New Orphic Review, Pearl, Pudding, and Slipstream. He has also published forty 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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PRIMARY COLORS

2012-01-17T15:00:00.000+07:00

by John Palen

when a death squad came
people banged on pots and pans
jammed streetcorners

when a fighter pilot
strafed a schoolgirl by mistake
she jumped in a ditch

when village women
turned out, soldiers let them pass
shot them in the back

red yellow blue green
cotton over limbs and torsos
so easily riddled

tell me, Yogi,
what game is it that ain’t over
even when we win?

This is John Palen's third appearance in The New Verse News. His first collection of flash fiction, Small Economies, is forthcoming from Mayapple Press. His reviews of literary magazines appear in New Pages. A Central Illinois resident, Palen blogs about poetry and fiction at www.johnpalensblog.blogspot.com.
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BACK TO THE FUTURE

2012-01-16T15:32:00.000+07:00

by Helen Padway

SUMTER, S.C. — The conservative bedrock issues of abortion, gay marriage and faith that have long shaped Republican campaigns in the South moved toward the forefront of the presidential contest here Saturday as candidates scrambled for the support of evangelical voters. --By Philip Rucker, Washington Post, January 15, 2012

At the narrow end of the funnel
of her mind - stained red brick
building, alley entrance - steep steps,
foot sounds muted on torn rubber treads.
Finger marked hall walls, printed
black numbers on frosted glass,
the edges ready to flake, door hinge
squeaking like a rabbit caught in the claws
of a horned owl. A brass doorknob
layered in the grunge
of sweaty palms. An empty waiting room.

Three chairs,
cracked yellow plastic covers,
curled copy of Modern Screen.
Gray asbestos tile floor.
From the open inner door
a paunchy figure
with no face, only the white plump
hand beckoning. Inside the room a narrow black
leather table and a steaming Nesco Roaster
filled with boiling water
and hot sharp steel. Do you have the money?
Handoff of rolled bills fastened
by red yarn. He counts, has clean fingernails.
You can keep your bra and shirt on.

Helen Padway lives, writes and contemplates life in Wisconsin. She is happy to see her poems published in journals throughout the US. She is concerned about the political scene but is able to smile as she interacts with her family and other poets.
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ON POST COLONIALISM

2012-01-15T15:00:00.000+07:00

by E. F. Schraeder

I read the term first
in a smart book

I borrowed from the library
back in grad school and

I wondered
When did they leave?

E.F. Schraeder's creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in the anthologies Kicked Out, Whitechapel 13, Father Grim's Storybook, and others. Schraeder’s poetry has appeared in Hiram Poetry Review, Bluepepper, On the Issues, Blue Collar Review, Haz Mat Review, New Verse News, and other journals. She is working on a new manuscript of poems and waiting for more snow.
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THE YEAR IN PREVIEW

2012-01-13T14:56:00.000+07:00

by David Feela

This year will be different:
suicide bombers will be kinder,
senseless shooters more considerate,
the banks less greedy.

Congress will get to work
legislating America’s confidence
and hangovers from drunken holidays
will be covered by Medicare.

European debt will melt like polar ice
and dead movie stars will come back to life.
It will be a landmark year for self delusion.
Earthquakes, tornadoes, and oil spills

will manifest themselves
for study instead of destruction.
The homeless will begin to relish
the freedom of not owning a home.

Wildlife will adapt to the virtues
of domesticity, nuclear power plants
will generate the scent of fresh snow,
and a forest of electronic books

will be harvested by hackers,
to be left on the virtual doorsteps
of overcrowded online schools.
An abducted child will be found

alive -- the police apprehending
a network of journalists who suggested
that things would not turn out
as well as they did.

David Feela writes a monthly column for The Four Corners Free Press and for The Durango Telegraph. A poetry chapbook, Thought Experiments, won the Southwest Poet Series. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas appeared in 2009. His new book of essays, How Delicate These Arches (Footnotes from the Four Corners), has just been released through Raven's Eye Press.
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POEMING THE BAMBINO Part 3

2012-01-12T15:00:00.000+07:00

by Rochelle Owens

Click here for Part 1 of Poeming the Bambino

Click here for Part 2 of Poeming the Bambino

Amazed at the sound
the little wooden bambino
l i s t e n s

the blocks falling
on a stone floor
“in my father’s house”

Amazed at the touch
The little wooden bambino
f e e l s

an icon hanging
on a nail
“in my mother’s house”

Amazed at the sight
the little wooden bambino
s t a r e s

on my mother’s face
a melancholy look

disease famine torture war

a spider rendering light

on my mother’s face
one eye cut into pieces

covetous brotherly love

Amazed at the smell
the little wooden bambino
I n h a l e s

poison

an apple and a knife
paring the apple
without breaking the peel

throwing the parings
beyond the edges
of a page

disease famine torture war

Amazed at the taste
the little wooden bambino
b I t e s

an apple

his rosebud mouth an irregular shape

covetous brotherly love
beyond the edges of a page

Rochelle Owens is the author of twenty books of poetry, plays, and fiction, the most recent of which are Solitary Workwoman, (Junction Press, 2011), Journey to Purity (Texture Press, 2009), and Plays by Rochelle Owens (Broadway Play Publishing, 2000). A pioneer in the experimental off-Broadway theatre movement and an internationally known innovative poet, she has received Village Voice Obie awards and honors from the New York Drama Critics Circle. Her plays have been presented worldwide and in festivals in Edinburgh, Avignon, Paris, and Berlin. Her play Futz, which is considered a classic of the American avant-garde theatre, was produced by Ellen Stewart at LaMama, directed by Tom O’Horgan and performed by the LaMama Troupe in 1967, and was made into a film in 1969. A French language production of Three Front was produced by France-Culture and broadcast on Radio France. She has been a participant in the Festival Franco-Anglais de Poésie, and has translated Liliane Atlan’s novel Les passants, The Passersby (Henry Holt, 1989). She has held fellowships from the NEA, Guggenheim, Rockefeller, and numerous other foundations. She has taught at the University of California, San Diego and the University of Oklahoma and held residencies at Brown and Southwestern Louisiana State. This is Rochelle Owens' twenty-fifth New Verse News poem.
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ANOTHER WORLD: A NEW YEAR OF POSSIBILITIES

2012-01-11T13:57:00.000+07:00

by Mary Saracino

“Another world is not only possible. On a quiet day I can hear her breathing.” --Arundhati Roy

Softly, on the sigh of a breeze
in the steady certainty of her quiet exhale
another way unfurls, answering our longing
for a different world, a place of peace and possibilities
where children always have enough
and mothers and fathers
always love without limitation
giving no thought to the things that hinder
or impoverish their hopes, their dreams.
Where on this wide round planet can
that kind of world exist if we cannot find it
within our fragile hearts, tender with desire
bruised from too many years of silencing,
too many clamoring voices drowning out
the visions of prophets and seers
poets and peons, the brilliant,crazy ones
who know that the only thing we need
to do to change everything is to be still
open our eyes, un-jail our hearts, rid our tongues
of hateful words, liberate our weary minds
of bigotry and separation, open our lungs
to joy and celebration, ride the winds of change
as if we had no other choice.
We must bury our war dead forever
bury our wars, too. We must cultivate
compassion for everything, big or little, human or not
making room for every woe, every jubilation
for it is only here inside our blood and our bones
that the breath of the world can birth her precious promise
fill us with the fortitude we need to create
a new way of life, a new way to live.
If we listen we will know how to join her
in her quiet revolution, how to echo her nonviolent wail
for justice and equality for every being
everywhere a breath is breathed, everywhere a life is born
until at last we all are free to come home
to the only home we have every truly wanted
the only place where we can resuscitate our meager hopes
with the replenishing air of her unfailing breath.

Mary Saracino is a novelist, poet and memoir-writer who lives in Lafayette, CO . Her most recent novel, The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006) was a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards Finalist. Her short story, "Vicky's Secret" earned the 2007 Glass Woman Prize.
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MASQUERADE

2012-01-10T15:00:00.000+07:00

by Kim Baker

Naama Margolese is a pony-tailed, bespectacled second grader who is afraid of walking to her religious Jewish girls’ school for fear of ultra-Orthodox extremists who have spat on her and called her a whore for dressing “immodestly.” Associated Press, Beit Shemesh, Israel, December 28, 2011

Harassed, spat on
by black-hatted men,
she’s eight, late
for school but tears
do not defuse her terror
nor turn her long
sleeved shirts and skirt
into orthodox tradition.
Hatred masquerades
as religion and misogyny
masquerades as God.
Coexistence requires more
than couture submission.
It insists on wearing
the hair shirt of respect
despite vice grips of dissent.

When she isn’t teaching the abundant virtues of the comma at Roger Williams University School of Law, writing poetry about big hair and Elvis, and doing the Cha Cha, Kim Baker works to end violence against women. Her poems have been published online and in print; her essays broadcast on NPR. Kim is currently working on a book of ekphrasis poems.
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FOR THE OLD YEAR’S END

2012-01-09T14:07:00.000+07:00

by Lewis Gardner

It’s a gray time of year when the year turns,
a dull time for reflection or summing up.
Heavy clouds lid the sky. New years really
begin with the spring. The old year dies now;
the next months, while endured, hardly exist.

*

In front of the sacred bookstore someone
carved a Buddha of snow. The snow-Buddha,
with muffler of rose-colored silk, will melt,
proving ephemeral things of the Earth, works
of our hands.

*

I probe the house pulling calendars from the walls.
Newly obsolete, my appointment book holds
the history of my year: hopeful meetings,
wasted interviews, a concert when time
for a moment stood still. The years
get archived neatly with the tax returns.

*

In the long, cold night we fight for the bed
covers. I shiver till I yank an edge loose.
I lie awake, planning projects that may never
happen. Meanwhile I work, commute,
compile these pages for future reference.

*

You think you’re climbing through wilderness
but on the other side of the forest you find
a house or a highway. As kids we played games
of war and exploration where the houses
weren’t yet built at the top of the hill.
We still want to imagine being the first
to step somewhere. But even our dreams
are listed in a book. I am, I want to cry—
No one's been here before!

*

Outside the cottage a winter mix falls,
a granola of snow and ice. It’s warm inside
at 2 a.m. A flashlight gets me to the bathroom
without stumbling. How happy I am!
Protected from the sleet and snow pelting
the roof, alone in the shadows, silent as a cat
I return to bed. The dim circle of light
holds off the night. I turn it off to sleep.

Lewis Gardner has published poems and plays in a number of anthologies and magazines, as well as more than 60 poems and light-verse pieces in the New York Times. Originally from New England, he lives in Woodstock, New York.
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MONKS COME TO BLOWS OVER WHO HAS THE RIGHT TO CLEAN THE CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY

2012-01-08T14:06:00.000+07:00

by Ann Drysdale

Bethlehem's church of the punch-up --The Guardian, December 29, 2011

Down tools, you fools, the Brothers cry,
Leave you my church alone!
How dare you white my sepulchre
With your vile holystone?
How dare you cherish what I love
As if it were your own?

Thus each man kills the thing he loves;
His passion seals its doom.
A tract of land, a patch of sand,
A rock, a church, a tomb.
Some do it with an honest bomb
And others with a broom.

If Jesus had the casting vote
Would any of them care?
But he’s long gone, and hasn’t left
Even an echo there
Of how a harlot oiled his feet
And wiped them with her hair.

Ann Drysdale now lives in South Wales, UK and has been a hill farmer, water-gypsy, newspaper columnist and single parent - not necessarily in that order. Her fifth volume of poetry, Quaintness and Other Offences, has recently joined a mixed list of published writing, including memoir, essays and a gonzo guidebook to the City of Newport.
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CLARENCE THOMAS HAS NOT ASKED A QUESTION IN FIVE YEARS

2012-01-07T15:00:00.000+07:00

by Lauren Banka

The linguistic acrobatics necessary for this
are considerable. Uncertainties are rephrased
as imperatives, warnings, statements of desire.
His relationship with Virginia has become more efficient
but nobody uses the word “love” anymore. (What is love
but the best ever uncertainty?) When he is in court,
he is completely silent. He says he is self-conscious
about the way he speaks. He knows he is sitting on
a buckled mirror, not a bench.
He knows people say “Clarence” and think “Anita.”
He knows everyone is waiting for him to prove he’s just
thick Georgia dialect, asking the wrong questions.
Clarence Thomas plays it safe. Clarence Thomas
visits colleges and doesn’t want to talk about his job.

Lauren Banka is an award-winning poet, artist, and organizer who has performed and competed nationally, and has been published in Conclave and the Lake River Review as well as two chapbooks. She lives in St. Louis, MO.
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THREE KINGS DAY

2012-01-06T15:00:00.001+07:00

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

It is a cold January morning
The day of the three kings’ arrival
At the stable where the baby Jesus
Lies in the straw

So many visitors have already come
Choirs of angels shepherds from the treeless hills
Crowds of the merely curious
Wanting to know what all the fuss is about

And now these three out-of-towners
Roaring up in their luxury sedans
Bestowing lavish gifts of absolutely no use
To a newborn baby but

Perhaps convertible into hard currency
That could well come in handy
When the young family embarks upon
Its hasty getaway to a safer locale which

Will turn out to mean
Only a temporary stay of execution
Because the State is very patient and in the end
The State will have its way

Buff Whitman-Bradley's poetry has appeared in many print and online journals. With his wife Cynthia he is co-producer/director of the award-winning documentary film, Outside In, and co-editor of the forthcoming book About Face: GI Resisters Turn Against War (PM Press, 2011). He is also co-producer/director of the documentary Por Que Venimos.
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LEST WE FORGET

2012-01-05T15:00:00.000+07:00

by Tom Karlson

3000 BC
Builders of tombs for
Ramses III
Work no pay
They occupy the temple
Ramses reconsiders
Fish, beer, clothing, wheat
For the 99

1730
Stone River Georgia
Slaves and freed blacks rise up
Cato in the lead
60 killed
Occupation crushed
For a while

1871
Paris, France
Workers rise up
Take the streets
For 100 days then
Counterrevolution strikes
100,000 executed
The gutters run red
Occupation crushed
For a while

1877
Martinsville, West Virginia
Rail workers rise
General strike epidemic
50 cities
10 states
Army, militia, police, pinkertons
40 dead
Busted
For a while

1900
Woblies, IWW
Free speech
Fill the jails
One big union
Gandhi listens

1930’s
That red decade
Flint, Toledo,
San Francisco,
Minneapolis
50,000 workers
Strike, sit in, occupy the factories
Teamsters, auto workers, longshoremen
Unemployed League, the YCL
Communist party
The 1 calls
Guardsmen, scabs, thugs, police
Sweet victory for the working class
Collective bargaining, contracts
Solidarity
For a while

Venceremos
A long while 1960
Greensboro, North Carolina
4 sit in, Woolworth
70,000 sit in, jail in, boycott
Winning civil rights
Jim crow ends, Bull Conner weeps
For a while

Today
OWS
The 99 and the 1

Tom Karlson is founder of Poets for Peace, Long Island, NY.
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STATUES OF JUDAS

2012-01-04T15:00:00.001+07:00

by Marc Janssen

Outside the bank
Someone erected a geometric deposit
A statue of sorts
The boring kind.

There are not too many statues
Of St. Francis outside of banks.
The kind of statue
A Catholic kid would stop and look up to, his hand shading his eyes from the sun.

There are not too many statues
Of Martin Luther King outside of banks.
Well, minorities aren’t really the best customers…
So why bother.

There are not too many statues
Of Jonas Salk outside of banks.
Holding a test tube, that fills with water so birds could sit on his arm and freely drink.

No, this is an abstract,
A purely intellectual representation.
A series of banal blocks in multi-colors
It is difficult to see, but if you look long enough,
Really look.
It will kiss you on the cheek.

Marc Janssen has written poetry seriously for more than two decades. After earning a Bachelors Degree in Communication Arts from California Lutheran University he worked as a copywriter for the world’s largest tool catalog company. A veteran of the Ventura, California poetry scene, he relocated to Oregon in 1998 where the natural landscapes and healthy doses of rain have provided inspiration. Janssen has been published in a number of magazines and journals including most recently The Gold Man Review, Bellowing Ark, and Morning Glory.
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COLLECTING THE IOWA VOTES

2012-01-03T15:00:00.001+07:00

by David Feela

The GOP candidates leave their
perfect eggs in a box the voters
built and lined with hay.

Repetitive to a fault,
they lay, they lay, and they lay.

David Feela's work has appeared in regional and national publications. He is a contributing editor and columnist for Inside/Outside Southwest and for The Four Corners Free Press. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas, is now available.
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POEMING THE BAMBINO Part 2

2012-01-02T15:00:00.001+07:00

by Rochelle Owens

Click here for Part 1 of Poeming the Bambino

The little wooden bambino
thinking––once upon a time

the little wooden bambino
holding a hot wire
cutting out letters

c o v e t o u s

naming letters counting letters

a p p l e

his rosebud mouth an irregular shape
covetous brotherly love

velvety jet black his eyes

counting his wooden fingers
playing with letters
s p e l l I n g

disease famine torture war

the little wooden bambino
chanting—
“in my father’s house”

on the stone floor
an unknown word

an apple tree growing
beyond the edges of a page

under the apple tree
dead and putrefying

a word neither good nor evil

the little wooden bambino
holding a hot wire
cutting out letters

bright colors the letters
letters of black fire

luminous the eyes eyes
of the little wooden bambino
his rosebud mouth an irregular shape

an apple tree growing
limbs and leaves undulating
beyond the edges of a page

Rochelle Owens is the author of twenty books of poetry, plays, and fiction, the most recent of which are Solitary Workwoman, (Junction Press, 2011), Journey to Purity (Texture Press, 2009), and Plays by Rochelle Owens (Broadway Play Publishing, 2000). A pioneer in the experimental off-Broadway theatre movement and an internationally known innovative poet, she has received Village Voice Obie awards and honors from the New York Drama Critics Circle. Her plays have been presented worldwide and in festivals in Edinburgh, Avignon, Paris, and Berlin. Her play Futz, which is considered a classic of the American avant-garde theatre, was produced by Ellen Stewart at LaMama, directed by Tom O’Horgan and performed by the LaMama Troupe in 1967, and was made into a film in 1969. A French language production of Three Front was produced by France-Culture and broadcast on Radio France. She has been a participant in the Festival Franco-Anglais de Poésie, and has translated Liliane Atlan’s novel Les passants, The Passersby (Henry Holt, 1989). She has held fellowships from the NEA, Guggenheim, Rockefeller, and numerous other foundations. She has taught at the University of California, San Diego and the University of Oklahoma and held residencies at Brown and Southwestern Louisiana State. This is Rochelle Owens' twenty-fifth New Verse News poem.
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THE ALPHA AND OMEGA

2012-01-01T15:00:00.000+07:00

by Earl J Wilcox

Epigraph to the Iraq War

They were the first and the last:
Jonathan died first in Iraq.
David, the last to die there.
We grieve for David and Jonathan
And for Dustin, Shawn, Steven, Andy,
Mark, Micah, Gary, Lori, Melissa,
Tamarra, Frances, Kimberly, Leslie---
for 4,483 American souls who gave their lives.
And for ourselves and all human kind.
God have mercy on us all.

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.
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