TO END HUNGER

by Darrell Petska



“The United States has higher rates of hunger and poverty than any other industrialized country. We may feel embarrassed, but we haven’t built the political will to actually do something to improve the situation.” --2013 Hunger Report


President Obama said:
Senator Reid said:
Senator McConnell said:
Representative Boehner said:
Representative Cantor said:
Representative Pelosi said:
The governor said:
The mayor said:

Tommy said: “I'm so hungry my stomach hurts.”
Tommy's Mama said: “Try to sleep.”
Tommy said: “Will we eat tomorrow?”
Tommy's Mama said: “I don't know, Honey.” And sotto voce:
“Some folks don't care if we live or die.”

The Senate Dining Room said come feast on our vermouth-braised
salmon with fingerling sweet potato salad, tarragon dressing,
sugar snap peas, and radishes.


Darrell Petska, writing from Madison, Wisconsin, is a freelance editor in adult education who previously worked as a mental health caseworker, nursing home evaluator, and university editor. Past publications include Modern Haiku, Verse Wisconsin, ProtestPoems.org and others.

CHRIS CHRISTIE

by Llyn Clague





Friends, Americans, countrymen, hear me out.
I come to praise Christie, not criticize him.
The good that men do lives on after them,
While their mistakes typically die with them.
He is an honorable man, who has at heart
The welfare of the people.  His critics cry,       
He has ambition.  But did he not embrace
Even Obama, prince of the other party,
After Sandy?  Ambition should be made
Of sterner stuff.  Did he not excoriate –
Excoriate, I tell you – John Boehner,
Leader of his own party?  This is not
A man who puts his own ambition Ahead
Of the people’s weal.  His enemies complain
He’s costing the state $24 million
For two special elections to fill Lautenberg’s
Senate seat.  To save the people’s money,
Did he not cut pensions and health benefits,
Slash $8 million in college tuition subsidies,
$10 million in after-school programs
And $12 million more in charity care?
Would a man of overweening ambition so flaunt           
The common people’s needs?  Just to “win big”
In his own re-election and impress the fat cats             
Who dominate presidential politics?
Chris Christie, my friends, has the people’s good
At heart, and he is an honorable man.


Llyn Clague’s poems have been published widely, including in Atlanta Review, Wisconsin Review, California Quarterly, Main Street Rag, New York Quarterly, Ibbetson Street.  His sixth book, The I in India and US, was published by Main Street Rag in 2012.

THE ANCHORMAN'S TIES

by Judith Terzi

Image source: The Nashua Telegraph

No matter what the news,
my neck is tied. The market
flies, the market plunges,
two thousand said I dead.
I wear white polka dots
on navy blue. Every night
a suit and tie. Citizens
coagulate fate, tie clothing
tourniquets. Amputees nod
goodbye to candy stripers.
Smoky gray geometric
shapes in a cool sea green
hang from my neck. I read:
brouhaha at the IRS, no
terrorism in Benghazi,
terrorism in Benghazi.
Every night a suit and tie.
Car bombs in Sadr City,
seventy dead in Tahrir
Square. Wisteria petals
float on an archipelago of
made-in-India silk. Our
government is tied down.
Arctic tundra will turn
to forest. The President
is fit. The President is fit
to be... I want to sever
ties with purple stripes,
yellow cloverleafs. I read:
human rubble in a garment
factory. Yellow and pink
palm trees and storks
and swans. Jewelry heist
at the Festival de Cannes.
I tie my thoughts way back
tight into my head. White
blossoms in an olive green
lake. I tie up my mind.
Exhumation of the Chilean
poet. The fires still roar.
Tie score for arson, climate
change, metaphor. Golden
bark, silver branches, ruby
berries. No matter what
the news. Bashar al-Assad.
Ferragamo. Collar and tie.


Judith Terzi holds an M.A. in French Literature. Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies and has been nominated for Best of the Web and Net. For many years a high school French teacher, she also taught English and ESL at California State University, Los Angeles, and in Algiers, Algeria. She is the author of Sharing Tabouli (2011) and Ghazal for a Chambermaid, forthcoming from Finishing Line.

TEN SPEED NEWS CYCLE

by Frederick L. Shiels

Cartoon by Mike Luckovich

Obama’s second term is doomed they say
Six months in, Press coroners pronounce it dead
The IRS chastised for chasing Tea
drinkers, Hillary’s inattention slaughters our
ambassador in Benghazi then
her crew make up stories,

Associated Press, Boston left unprotected so it goes
The best offense Defense, GOP says
This Right-serves the ‘libral’ pack for Watergate
And oh harassment of those do-good folk,
J Edgar’s files on King Seegar Baez, other threats,

The endless gottcha nothing new we say
Why knaves betraying knaves is how it works
Honored tradition, remember Lancaster and York?
The Romanovs and Bolsheviks parade
Their antics and Rasputin laughs

And so they think Obama cries
All tied in knots, he sighs
Thoreau said read the papers once a month
You’ll ‘not a thing miss’, he implied
It’s May, such flowers! adopt an earthworm better still
Turn off newschatter, go embrace the Countryside.


Frederick L. Shiels professored at Mercy College in history and politics starting in the Jimmy Carter years, 1977 and after. He has published poems in The New Verse News, The Hudson River Anthology (Vassar) and Wicker’s Creek (Mercy College), the latter two no longer publishing, and elsewhere. He has written on the bombing of civilians and, now, the future of progressivism in America.

SWINDLED

by George Held



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.

ON THEIR BLINDNESS

by Frederick L. Shiels





 When I consider how my days are spent
 In this marbled city full of plots
 And my people’s legislation rots
 As Republicans withhold consent.
 To all my noble programs evident
 To any voter with discerning eye
 And reporter knowing all’s awry
 Guns, wages, energy’s predicament
 Cry for the modest changes that I seek,
 More schools and medicine for ev’ry child
 That this great nation might enlightened grow
 And healthy like a mighty garden sleek
 With water from my policies unique
 If only Congress could that wisdom know.


Frederick L. Shiels, Ph.D., is Professor Emeritus, Political Science and History, at Mercy College in Dobbs Ferry, NY.

HUBBLY-BUBBLY HOOKAH IMPLAUSIBLE PIPE DREAMS

Poem by Charles Frederickson

Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote 

 

Spring of 2013 sprang sprung

Wireless Slinky descending into oblivion

Faithful almost pregnant hopes misplaced

Beastly encounters of uncivilized kind

 

Obama venturing into wildcat cage

Spotted tigers changing starry stripes

Circus Minimus centrist ring distractions

Mane pride flaming hope singed

 

Caught between chipped stonewall boulders

Both sides blame-gaming each other

Rising tide engulfing global condemnation

Criticizing unsettled borderline territorial domination

 

Tripped objectives uncivil Syrian wars

Holding back bullyrag Iran strike

Iron dome rocket-interceptor defensive offence

Pushing tug of peace patience

 

Sending crudible messages massaging superegos

U.S. committed to Israel ’s survival

While reconciling tainted blood-brother doubts

Jocks supporting secular democratic ideals

 

Cocoon swayed by geopolitical realities

Giant silkworm emerging from pupa

Caterpillars molting Machiavellian expectation skins

Luna moths acknowledging legitimate fears

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

LETTER IN WHICH I THANK THE PRESIDENT FOR NOT INVITING ME TO READ AT HIS INAUGURAL

by J.R. Solonche

Dear Mr. President:

Thank you for not inviting me to read
at your inaugural.

Believe me, when I heard that that other poet,
that Blanco, got the nod, I was relieved.

Let me tell you, I spent days and days,
weeks in fact, occupied with nothing but America,

I steeped myself in America,
I breathed America, I ate America, I slept America,

I studied maps of America, that familiar two-handled shape,
I gazed at pictures of grain in amber waves,

I read the Declaration, I read the Constitution,
I read the Gettysburg Address, twenty times, I read Jefferson,

I read Adams, I read de Tocqueville, I read Franklin, I read Paine,
I read Huckleberry Finn, I read Moby Dick,

I read The Scarlet Letter, I read An American Tragedy,
I read Walt, I read Ralph Waldo, I read Emily,

I read Wallace, I read Robert, I read William Carlos,
I looked at every Norman Rockwell calendar I could find,

I looked at every Mathew Brady photograph I could find,
I listened to Gershwin, I listened to Ellington, I listened to Joplin,

I listened to Presley, I listened to Ives,
I listened to The New World Symphony, three times a day,

I rented every John Wayne movie I could find,
I ate potatoes three times a day, I ate corn three times a day,

I ate apple pie three times a day,
I drank bourbon, I drank hard cider.

And after all this saturation in America,
when I sat down to write an inaugural poem,

Mr. President, I drew a zero, nothing came,
the only word I could write was the one word America,

so what did I do? Let me tell you, I just started Yankee-
doodling around to see if anything would inspire me,

but all I got was acirema and I am acer and race aim and am Erica
and I care, ma, or Ma, I care.

So thank you Mr. President, for not inviting me
to read at your inaugural. Let Blanco do it. I’m a blank.

Sincerely,
J.R. Solonche


J.R. Solonche is co-author (with wife Joan Siegel) of Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). His poems have appeared in many magazines, journals, and anthologies since the 1970s. He teaches at SUNY Orange in Middletown, New York.

FIREWALL

by Michael Brockley

"The Pequod in the Waves" by Robbie W Hudson. Pencil on paper, 180 x 260cm.

                                                                                                                                                                                 “Viewed through the lens of history, Obama represents a new 21st century politician: the Progressive Firewall.” --Douglas Brinkley, Rolling Stone, November 8, 2012


You are the kind of woman who wears jewel-colored scarves. The kind who photographs abandoned homes and immigrants at crosswalks. On a Whidbey Island beach, you sat beside a man who owns volcanos. At the close of the year the President reread the tragedy of the white whale. In the month his hair turned gray. A walrus tossed its body onto the blond sand. It bellowed while the man who owns the Black Hills admired your photographs of totem poles. The snow clinging to Mount Rainier. The undaunted shadows of Lewis and Clark over the Cascades. Behind your resort patio, a woman in a yellow poncho walked with the fog along a hiker’s path. Her wolfhound barked at the walrus as it lumbered onto a barnacled pier. A Cessna skywrote dusk into the sky. You told the owner of Niagara Falls the President’s favorite comic book hero is Conan the Barbarian. He pretended to be the Cimmerian reiver while crooning “Let’s Stay Together.”  Shadows climbed the volcano in the mountains east of your sunset. You had photographed its trail sign earlier that day.  A caution for a firewall President ascending to the crow’s nest of a landlocked Pequod. “Falling can be dangerous.”


Michael Brockley is a 63-year old school psychologist who has worked in special education in rural northeast Indiana for 25 years. He has poetry publications in Wind, The Windless Orchard, Spitball, The Indiana Review, The Indiannual, The Spoon River Quarterly, The River City Review and The Ball State Literary Forum. Tom Koontz’ Barnwood Press published his chapbook Second Chance in 1990, and Brockley has lately placed work in Indiana publications such as Maize, Country Feedback, Flying Island, The Tipton Poetry Journal and Facing Poverty. A video of Brockley reading his “Hollywood’s Poem” which was published in Facing Poverty can be found on YouTube. His poem “When the Woman in the White Sweater Asked at the Cancelled Charles Simic Reading Asked If I Was David Shumate” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Barry Harris of the Tipton Poetry Journal. Recently, Brockley’s poems have appeared in The New Verse News.

CLIMATE CHANGE

by David Chorlton

 

Image source: The Climate Reality Project

 

After the recorded message

came a living voice

asking for help in stopping the president

weeks before his inauguration.

Which of these issues do you think

is most important?

I said Climate change,

she spoke right over me, beginning with

Voter fraud, and I repeated myself.

Then she suggested the assault

on second amendment rights.

Climate change.

She pretended not to hear, and went on

to repealing Obamacare.

I told her nothing else would matter

when the planet gasps for breath.

She named the candidate

who would lead the way

and asked if I’d help.

Why did you call this number?

She told me I must have supported the cause

in the past. I told her

What matters is Climate change.

She assured me it isn’t too early

to begin sending money.

Let me get this right; we’re heading

into the future fully armed

with God’s love to guide us,

the stars and stripes flying, marching to Souza

and glory bound. She paused a few seconds

before saying

Yes, and I could tell right then

that in politics, the climate

will never change.

 

 

David Chorlton has lived in Phoenix since 1978, and still sees his surroundings with an outsider's eye. This helps his writing projects, which include a new poetry collection, "The Devil's Sonata," from FutureCycle Press.

STEREOTYPE

by Joan Mazza

The unlikely faces of same-sex marriage. --PostPartisan, The Washington Post
Larry Duncan and Randy Shepherd (Meryl Schenker Photography)

Seated— two white haired, white guys
with long white beards down their chests,
their right hands raised to take an oath
or pledge. Each wears a flannel button-down

under a dark blue quilted jacket. Their USMC
camouflage baseball caps look new.
They could be lumberjacks or loggers buying
hunting or fishing licenses, might be taken

for brothers. A wooden cane leans against
one’s chest. Harley- Davidson logo peeks
from the other’s unbuttoned winter layers.

Good ‘ole boys who love their guns and brew.
In another era, each might have lived alone
in a remote cabin, called hermit, loner, scary.
Do they chop their own wood and have a still?

But this is the state of Washington at the end
of 2012. A black man has been re-elected
president, and these two men, ten years
together, finally get to marry.


Joan Mazza has worked as a psychotherapist, writing coach, certified sex therapist, and medical microbiologist, has appeared on radio and TV as a dream specialist. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Perigee/Putnam). Her work has appeared in Kestrel, Stone’s Throw, Rattle, Writer's Digest, Playgirl, and Writer's Journal. She now writes poetry and does fabric art in rural central Virginia.

THE ELECT

by Sondra Zeidenstein

Image source: Wicked Mike

I woke from a dream
in which I had curly hair,
a bushel of it, unkempt,
uncombable, beyond
messing with
and I was smiling,
I who have always had
scanty hair, flat
to my narrow Rumanian
Jewish skull. I didn’t care
that it wasn’t beautiful,
just that there was
so much of it.

So I’m slow this morning
letting myself down
into reality, the disrepair
our ship of state displays
two days after we won
by one percent, the victory,
a gift from Blacks and Hispanics,
our traditional country
gone, said a pundit.

But my traditional country
has always been
diverse and I remember
how proud I was to be
standing in line in the gym
at school next to the one
black girl in my grade
and when we were told
to hold hands to our left
and our right, my brain
hesitated a second, imagining
the other to whom I’d never
spoken and then
without looking at her,
since we faced forward
so stiffly, I reached sideways
took her hand, and she
took mine. She was thin, my height,
I can’t recall her name,

but that her hand was
slighter than I expected,
her fingers without grasp
to reach for what she knew
by now at twelve
did not belong to her,
her palm flat and dry,

and I felt secretly proud
that I was called on
to extend my privilege
and well being, to someone
less sure of what if anything
belonged to her and I lived
for a moment joined, saying
to my proud, ignorant self,
what I have she must have too.
Here. Take it.

So Obama won again.
He walked on stage at two
in the morning when I could
barely stay awake and his women
wore taffeta, the girls’ legs
exposed above the knees,
their hair flattened and shining
under the lights, their parents
never leaving them for an instant
under the roars of thousands
joined as I had been
seventy years ago
at Morningside School.
This family had it all
for a moment in our country,
something I always believed in.
I was part of it or
I was nothing.


Sondra Zeidenstein is a poet and publisher of Chicory Blue Press. She has published three books of poems, including A Detail in that Story and Contraries and edited several anthologies, including A Wider Giving: Women Writing after a Long Silence.

SUPER TUESDAY

Poem by Charles Frederickson

Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote 

$UPERCILIOU$

Oily gutter politricks sunken rainbows
Warped arc reflection scared straight
Contending with scorched soil tactics
Flying Saucer Tea Party crash-landing

$UPERPHONY

If Obama walked on water
Rancid Foxy creatures that inhabit
Polluted foggy bottomless DCeption
Would ask: “Can’t he swim?”

$UPERCHARLATAN

Barely afloat back from brink
Contrarian House craven maven power-mongers
Relentlessly diminishing disrespecting unwilling to
Act in common good-better-best faith

$UPEROPPORTUNI$T

Obstructionist Congress lobbying corporate sponsors
Casino crapshoot rolling loaded dice
Greedy unprincipled hypocrites institutionalizing avarice
Judeo-Christian-Zionist unholy crusader war
 
$UPER$CHMOOZER

Barack is who he is
Fundamentally principled reversing Bush catastrophes
Despite monumental Republican’t  naysayers bucking
Broncobama No-OK Corral rodeo champ
 
$UPERPANDERER

Left is right bipolarized chill-out
As good as it’s gonna
Get for next four years
Probably better than we deserve

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

NOVEMBER 5, 2012. THE DAY BEFORE.

by Sarah Kay

Today, the day before the election, I spent the day at an all-girls school
in Nashville, Tennessee. After the day’s events were finished, they held
a reception in the Headmaster’s home, and I found myself alone in a
room with three girls from the high school. Someone had a sticker that
said, “I voted!” And I asked about it, confused, because of her age.
She told me they had held a mock election earlier that day. I asked
about the results, trying to keep my tone even, not wanting my own
politics to creep into my voice. She said, 43 Obama, 54 Romney.
I couldn’t keep a wow from slipping out. That’s actually better than
I would have expected, she said. It was clear, based on the way she
said it, what “better” meant, and I started to ask more about it, now
feeling safe that we were on the same team. The Headmaster re-entered
the room with other faculty members. The girls shifted in their seats.
We raised our chins, our eyes, crossed our knees. I answered questions
about poetry, about travel, about my family back home, and their recovery
from the hurricane. I did not mention the election. Neither did the girls.
We thanked our hosts, and shuffled into our coats, bracing against the
winds of the newly minted winter air. Once outside, with a safe distance
from the house, I quietly asked what the preparation for the election had been.
Some shaking heads made it clear there hadn’t been any. A junior named Cat,
looked squarely at me. We are in the reddest of red down here. Nobody bothers
trying to explain platforms or sway votes, because it’s not going to make
a difference. All the girls in this school, we all come from conservative parents.
Conservative administration. It’s amazing Obama even got as many as he did.
We swayed in the parking lot, and the ropes in my stomach wound tighter
and tighter.  I felt like I had failed them. I shouldn’t have wasted time
on poems about peacocks and love. I should have been teaching them
about what it means to be a woman. About burden and responsibility and pain,
about how hard it was to get to where we are, how easily it slips away.
The three girls in the parking lot walked me to my car.  They were smart
and outspoken, the way girls at these schools often out-rank their peers
from co-ed schools. They left me in my car, their green and white plaid skirts
brushing their knees as they walked.  Have a good night, they said.
We’ll see you tomorrow for the middle school assembly.
Good luck, they said.  I knew they were talking about the assembly.
Good luck to you too, I said.  Good luck to us all.


Sarah Kay began performing her spoken word poetry when she was fourteen years old. In 2004, she founded the organization Project V.O.I.C.E. to encourage creative self-expression through spoken word poetry. She now performs and teaches spoken word poetry in venues and classrooms all over the world. In 2011, Sarah was a featured speaker at the TED Conference, where she received two standing ovations for her performance and speech on the “Rediscovery of Wonder.” Sarah’s first book, “B” was released in November 2011 by the Domino Project and has been the #1 top ranked poetry book on Amazon.

MAYBE SANDY IS ANOTHER NAME FOR KARMA

by Ngoma

some say they should have
named her karma
i'm not sure
if she was a conspiracy theory,
or an act of god
bible thumpers called her
a revelation
a halloween trick or treat
a politician's opportunity disguised as disaster
some claim it was punishment for sin
but churches were flooded too
steeples and oak trees in the wind
proof that global warming deniers can't ignore
we could say I told you so
and maybe this is a wake up call
as roller coaster rides are buried in the flood
and marathoners take up hotel space
while many victims have no food
or a place to lay their heads
bodies still being found
in flooded burnt out homes
with no escape by subways
filled with water like underground cesspools
as Jamie Curtis talks about survival kits on Jay Leno
and tells us to donate money to the Red Cross
yet to show up in Mount Vernon
with gas lines around the block
for gas stations that are empty
meanwhile the major news media
act as though disaster only happens in america
as the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Cuba
are ignored by major media
and there is no FEMA to guarantee votes for Obama on election day
suddenly we see what it may be like to live in a 3rd world country
where lack of gas and electricity is an everyday experience
and half the world is a disaster area
waiting for a relief concert to raise funds
that would not be needed if the wealth was redistributed
and warnings of global warming had been heeded


Ngoma is a performance poet, multi-instrumentalist, singer/songwriter and paradigm shifter who for over 40 years has used culture as a tool to raise sociopolitical and spiritual consciousness through work that encourages critical thought. A former member of Amiri Baraka's Spirit House Movers and Players and of the Contemporary Freedom Song Duo, Serious Bizness, Ngoma weaves poetry and songs that raise contradictions and search for a just and peaceful world. Ngoma was the Prop Slam Winner of the 1997 National Poetry Slam Competition in Middletown, CT and has been published in African Voices Magazine, Long Shot Anthology, The Underwood Review, Signifyin' Harlem Review, Bum Rush The Page/Def Jam Anthology, Poems On The Road To Peace (Yale Press) and Let Loose On The World: Celebrating Amiri Baraka at 75. He was featured in the PBS Spoken Word Documentary "The Apro-Poets" with Allen Ginsberg. Ngoma has curated and hosted the poetry slam at the Dr.Martin Luther King Jr. Family Festival of Environmental and Social Justice (Yale University, New Haven, CT) since 1996. He was a selected participant in the Badilisha Poetry Xchange in Cape Town, South Africa in fall of 2009. In December of 2011 he was initiated as an Obatala Priest in Ibadan, Nigeria.

BEFORE OBAMA CAME

by Brandon Mullis

Once this land was beautiful
With shining silver springs
The dew-kissed fields'
old harvest yields
Fit both for man or king

But then the sky grew darker
The fields were kissed by flame
O how grand
was once our land
Before Obama came

The forests played a melody
Its fauna harmonized
The sparrow's tweet
so nectar-sweet
A robin would reprise

Now it's all so raucous
The wind sings not my name
Those dulcet tones
soothe not my bones
Not since Obama came

The sun was so much brighter
Water just seemed wetter
A woman's touch
healed twice as much
My pants fit so much better

There was no Justin Bieber
No "Glee" or "Jersey Shore"
On demon's wings
came all these things
With number 44

The world is now so flimsy
So malleable and frayed
The hidden cost
of things we've lost
Might never be repaid

We still had Michael Jackson
Steve Jobs and Neil Armstrong
These men and more
stood strong before
Obama came along

The future's bleak and ominous
Like many futures past
As in them all
we'll surely fall
If we don't do something fast

I may not have the answer
But I do know who to blame
So let's raise cheers
to those great years
Before Obama came


Brandon Mullis pretends to be a writer. While doing this, a number of short stories and poems do accidentally get written. His work has so far only been published in that mythic forest we hear so much about -- the one where no one's around to hear them, so nothing makes a sound. Rejection notices, however... let's just say if they ever become a form of currency, Brandon Mullis will be the 1%.

STATE OF CONFUSION

by JC Sullivan

she’s visited before
but no one paid much attention, unlike Father Time
she gives everyone a second chance

so again she nudges
asks greed, propaganda and violence to please
take a back seat and when they refuse, she turns
to her female wiles

snatching up electric power, along the Eastern seaboard she dances
her full moon transforms into a terrifying tidal wave
her winds make Atlantic City a personal play thing, she
darkens Broadway
causes public transportation to cease and
beats the billionaires as she forces Wall Street to close!

Sandy
in a cacophony of travel advisories and evacuations,
burst through this crucial Election year
besting both Obama and Romney                                     uniting red states and blue states

reminding us that
Mother Nature

is stronger ... than us all.

Having been a featured poet in Los Angeles and Buenos Aires, JC Sullivan fled the cubicle in 2007. A backpacking addict, she's in Mexico practicing life as an adventure to be explored. Reach her at Poetrybyjc(at)yahoo.com.

OBAMA’S FIRST STAND

by Gershon Hepner



Though his blah-blah made him a blockbuster;
as debater he seemed most lackluster,
by Romney so flustered,
he turned into custard,
while making his stand against Custer.


Gershon Hepner was born in Leipzig in 1938, came to England one day before the Second World War, became a doctor in 1963, emigrated to the US in 1968, and has been living in Los Angeles since 1976. He has four children and nine grandchildren, and a wife who is a talented poetess. He has been writing an average of five poems a day since 1992.

OBAMA: I WAS TOO POLITE

by J.R. Solonche

Okay, my bad, oh well.
I gave him heck instead of hell.

J.R. Solonche is co-author (with wife Joan Siegel) of Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). His poems have appeared in many magazines, journals, and anthologies since the 1970s. He teaches at SUNY Orange in Middletown, New York.