A center that bore a great leader’s name, A symbol of culture, of merit, of fame, Now carries a brand that’s suspect and lame: So artists avoid it, along with its shame.
Now our president posts it’s time to shut down; “No one rejects ME,” he thinks with a frown. “Time to remodel — I’ll teach this whole town, I may not be nice, but I DO wear the crown!”
Gibbon and Toynbee bump into Spengler at Starbucks
Steel glass shafts Glint skyward Glittering silver deceptively erect Yet reality is whispered With salient impotence In sequins, basking They are ripe for a gaudy technicolor cave-in To a Muzak score Rotten props, rotten struts, rotten foundations
Polished pillars once We’ve lost the varnish And revel in the grease-spots And ember-burns While concealing our leprous nudity in faded Purple Thus we pursue Byzantium At a break-neck stagger into the nitre trough To be the feast of Seljuk flies Humming 4-chord progressions Rotten rags, rotten flesh, rotten sensibilities
No phoenix pyre The red of flame metamorphosed to rust And blue-bright iron Decays to dust Rubble spawning weeds And housing ravenous mandible-clapping insects Living but to shun the day And suck the husk Of desiccated brains
He eyed up the ice for the steal, Which he claimed he would do with much zeal, But now he’s retreating From his warlike chest beating— He calls this the art of the deal.
“President Donald Trump, on Wednesday, January 21, 2026, scrapped the tariffs that he threatened to impose on eight European nations to press for U.S. control over Greenland, pulling a dramatic reversal shortly after insisting he wanted to get the island ‘including right, title and ownership.’”
He eyed up the ice for a deal, Which he swore he could buy or would steal, But now he’s retreating From his warlike chest beating, as if it had all been surreal.
Here is “The Great Healthcare Plan,” The finest concept known to man. No need to think of how this works Or who this helps and who this hurts.
This policy is the greatest, most wonderful healthcare dream, The biggest savings anyone has ever known or seen. We’ll slash the drugs, making deals with forced consent, By three hundred, four hundred — five hundred percent!
We can’t pay off the middle men, That’s up to you to do, my friend. If you need more to make you well, Then just follow our plan, straight to… well… straight to where I might one day dwell.
The pick and roll is part of play, And catch what coach has got to say. But there’s a more important task: Collecting bags of major cash.
You miss the shot, you miss the rim, While placing bets outside the gym. We take the bribe to slip and fall, No cap, it’s part of basketball.
We fill the jerseys up with green, The wildest flex you’ve ever seen. We pray the Feds don’t watch the game, Or we’ll get cooked and take the blame.
It’s great to hang with looks that slay, To drive the whips and soak the rays. To hit the clubs and play the field, To party hard and never yield.
But danger lurks in losing games, Not from the fans or public shame: Don’t leave behind some mid-wit tell, That turns your set-up into some cringey, grungy, hoopless cell.
The Greenland saga continues to intensify, and this Zumwalt poem addresses the latest escalation of targeted tariffs, contrasting the gravity of the situation with a bit of humor. Given the history of Greenland with its European associations going back to the 10th century, Zumwalt chose a poetic style common to English speakers of that era: Anglo-Saxon alliterative meter.
This is the third consecutive month that Zumwalt has had a work published at New Verse News and the second day in a row a Zumwalt poem has been published in a literary journal.