Von Bock Was A Pansy
Those iron plates that churned the mud and gravel
Impress me not.
The rifled bore was, and is a crashing bore,
I shut my eyes to the breechblock and
Do not care for thermite.
I recoil from venturi.
I have only cutting remarks for the bayonet;
C.B.W. stinks.
Give me Gandhi & Walden, with a little pickle
On the side, and I am content.
Blood-red waiters make me yawn.
—Zumwalt
[Early 1980s?]
Slice-o-life, Microwaved
Askew in a vinyl cosmos
life’s beading up on
a cold tumbler
And Juan Valdez
has repossessed my mind
for the glory of Brazil
or Colombia
Some squalid country at any rate
Leaving my 33
grooves
scarred by needles at 78
several rich hits
off of
Mrs. Olsen
And Muzak sounds
like steam jets
and
dark mutterings over eggs
become berserk natterings
of rabid chipmunks
Gee Zus !
Only 12:00?
Existence is
deformed
in a
time-warp
—Zumwalt
[Night of 30 Sep-1 Oct 1981, Washington, DC]
Based on this recent news event: https://www.npr.org/2025/12/25/g-s1-103683/powerball-player-arkansas-won-jackpot
The human touch
On Christmas Eve, many just like me
stopped at the station where I get my gas
and bought slips of paper
as thin as my patience
waiting its reward.
A mile or so away in Cabot
I closed my own store,
shut down the register,
reminded by the radio of
the size of the jackpot
while I drove home
in my rusty 2003 Tacoma.
Maddie set out some sandwiches—
our light Christmas Eve meal;
two months of watching costs
earned tomorrow’s fortune of presents
paired with roasted prime rib.
That morning came, and our two children
visited us in bed to tug at us—
too small to pull us out
and not old enough to realize they hadn’t.
A delight of flung wrapping paper and
unchecked squeals energized our living room
as, with some guilt, I looked at my phone
to glimpse the weekly Powerball snub.
No ordinary loss:
promised paradise, this time,
came from the station where I staked my three bucks.
But this small defeat brought reassurance:
in a world of algorithms,
predictive apps, and AI advisers
that steal away jobs and raise energy prices
there was still one thing technology couldn’t do:
choose the right numbers.
Just published in New Verse News — Zumwalt’s new news poem, Jousting Windmills.
Click on the following URL to read poem: https://newversenews.blogspot.com/2025/12/jousting-windmills.html
I will post the text here later on, but for now, let’s drive some traffic to New Verse News!
News event: “At least 15 files that were released by the Justice Department Friday were no longer available on the department’s website on Saturday.”
Reference: https://www.cbsnews.com/news/at-least-15-newly-released-epstein-files-have-disappeared-from-justice-departments-website/
Updated Dump
They loaded files on Friday night,
Though not the total lot;
The press was vexed by partial truths
But that is what we got.
On Saturday fifteen were gone —
One noticed from before:
A president in gilded frame —
A photo in a drawer.
What this all means to common folk
Escapes my simple mind
When wealth can build a mighty wall
That shields them from their crime —
And if a few are put in jail
That does us little good
For those that still control the wealth
Will raise the price of food.
The message here is pretty clear
And one that fits my rhyme
That money spent judiciously
Protects —
even the damnedest —
most despicable —
devils of our time.
— zumwalt (2025)
Imperfect information
This
is
a sequential game
even
when
I
attack
out
of
turn
each
and
every move
is
built
on the
one before.
Round
after
round
we proudly announce
a
target
square.
Sometimes
we
hit
Sometimes
we
m
i
s
s
But
never
fail to
attack.
Salvo,
my friend
When
you are most
relaxed
and think
all is
calm waters.
As
long as
there
are ships
afloat
There
will be
missiles
launched
across
these
now choppy seas.
Salvo,
my friend
All
shots at once
against
our better
judgment.
As
long as
there
are missiles
to launch
There
will be
ships
targeted
aggravating
these
now choppy seas.
But
once it is
clear
there
is some
chance at
sinking
even
one
ship
We
pull
back,
bend
the
rules,
re-
arrange
our
positions,
midway,
put some
ships
in reserve,
deny
any
cease fire
and
secretly
fill out
our
battle reports.
-- zumwalt (2011, modified 2025)
jump count
The cycle sunk
and with disaster
capsized the bounty:
a quick game played into
extra terms and over time,
a reckless plot with
some mention of revenge;
a speculative view
afforded by affronting the populace.
the spring is wound…
the sword is drawn with crayons,
and you and I are pawns
in a game of pick-em-up 52.
-Zumwalt 1973
This is from Gemini 3.0:
If Billy Collins—a two-term U.S. Poet Laureate known for accessibility, humor, and narrative clarity—submitted his best work under the name “John Doe” to a random mix of 100 literary journals today, here is the harsh statistical reality:
He would likely be rejected by 85% to 95% of them.
Here is the breakdown of why:
Billy Collins writes “accessible” poetry. It is clear, often funny, and typically ends with a turn that invites the reader in.
Most journals accept less than 1% of submissions.
He would more likely be accepted by:
The New Yorker: (10% to 15% chance of acceptance.) They publish him now, but blind? They favor a very specific, polished voice that he has perfected, so he might still crack their code, but it’s not guaranteed.
Rattle: (40% to 60% chance of acceptance.) They prioritize “accessible” and “narrative” work. He is their ideal aesthetic.
The Sun: (15% to 25% chance of acceptance.) They want emotional resonance and clarity.
Agamemnon Never Had It So Good
The creeping crabgrass sprouts…
And in a malaise of malcontent challenges the
wafting, drafting hydrocarbons.
A lawn of moldering green cadavers.
Mercury, mercury, everywhere, and not a drop
to drink.
The salmon croaks. the sardine croaks, the crimson
crawdad croaks, even the warted frog croaks.
But do crooks croak? Nay!
O, justice, thou art not blind —
a bit deaf maybe — but not blind!
All that is left are saltines and brushed suede.
Thus we reach Armageddon.
—Zumwalt (late 1970s?)
PSYCHOLOGO
my table is busted
a sore sight to see
and the metal-grill chair
is as comfortable
as a bed of needles.
a pretty girl in a blue jacket
and in maroon cords
reads the school paper;
she is in a trance.
a small audience is watching
a couple of college students
playing five-minute chess.
a young women on the other side of the room
gazes at me over the rim of a
white coffee cup.
i burnt myself this morning
frying up french toast
and the pain mingles with everything else
like short-wave radio static.
1.3 GPA
yells a figure with sideburns
and a number of people
in his group laugh
until their heads fall off
and someone has to come
and put them back on.
sitting cross-legged on the carpet
and from a distance
it all looks like
a game of charades,
long, long hair
and i find myself stare.
i am thinking of leaving
PROTECT YOUR LOUNGE ENVIRONMENT
TAKE THE TIME TO BUS YOUR OWN TRASH
a famous musician enters,
but no one recognizes him.
a cloud hangs over,
but then again
maybe it's just the plumbing.
my eyesight is shot
everything in the distance
all looks the same
and now it is only my table
that is different from the others.
-- zumwalt (1974)
[reformatted for WordPress display]
zumpoems 