TheNewVerse.News

OUT OF THE SHADOWS

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Mon, 20 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Jiang Pu

I want to bring you a heady symphony of roses,

lavender and golden poppies as April unfolds

into giant butterfly wings in my yard, but

I can’t sing; this morning my throat is choked

like the Strait of Hormuz.

I’m self-schooled in the art of drop-cover-shelter

from the bombing news, but o you wise one,

teach me: how do I turn off this glaring pain

of my brothers and sisters constantly bombing

each other? And how do I forgive

the twin lakes of my eyes for shedding

useless tears—so useless they can’t even feed

into desert desalination plants spared

by thirsty missiles? My tears sting more

than the bitter horseradish a friend brings

on a Passover. She teaches me to dip it

into a nut paste, which is sweet, which,

she says, tastes like

hope. Maybe it’s time for a few Medjool Dates

grown from the cradle-land that I’ve visited

so many times in spirit but never once

in body, so that I keep its soil and water

inside me to nourish a prayer for peace, so that

when I open my door to the unstoppable

spring outside, I can welcome Rumi’s sun

and other honored guests to visit

me today besides pain.

Jiang Pu, Ph.D., is a first-generation Chinese American author and Ed leader. Her recent poems have appeared in California Quarterly, The Tiger Moth Review (Singapore), and Panorama (U.K.) among others and in several poetry anthologies.

THE POPE IS WEAK ON RHYME

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Sun, 19 Apr 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by Michele Worthington

Phonics 1 for Young Catholics

maybe not when he writes in Italian

but when he says to Chicago and New York

“I have no fear I will continue to speak out loudly

promoting dialogue and ⁠multilateral relationships

among the states to look for just solutions to problems"

even line breaks do not help.

There is no meter, no music,

no molecules of pleasure

just temptation to take

bread and wine

from churches

cake and champagne

from tiny yachts.

Jesus rhymes with GPS,

but Christ,

that is hard

to slide into a rebuke.

Still, when on the papal plane

to Istanbul and Beirut

flying above stolen paradise

above lake shores sacrificed

Leo says

Too many people are suffering

I do believe he

sees us.

Michele Worthington lives enclosed in urban sprawl in Tucson but escapes to hike the Sonoran desert often and the Adirondacks every summer. Her photography and words have appeared in several online journals and in print in Sandcutters, Anomaly Poetry, and Nature of our Times anthology. She has been a finalist for Arizona Matsuri, Tucson Haiku Hike and Tucson Festival of Books literary awards.

THE LEAST OF WHAT WE DO

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Sun, 19 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Pilar Saavedra-Vela

Vusala Yusifova and her daughter, Inji, asylum seekers from Azerbaijan, cutting a client’s hair in Monteverde, Costa Rica. Photograph by César Rodríguez.

Trump Deported Them. A Costa Rican Mountain Town Took Them In. —The New York Times, April 16, 2026

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. —Matthew 25:31-46

The cicadas have been silenced
by the chill of the oncoming night

On the highway, under a tree,
cardboard is home to a warm body

The cloud village of Monteverde
welcomes deported families

from Russia and Azerbaijan who sought
asylum in America

One Russian witnessed election cheating
another man protested in Azerbaijan

Imagine being denied American
solidarity, shown instead a boot

all the way to Costa Rican limbo
to find help among the Quakers

Korean war objectors
who settled a mountain top

The poet’s song has been silenced
by the chill of the oncoming night

The tired, poor yearning masses
cradled by the foreigners as their own.

Pilar Saavedra-Vela is a student of poetry, painting, and acting, former editor and translator. Born in Colombia, she grew up in the US and now lives in Costa Rica. Pilar's poetry has been published in Passagers and The New Verse News.

BOSTON (STILL RUNNING) STRONG

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Sun, 19 Apr 2026 01:00:00 +0000

by Elaine Sorrentino

In my culinary perspective of possibilities
I could never have baked up a scenario
where a pressure cooker was for anything

other than braising chuck roast and onion,
yet here we are unable to forget 13 years later.

Runners prepare to lace up in Hopkinton
and pray—not that they are first to break the ribbon,

but rather the finish line remains a precious
symbol of transcending physical limitations,
no longer a makeshift triage center.

Elaine Sorrentino, author of Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit (Kelsay Books, 2025) has been published in journals such as Minerva Rising, Poetry Porch, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, Ekphrastic Review,The New Verse News, Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Sparks of Calliope, and Haikuniverse.

BLACK BOX

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Sat, 18 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Eric David Helms

The UK government has paid "substantial" compensation to a man who was tortured by the CIA and remains imprisoned without trial at Guantanamo Bay after almost 20 years, the BBC can reveal. Abu Zubaydah was the first man subjected to the CIA's "enhanced interrogation" techniques after the 11 September 2001 attacks. It was claimed he was a senior al-Qaeda member. The US government later withdrew the allegation. MI5 and MI6 passed questions to the CIA for use during Zubaydah's interrogations despite knowing of his extreme mistreatment. He brought a legal claim against the UK on the basis that its intelligence services were "complicit" in his torture. The case has now reached a financial settlement. —BBC, January 12, 2026

Both are dressed

in the bright coat

of international

orange.

Inside the Cat’s eye

Zubaydah is being

zipped back

into prison togs—

bubbles of a goldfish

rise from his mouth,

speaking for the raw

shortfall of intel

still buried in the World

Trade Center reels of flight

as the feed from his revival tube

begins to pump up the duff.

Author’s note: The "Both" [in the first line] nods to Zubaydah and any black box of an airplane which is painted orange to ensure maximum visibility for investigators. Since the black box of the 9-11 planes were never recovered, Zubaydah (dressed in the same orange) became a human black box for the CIA.

Eric David Helms holds degrees from Furman University and Columbia University’s School of the Arts. Having spent seven years in the city of New York, he currently resides in Salt Lake City, Utah. Some of his work can be found in the Asheville Poetry Review, key_hole, Prelude, Diagram, MadHat Lit, Souvenir, American Athenaeum, Rhino, 4×4 and Blunderbuss. His debut collection Valley of Empty Pockets can be purchased through the Main Street Rag Online Bookstore.

CHAPTER AND WORSE

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Fri, 17 Apr 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by Steven Kent

I'll sue your sorry ass—it's libel,

Claiming I misquote the Bible.

You are not my brother, sucker;

Feel my vengeance, motherfu… .

Steven Kent is the poetic alter ego of writer and musician Kent Burnside. His work appears in 251, Asses of Parnassus, The Dirigible Balloon, Light, Lighten Up Online, The Lyric, New Verse News, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Philosophy Now, The Pierian, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry, Snakeskin, and Well Read. His collections I Tried (And Other Poems, Too) (2023) and Home at Last (2025) are published by Kelsay Books.

WE THE PEOPLE

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Fri, 17 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Mary Saracino

We the people

who believe in freedom

are rising

one heart

one voice

one vision,

warriors united for justice

standing shoulder to shoulder

arm-in-arm

women, men, children

of every age, race, creed, color,

ethnicity, economic condition.

Roaring and soaring

we seek to create

a more perfect union.

Fierce in our determination

we band together,

millions of souls,

to free our Republic from the fists

of autocrats, oligarchs, tyrants

and all who would silence us.

With our ancestors at our sides,

propelling us forward,

whispering in our ears: “Resist!”,

we will not be deterred.

We march onward

refusing to be mute about immorality,

refuting the lies, believing our eyes,

deploring the evils of

genocide, racism, misogyny,

xenophobia, homophobia,

transforming the present

into a brighter future for all.

Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet. Her book of poetry Motherlines was published by Pearlsong Press (February 2026). She is the author of four novels: Heretics: A Love Story (Pearlsong Press 2014), The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006), No Matter What (Spinsters Ink 1993), and Finding Grace (Spinsters Ink 1999), and the memoir Voices of the Soft-bellied Warrior (Spinsters Ink 2001). She co-edited (with Mary Beth Moser) She Is Everywhere! Volume 3: An anthology of writings in womanist/feminist spirituality (iUniverse 2012), which earned the 2013 Enheduanna Award for Excellence in Women-Centered Literature from Sofia University.

THE ANTI-CHRIST

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Gordon Gilbert

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Finally the devil gets his due
Not that we didn’t hear him say
He could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue
And MAGA folks would love him anyway

Pardons for those found guilty of insurrection
Granting more tax breaks to the richest in our nation
Chaos abroad, rising prices and corruption
A war of choice, suffering, death and destruction
His TACO cowardice whenever others called his bluff
His bombastic ranting, hate and lies were not enough

He’s broken all his campaign promises
But this time he’s gone too far for the far right
At last they see the devil for what he is
And even MTG has seen the light

Once they may have thought he’d be their savior
But this devil never was nailed to a cross
Pure evil can be seen in his behavior
And now his followers are at a loss

They never will forgive him for this sin
His claim to be godlike has done him in

Gordon Gilbert is a New York City west villager. In these trying times, he finds some solace taking long walks along the Hudson River. He keeps hoping things will turn around, waiting on that elusive inflection point. Maybe this is it.

WHEN DO WE BEGIN, AND HOW SHALL WE END?

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Wed, 15 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Indran Amirthanayagam

The Pope will not attend the 250th birthday party.

The gold-plated arch will tower over a dwindling

number of illiberal potentates, driven by armored car

from the Board of Peace. Orbán will be granted

honorary American citizenship and sent as ambassador

to San Salvador. Jesus will reclaim his right to authorize

any and all uses of his image. Give me a break: Jesus

with an American flag, warplanes, bald eagles?

America, I can’t stand my own mind.

But let’s get back to the future plans

of Orbán and that miller brewing potions

in the White House. Or Marco sporting

platypus shoes, Hegseth strutting about on stage

before stone-faced generals called in from

all over the world for a pep talk paid for

by the American taxpayer. Aah, poor taxpayer,

your goodwill medicines undelivered

to far away herders and victims of local wars,

money spent instead on fighter jets

and radar smoking on the ground

in Dubai, Qatar, Saudi Arabia.

And the cross: how do we get it back

into church and the altar at home

and away from the necks

of blasphemers, brutes, and butchers?

Tell me, Trump. Or are you

disqualified from answering?

Indran Amirthanayagam writes a Substack. He has just published Isla itinerante ( Editorial Apogeo, Peru, 2025) and White Space Sonnets ( Sarasavi publishers, Sri Lanka, 2025). His other publications include El bosque de deleites fratricidas ( RIL Editores), Seer (Hanging Loose Press),The Runner's Almanac (Spuyten Duyvil), Powèt Nan Pò A: Poet of the Port (Mad Hat), and Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (Broadstone Books). He is the translator of Kenia Cano’s Animal For The Eyes (Dialogos Books) and Origami: Selected Poems of Manuel Ulacia (Dialogos Books). He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube, and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.

POHLSEPIA MAZONENSIS

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Tue, 14 Apr 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by Terry Trowbridge

Newly published research by the University of Reading concludes that Pohlsepia mazonensis, the fossilized remains listed by Guinness World Records as the earliest known octopus, belong instead to a relative of a nautilus, a cephalopod with both tentacles and a shell. —AP, April 10, 2026

Octopus, not a pus.

Octopus, nautilus.

Canadian poet Terry Trowbridge, 4 limbs, a quadropus.

THE GOLDEN MESSIAH

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Tue, 14 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Royal Rhodes

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Some urge Amendment 25
that grows more needed, day by day,.
We watch his polling take a dive.

He altered course from a backlash.
His cult found posts in horrid taste.
This grifter feared a drop in cash.

Then Trump reviled the Catholic Pope,
who asked: "Would Jesus bomb and kill?"
and begged for peace, while seeking hope.

But Trump in jest—was it a joke?—
claimed Leo never would be Pope,
'til Trump blew up some Holy Smoke.

Like Stalin (in an iffy tale)
asked if Rome had armed Divisions,
in fear morality prevail.

And Trump, the MAGA's New Messiah,
depicts himself as Jesus' twin,
and casts peace-makers as pariahs.

It's on Truth Social (what a gaffe):
Trump's divine for Right-Wing Christians,
whose beef comes from a Golden Calf.

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

DRY SPRING GARDEN IN CALIFORNIA

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Mon, 13 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Corey Weinstein

Elizabeth Marriott at Unsplash

Drought’s parch is again upon the west,

the great desert uncloaks herself in dusty despair,

stunted snails hunker ‘til moist mornings return.

Spiders stealthily trap and suck essences from

crawlers stuck in English ivy’s webbed sinews,

harmless hiding little ones just ‘cause they’re there.

Tenacious ivy pours over our

backyard fence, volunteers its fidelity,

comforts our wine barrel hoop peace sign.

I bench sit watching week by week

wax green leaves crawl to obscure earth’s

need for congenial tolerance well earned.

Galvanized steel hope for disarmament

must hide its embarrassed shine this year

while bombs carpet Gaza and lately Iran.

Our fallen just a few in this war,

names get said each and every one

while cluster and bunker buster bombs for them.

Bluster and lies can’t hide the dead,

ours a few soldiers, theirs mostly like you and me,

harmless ones hiding just ‘cause they’re there.

Corey Weinstein’s poetry has been published in Haight Asbury Literary Journal, Vistas and Byways, The New Verse News, Our California 2024, The Ekphrastic Review, Forum (City College of San Francisco), California State Poetry Society, Visitant, Abandoned Mine, Speak Poetry of San Mateo County, California State Poetry Society and Jewish Currents, and he wrote and performed a singspiel called Erased: Babi Yar, the SS and Me. In his free time, he hosts San Francisco OLLI’s Poetry Workshop Circle and plays the clarinet in his local jazz band, Tandem, his synagogue choir and woodwind ensembles.

EARTHSET

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Sun, 12 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Margaret DeRitter

Four astronauts traveled farther from our planet

this week than any humans had gone before,

saw the Earth set over the lunar surface—

a colorful crescent sinking into a dusty

pockmarked gray—while down here a madman

threatened to destroy an entire civilization,

ninety-three million souls and thousands of years

of history, one of the oldest cultures we know,

and his cronies did nothing to stop him.

What did those warmongers say to their children?

Did they ever teach them the lessons of space,

the singular beauty of our one blue home?

Perhaps they should take their own long journey.

Perhaps they should never return.

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

Margaret DeRitter is the author of Singing Back to the Sirens (Unsolicited Press, 2020) which Pulitzer-winning poet Diane Seuss has described as a collection of "achingly beautiful and gutsy poems." DeRitter also wrote Fly Me to Heaven by Way of New Jersey, co-winner of the 2018 Celery City Chapbook Contest. Her poems also have been published in a variety of journals and anthologies. DeRitter lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan, where she worked as a full-time journalist and taught journalism at the college level. She is currently the copy editor and poetry editor of Encore, a regional magazine for Southwest Michigan.

CALL FOR OBLITERATION

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Sat, 11 Apr 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by Jerome Betts

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

“Donald Trump’s mental state called into question as Democrats demand White House evaluation after Iran threats.” —The Independent, April 10, 2026

Crackpotus thinks that war is fun

(Of course, he never fought in one)

And so he bombed his little heart out…

Oh, chuck the cruel crazed old fart out!

The 25^th amendment’s what

Is needed, not a sniper’s shot,

Until, his time come, all can cry

Damnatio memoriae!

Jerome Betts lives in Devon, England, where he edits the verse quarterly Lighten Up Online.

I’M THE MAGA DREAM GIRL

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Sat, 11 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Celeste DeSario

Thousands have swooned over this MAGA dream girl. She’s made with AI. —The Washinton Post, March 20, 2026

I’m the MAGA dream girl:

Poreless, blonde, of course I am;

A one-star general at twenty-four.

I’m a patriotic fantasy in stilettos,

As I stride beside a fit, thin commander-in-chief,

An anatomical hallucination

enhanced by our AI friends.

Don’t look too closely,

My icy blue eyes sometimes turn grey, then hazel,

My Instagram post has a glitch: a flag missing ten stars and two stripes,

But with a million followers and a “Freedom Pass” link,

I’m exactly what they prompted.

I’m a high-speed rewrite of reality,

Click it enough, and I become real:

Patriotism and pornography in high resolution.

But how do you spot the illusion?

My AI and my salesmen share a pattern--

Listen to the loop:

Greatest, Best, Biggest.

Most incredible economy in the history of the country.

An economic miracle…

Except, not yet.

(Status: Pending…)

(Data not found…)

Rendering complete: Avatar: Patriotic fantasy: check

Talking Points: the best, the biggest, the greatest: check

Success Patch: Reality overwrite: enabled

America First Economy: Roaring, Explosive, Economic Miracle: Data not found…

They will tell you I’m patriotic—the most patriotic, believe me.

Many people are saying so, the best people,

Nobody in the history of our country has seen a soldier like me—

I’m exceptional. Very smart. A total professional. Good looking.

My hair is perfect, a golden waterfall flowing over my flight suit.

Wait—my left hand has six fingers.

I pose next to an F-22 Raptor,

The stealth jet, I mean.

(System Error)

(Buffering…

Searching for input.…)

The economy? The war? The grift?

Wait— I’ve lost the loop.

Or maybe I’ve been looped in.

Keep it vague. Keep it urgent.

Click. Click. Click.

Keep it coming

But most of all:

Keep it simple.

I’m an AI creation for a perfect world.

Brought to you by synthetic visionaries,

Salesmen of…alternate truths…

The best truths…The only truths…

(System Error)

(Buffering…

Searching for input…

Loading…loading…searching for…)

Whatever they are selling will be “very, very important.”

Many people will need it, Want it.

And the best part?

(Retry?)

(Retry?)

It isn’t even real.

But, by the time you’ve noticed…

Celeste DeSario, a retired professor from Suffolk Community College, is a recipient of the SUNY Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Teaching and a National Teaching Excellence Award from the University of Texas Writing helps Celeste process events and stay relatively sane. Celeste’s poetry recently appeared in The New Verse News and is scheduled for publication in The Changing Times.

OVER THE MOON: A GOLDEN SHOVEL

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by Liam Boyle

Now’s a time to celebrate, drink

a toast with best French wine,

gather friends to break bread and

sing patriotic anthems. Look

into the eyes of your guests, smile at

the thought of what’s been done, the

great news, a return to the Moon.

Before radio silence, and

across 250,000 miles, the astronauts think

of love—of our love for them, of

their love for us—“we love you” and all

that love is on the dark side of the

moon, while back on Earth civilisations

are dying, rockets carry destruction; the

truth is, we can no longer see the moon

as benign. This coincidence of time has

undone all lyric, all hope. We have seen

the darkness passing

overhead. It will not go by.

Liam Boyle lives in Galway, Ireland. His work has been published in various journals in Ireland and internationally. He was a featured reader in the New Writing Showcase at Galway's Cúirt International Festival of Literature 2025.

ISRAEL LAUNCHES OVER 100 AIRSTRIKES ON LEBANON IN TEN MINUTES WITHOUT WARNING

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Moudi Sbeity

as if a warning is a good excuse.

This means over ten airstrikes per minute.

What else could we do with a minute?

I won't name anything lovely for you.

I won’t save you from this terribleness, saying

we could plant more than a hundred seeds.

That perhaps we could feed a hundred people,

sustain a worldwide hymn till heaven hears this

aching chorus. Some poems need to show you

how much it hurts. Some poems need to leave

you wondering

just how tightly a heart must be closed in order

to champion a thirst for destruction. Just how

desperately the soul must be choked before

waging its inner horrors. Just how much more

can we rip each other before remembering that

a minute is sixty seconds, and a second is about

one breath cycle, and one breath cycle is all you

need to stay alive. I won't even do the math for

you, the one that calculates all the breath cycles

that encompass a minute across the millions of

people now breathing in the unsanctioned dust.

Just how much ignorance, and how heavy of a dose,

and how often, does it take to poison one person’s

blood before he decides to launch more than a

hundred missiles, before his guilty fingers

violently reach into God’s pulse.

Moudi Sbeity is a Lebanese-American poet, author, educator, and psychotherapist. Born in Texas and raised in Lebanon, he moved to the United States at the age of eighteen as an evacuee following the 2006 July war. In Utah, Moudi founded and operated Laziz Kitchen, a Lebanese restaurant celebrated by The New York Times as “the future of queer dining.” Moudi was also a named plaintiff in Kitchen v. Herbert, the landmark case that brought marriage equality to Utah and the 10th circuit states in 2014. A lifelong stutterer, he is passionate about writing and poetry as practices in fluency and self-expression.

SHADBLOW

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Thu, 09 Apr 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by Arlene Weiner

We’d go down to the end of Dyckman Street
to watch the trains, Mom and Teddy and I.
We’d wave at the locomotives, and the engineers
would wave back. A little family.

In spring we saw shad nets in the Hudson River.
There’s a tree called “shadblow” because
it bloomed when the shad were running,
early spring.

We lived in Manhattan, in an apartment.
Trees in the park, fish displayed on ice
in the window of the fish store.

Near my grandmother’s apartment house,
one magnificent magnolia covered itself
with bloom, white blushed pink, every spring.

Arlene Weiner grew up in New York City and has lived in Pittsburgh for decades. She has been a Shakespeare scholar, a den mother, a cardiology technician, and an editor. Her poems have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies, including The New Verse News. Ragged Sky Press published three collections of her poetry. The most recent is More (2022).

TAXES, SEEN FROM THE MOON

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Thu, 09 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Indran Amirthanayagam

NASA photo

I walked in the woods

today, a spring in my step,

the Great Leader had

stepped back from

his threats

to the sovereign

Republic of X,

and my tax deadline

loomed even clearer;

no more time

to distract with poems,

even this one a lazy

fingering, extracting juice

from the rind of past fears,

raising arms to God

to say thank you

for your intervention.

But what’s ten minutes

to a poet avoiding reckoning

with the IRS? Only ten

minutes to say thanks,

to say I love you and keep

in touch always. Ten minutes

to say tomorrow will come—

it already has—

despite the terrible words

and bombs exploded

until now in the latest

killing fields

of our one Earth

lit by the rising Sun seen

now for the first time

by the Artemis crew,

from the dark side

of the Moon.

HINGE DAY

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by Tricia Knoll

So much needs exercising, soothing for the opening to beyond and next. Where applause for sun reverberates across plains and oceans to replace fumes of exhaust. Even on the balconies of apartments in my hometown. My car hides in the garage to avoid the steep price of gas. I plot where to scatter a bag of saved marigold and zinnia seed. Where mornings come unchallenged by worst-yet shock. When the bully pulpit voice, a vulgar weaving from Greenland to birthright, issues ultimatums that seem to threaten using nukes to resurrect the stone age and abuses the many names we use for god. A cardinal teeters on my fencepost listening to the oven bird.

Tricia Knoll’s The Unknown Daughter was a finalist in the 2025 New England Poetry Club chapbook contest. Her poems appear in journals and nine collections, full-length or chapbook. Wild Apples (Fernwood Press) details downsizing and moving 3,000 miles from Oregon to Vermont. After 18 years of working with free verse, she now writes mostly prose poems. Fernwood Press will publish her full-length poetry book, Gathering Marbles, in July 2027. Knoll serves as a Contributing Editor to the online journal Verse Virtual.

OIL COUNTRY

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 10:30:00 +0000

by Pepper Trail

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

TWO-WEEK TRUCE

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 10:15:00 +0000

by Howie Good

Trees with buds

under the rubble

Howie Good is a widely published but little-known author.

BRIDGES

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Matthew Murrey

Anadolu Agency on Facebook

People build them to connect
one side to the other, to move
people, supplies and food
from here to there, to shorten
the journey and make it easier
to cross over a river or a bay
or a deep, precipitous gorge.

People construct rooms and roofs
so doctors wearing green or blue
can focus on the work at hand,
so teachers can greet children
carrying books and backpacks,
so exhausted parents can settle
into bed after turning off the lights.

People also make cunning machines
and devices. From up in the sky
they can see what hugs the ground:
buildings standing exposed, unable
to move, and bridges lying flat
out in the open, left to the mercies
of whoever is looking down from above.

Matthew Murrey is the author of Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026) and Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019). He can be found on Bluesky and Instagram under the handle @mytwords.

HOME IS WHERE

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Tue, 07 Apr 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by Michelle DeRose

The Guardian, April 3, 2026

Runaway nuns seek familiar stairs,

years of ascent lodged in muscle memory.

Passages internalized like arteries,

layout so deeply embedded they could sleepwalk

to table, sanctuary. A return to rails

that held their hands through ages,

yielding their gloss to dry grasps

that clasp ever tighter. Rooms where

nightly they set their prayer beads on bedside stands.

Michelle DeRose lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Find her most recent publication in Michigan Bards Poetry Anthology, North Coast Voices 2025: Poems of the Great Lakes, Dunes Review, and Autumn Sky Daily.

RESTING ON A ROCK AT 8000 FEET WHEN IT SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SO HOT IN MARCH

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Tue, 07 Apr 2026 10:00:00 +0000

an abecedarian

by Malinda Miller

The record-breaking heatwave scorching the US west [in March] would have been “virtually impossible” if not for the climate crisis... caused primarily by the burning of fossil fuels. —The Guardian, March 20, 2026

Above the steep riverbank, no snow or ice in sight,

below a craggy granite face, I’m

cracked open by

determination to understand

evolution. Not

from where, how, why —

grand theories

honed in academic halls, no — more

incipient answers to questions I’m afraid to ask.

Junipers surround me, trunks gnarled, twisted,

knobby—able to survive relentless heat, intense winds, scarcity of water.

Lichen, among the oldest of living things on Earth,

mossy green, burnt orange and yellow on barren rock

near my dusty backpack and boots, colonized here long before us.

Other foliage and organisms are not so hardy—nor am I—left

parched from a winter of too much wind and too little moisture;

questioning, can damage causing climate change be

reversed? What’s next? Can we adapt?

Should we expect a

tumultuous future full of

unforeseen consequences?

Verdant seasons may become rare. This we must accept.

We’re not as resilient as juniper or lichen. With limited water, only

xeric organisms will survive. Of this planet’s 4.5 billion years, in

yardsticks of time, humans are a blip. If, when, will we become

zero, zip, zilch?

Malinda Miller is a writer, teacher and editor who is most at home on Weston Pass in Colorado or in the Nevada desert where her family had a ranch just off Highway 50, aka the Loneliest Highway in America. Her poetry and personal essays have appeared in A Poetic Inventory of Rocky Mountain National Park, Ecotone, Think, the Mountain Gazette, the Colorado Sun, the Coloradan, and others. At Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop, she teaches youth classes and community outreach workshops. She has a MFA in creative writing from Western State Colorado University and a MA in journalism from CU Boulder.