TheNewVerse.News

STARGAZING NOTES

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

by Dan Overgaard

Erupting star, incinerating star:

the likes of which has never been observed

or measured in our skies—oh yes! we are

observing now, obsessively, but maybe not

as worshipfully as you might be wishing—

if, that is, you ever spent a wish on us.

And I’ve been searching, high and rather low,

for some device—an image or a metaphor

sufficiently sensational for you—

but you told us you’re a star, so let’s use that.

Astronomers who stay up late observe

astonishing phenomena so they can

measure light, and theorize. Most any night

they catch spectacular releases,

flares of blinding and exploding gas—

and you’ve got those, so we’ll be theorizing

for a long, long time about your molten core

of darkness and whatever’s broken there.

But it’s hardly theoretical—or celestial—

for everyone who’s burned by your debris.

In fact, you’re most unheavenly, the way

you’re not content to shine like other stars,

or hold your corner of our constellation up

so we can navigate or wish upon you

as our steady and illuminating guide.

Though stars, by definition, don’t have moons,

you’ve commandeered more moons than Jupiter,

and flogged them round about you til they blur

together, more like Saturn’s rings, and then

you trash them all unless they make you shine.

The stars out there do all their starry things:

forming and shining, guiding and blinking out.

It’s not fair to compare them in this way.

You claim to be our star while you are here,

but all your sucking needs may cave us in.

In time, you’ll be assessed by smarter

scientists than me, but frankly I don’t think

you’ll be the greatest in the firmament,

and I can tell you that this galaxy of ours

has never been—and won’t turn—white for you.

And so, collapsing star, we watch you burn.

You torch us as you smolder and pretend—

but though you smite us, we will not go blind.

Your gas is dissipating now, and soon—

before your end—you’ll be an empty dwarf.

Dan Overgaard was born and raised in Thailand. He attended Westmont College, dropped out, moved to Seattle, became a transit operator, then managed transit technology projects and programs. He’s now retired, and probably gardening or catching up on reading. His poems have appeared in Mobius, Santa Clara Review, Across The Margin, The Galway Review, pioneertown, As It Ought To Be, The High Window, and other journals.

WILDFIRE SMOKE AND A WALK IN THE WOODS

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

by Katy Z. Allen

“What the Newest Research on Wildfire Smoke Tells Us.” —The New York Times, August 16, 2026

people are exposed to more toxins…damaging lungs…brains…other organs

entering the woods wondering about teshuvah–return, repair, restart,

welcomed by a tufted titmouse repeating peter-peter-peter

and two great blue herons with 6-foot wing spans taking flight

PM2.5…measured by air quality indexes…other substances…lead, mercury, formaldehyde

walking steadily, trees newly fallen join so many already decaying

quickly replaced by new growth vying for space

away from the road, the woods quiet save for a steady hum of crickets,

the call of a nuthatch, the squeal of a catbird, the hammering of a woodpecker

sounds of machinery in the distance

in populated areas…especially toxic…fires…consume…buildings, vehicles, electronics

suddenly a patch of blackberries, but I walk on, for I didn’t come to the woods to pick,

but irrepressible desire overcomes, I turn around and pick enough for my granola,

until the loss of my lid’s container and my memory of what I did with it

pierce my delight and set me to questioning and despairing of myself

wildfire smoke and …cardiovascular hospitalizations, diabetes complications, preterm birth, cancer, impaired cognition, respiratory effects

the steady rhythm of my walking restores my wellbeing

as I think of ancient sages meditating an hour before prayer,

focusing so intently, even a snake crawling up their leg would go unnoticed,

and far that I am from that degree of connection, still I stop for prayer,

accompanied by the chirping of a chipmunk and the chattering of distant birds

no amount of smoke exposure …isn’t harmful…using masks and air filters more frequently

rising from prayer ready to complete my walk and enter the day,

I carry with me new understanding of the potential pitfalls

of physical desire and action taken too soon,

as I continue to contemplate teshuvah in the face of global crisis

best way to mitigate risks…to prevent catastrophic fires…addressing the root cause:…climate change

Katy Z. Allen is a lover of the more-than-human world, poet, retired rabbi of an outdoor congregation, former healthcare chaplain, and co-founder of a Jewish climate organization. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in print and online in such places as The New Verse News, Amethyst Review, The Bluebird Word, Cosmic Daffodil, The Soliloquist Journal and Art on the Trails: Number 9. She was awarded Honorable Mention in The Prose Poem’s 2025 Prose Poetry Competition, and her book, A Tree of Life: A Story in Word, Image, and Text was published by Strong Voices Publishing.

THE NEW WHITE HOUSE COOKBOOK

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Tue, 18 Aug 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by Virginia Aronson

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

The White House chef
must put together a menu
of special recipes
to suit the diners
of various tastes
from heads of state
to cabinet members
to kids and grandkids
sports stars and celebrities
donors, bankers, billionaires.

The most popular dishes
for this Administration
will not surprise you
like Tacos on Tuesdays
(sometimes daily)

or Chicken à la King
(or anything à la King)
Deep Fried Chicken
with Golden Crust
(anything gold, really)

and Orange Chicken
(big fans of chicken
in the White House)
dishes always served
with a side of fries
with mayo or white sauce
(white the top choice).

The Chicken Liver Pâté
is eaten with a silver spoon
Deported Burritos Grandes
always full of beans
Mafia-inspired Meatballs
comes on a bed of pasta
a bed you make yourself
and lie, lie, lie
in it if you like
secret recipes try
Catering Truck Popovers
(might leave a bad taste

in your mouth)
or enjoy a gilded platter
of Oysters on the Shell Company
washed down with Diet Coke
or all the hot Bullion
in the entire world
stored by the ton
down in the bunker
where the President sleeps.

Virginia Aronson is the author of many published books including The White House Family Cookbook, re-released recently by the White House Historical Association. New poetry collections include Collateral Damage (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Whiskey Islandand Whiskey Straight Women (Cyberwit Press).

FOLLOW ME

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

by Ron Riekki

Protest #2—Stone School Bridge, Ann Arbor, MI, August 14, 2026 (approximate number of protestors: 20)

“Two roads diverged”
—Robert Frost,
“The Road Not Taken”

When I got home, I realized I was having my first serious headache in a long while.

I stood on the bridge, staring at the cars going by on the freeway, a break from the conversations where we were yelling to communicate.

I stood counting the number of vehicles that were beeping.

Out of the first fifty, none beeped.

The second fifty, sixteen.

The average car gave about three beeps.

They were doing this for the beeps.

Of course, more than that, but also the beeps.

About six or seven cars out of a hundred beeped.

Mostly, because they were driving seventy-some miles per hour, with cars all around.

They had signs taped up to the bridge’s fence.

Plenty of them:

JAIL TRUMP 25^TH NOW

We the people RESIST

SHE HASN’T SHUT THE HECK UP FOR 3 DAYS

DEFEND DEMOCRACY LINCOLN SQUARE

HAIL NO Los Alamos Data Center

HUMAN NEEDS NOT WAR & GREED

Some of the signs not even facing the drivers, but facing them, like reminders of why they’re there.

I can’t imagine the drivers actually being able to read the signs.

But it’s not about the signs.

It’s about the presence of people, seeing people on a bridge, knowing they’re protestors, even if you have no idea what they’re protesting.

Protesting isn’t protesting—

the way I’ve gone to church and realized church isn’t church.

Sometimes it’s networking, sometimes it’s singing, sometimes it’s duty, sometimes it’s because a person you’d like to date is there, sometimes guilt, sometimes longing for God, sometimes because your Mom made you.

A hundred reasons. More.

It’s the same here.

I ask people why they’re here and they talk about:

data centers and Trump and trans rights and the complexities of the prison-industrial complex and class issues and there’s no brand no slogan no capitalistic approach to the protest.

The protest is just a protest,

a quiet (very loud) protest.

I get pointed to Sandy, quickly, in her yellow vest, her READ BOOKS. WALK DOGS. FIGHT FASCISTS. ballcap.

She’s been doing this weekly since February 2025, the lead organizer, when “terrible things started” and she predicted “a lot of bad stuff to come.”

I take her to the side of the bridge, the end of the fence, where she says, “That’s enough,” not wanting to go further, not trusting me.

Not trusting runs through the group.

One wears a body cam, “in case.”

They wear dark sunglasses.

Two self-appointed guards watch the cars where they’re parked;

they tell me of five, six of the cars having their tires slashed one time, discovered when they got done, the sun down, telling me of how hard it is when you’re tired, realize you can’t drive, have to wait for multiple tow trucks.

They never caught the person, worries they’ll return.

They tell me of a car swerving towards them.

Talking to the two car-guards, a car goes by and the passenger in back leans out the window, half of his body outside the car, and screams, quick, the feel like it was done to frighten.

There’s a lot of what SNL comedian Michael Che calls “white jogging,” shirtless tan men who run by as if the protest is just people standing in line.

Quite a few black people walk by, none participating in the protest.

It’s a very white protest, an elderly leaning protest, peaceful, non-confrontational, on the outskirts of Ann Arbor.

Sandy tells me 14,000 to 15,000 cars pass by when they do this

I-95.

Sandy tells me their messages change every week.

Last week it was: Michigan is not for sale.

She focuses on class issues,

is relaxed, very, like she’s home, a very noisy home.

She tells me “460 bridges are doing the same thing right now” as part of the Visibility Brigade.

Even if the visibility is a driver seeing them for a split-second.

But that visibility, based on the numbers Sandy gives, means 6 to 7 million cars are seeing these people on these bridges.

“We’re not in anybody’s way,” Sandy says.

I ask if protests are about getting in people’s way, if that’s the point.

“I chose this bridge,” she says, for safety, the roadway separated from the trail for joggers, for protestors.

She says it’s a joint protest, with their presence, and the motorists joining in with “honking and waving.”

I see no waves in the hundred cars I watched, but honking, yes, the semis like sperm whales, the loudest animal on Earth, 230 decibels.

I have no idea how the protestors stay there longer than a few minutes.

For Sandy, it’s a commitment to “get the money out of politics.”

And a despair.

But where “the antidote to despair is action,”

admits she’s not sure where she’s getting the quote from,

the internet insisting it’s Joan Baez.

It’s female-led, this protest.

Multiple grandmotherly types smile at me, welcoming.

They don’t talk to me, due to the inability to speak over the engine after engine after engine, as if America is all gas and metal and oil.

I yell to Landon, a red-haired, laid back, calm man who tells me he’s “on vacation.”

I ask why he’d go to a protest when on vacation.

He yells back that he can’t stand MAGA, that “it’s a cult, it’s a cult!”

adds, “I’m not part of the cult!”

He’s an Ohioan, tells me about the protests down there.

I’m surprised at how laid back everyone is, positive, focused.

I ask Landon if he ever gets exhausted from breathing in all the exhaust, but he just shakes his head no, something monk-like about him, in all the positive ways you think of monks.

I go to leave, the traffic fading fast behind me,

the liminal point between concrete and forest off to the side,

this infinity of reasons why each person is here,

the mix of messages,

and the strong need to connect.

I talk with Gordon, body cammed, but the conversation goes nowhere, mostly because it’s all being recorded, not as open as Sandy, him dressed in police blue.

I go to leave, feeling content.

I can be a bit anti-protest sometimes.

It comes from living in Berkeley, memories of seeing bloody footprints after one of the protests, a streetlight corpsed in the road, a bank I disliked with windows shattered, walking by at one point when a person walked up and put their megaphone to my ear, screaming into it, realizing, later, that, oh, I’d forgotten I’d been wearing an American flag T-shirt and got mistaken for a Trump supporter, but the tinnitus making me a bit angry at the aggression, people I saw, on both sides, who were there to fight, in my opinion, stories of skinheads trucking down from northern California solely for the purpose to confront.

But every single one of the protestors here was focused on getting semis to honk,

the way I used to do as a kid,

there for support,

to support,

more than to protest,

to be unified.

I respected that.

I was just about to leave, when I figured I’d chat with the two car-guards, one final talk.

They reminded me of Through the Looking-Glass characters, a bit of Jeff Daniels’ behavior, 2014-era, to them, standing side by side, one wearing two walkie-talkies that I had as a child,

the two having, comically, the same stance.

I told them I understood their presence now, the vandalism.

One of them implied that’s what conservatives do—vandalize.

We gabbed.

I acted as a devil’s advocate, asking if Democrats and Republicans need to work together, not treat each other as binary opposites.

Asked if it might be time better spent to get involved in politics for actual change rather than just collectively standing on a bridge.

You could feel the discomfort growing.

I’m someone who can be convinced,

always looking for logic, for counterargument,

like to do point counterpoint,

to learn,

to see new ways of viewing things,

but the questions just aggravated.

Maybe it was that it was two-against-one,

maybe it was that they do see things as binary,

that questioning means opposition

and not enquiry.

I told them everyone seems to be here for different reasons,

asked why they were here,

and the conversation turned to their concern of U of M stopping any help for transgender transition.

I scribbled fast, asking if that’s true.

I was shocked, asked their names.

One told me she’d be angry if she was quoted directly.

I won’t quote her directly,

won’t name her.

I pushed for more information that the university medical was banning transgender medical assistance.

Then she changed it to that it applied to under 18 only.

A big difference.

They didn’t see it as a big difference.

I asked how young someone should be able to transition.

And one said,

“We’re done.”

Said they’d say no more,

the interview was over.

Same thing as happened to me at protest 1.

I keep thinking protestors are there to discuss,

that I wanted to learn,

wanted to hear perspective.

She said, “Come on, follow me,” and walked away.

The other one followed.

I thought protesters would fight for what they believe in, would be OK with being questioned, would actually even be able to expand the way I looked at something, give me ammunition that would help me fall even more strongly on their side.

I walked to my car, looked at the tires, all fine.

Every protest is different.

Every protestor is different.

But there’s a strong need I felt there from them to belong,

to connect,

to follow.

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice.

$5 MILLION CINQUAIN

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

Supreme Court: The court for a second time refused a request by Mr. Trump to review a $5 million civil judgment against him after a jury found in 2023 that he had sexually abused and defamed the writer E. Jean Carroll. —The New York Times, August 17, 2026

Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer.

THE RISING DARK

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

by June Hall McCash

In the cold morning, the invaded city

muffles the sound of scuffles in the night.

Traffic drowns the echoes carried by the wind,

cries of the seized and of the children

left behind in empty halls and alleyways.

With the early light, night still casts

empty shadows left by the unrelenting

attack on innocence and guilt alike,

by faces marked with terror

at the approaching sound of heavy boots

echoing through the streets,

of masked and mirthless specters

with glass-fixed eyes, armed with

guns, tasers, and new electric gloves,

with violence and cruel indifference.

There is, there was no retreat, no justice,

no escape from lost identity, snatched away

without recourse and chained to a ruthless fate.

When all true judges have been replaced

by sycophants, will we then grasp

that we too are among the fearful, waiting

in the shadows? Will we know that our time

too may come, when promises no longer keep,

when pledges and oaths are but empty words

and that the looming shadow can also reach out

to seize upon our weakness—yours and mine?

Will we recognize it then as the beast it is,

reborn from that cruel phoenix

we thought our fathers had destroyed

in the wars of earlier generations?

Will we concede that evil is perennial,

relentless as crabgrass in our human soil

as it invades our city streets and creeps

its way into our unwary countryside?

We have learned already that hope, good will,

and even laws are but fragile ramparts

against the terror of a tyranny ready to rise

the moment we let down our guard.

Brave speech flames out when justice dies.

Already, we can hear the terrible silence.

June Hall McCash is the author of fifteen books of nonfiction and historical fiction, and one book of poetry. She has been twice named Georgia Author of the Year for her novels. Another of her books of historical fiction won first place in the Chaucer competition for Early Historical Fiction, one of the Chanticleer International Book Awards. Now a retired university professor, McCash holds a Ph.D. in comparative literature from Emory University. She divides her time between homes on a Georgia sea island and in Tennessee.

CHICAGO STOCK (YARDS) 1954

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

WHISPERS OF THE NOW

by Corey Weinstein

We were born on a sigh of relief

trembling lips after Nazi butchers’ blade,

pasty grins of “don’t mention it please”

elders hiding this truth from their brood.

Trembling from Babi Yar family’s ruin

our adults invoked a solace of silence.

Just let us strive, be free range kids.

We, fizzy bubbles of sorrows’ cauldron.

(now this genocide in Palestine)

(children, press, doctors targets)

High grades and high jinks were our sweet lot

summer’s play, bikes and balls all day.

Bubbles can only break, learn the horror

noxious smells waft up from stockyards.

(rubble trapped death stench)

(homes and hope lie in waste)

Hot days joy mixed with sirloin slaughter

what could our folks have had on their mind?

Pens of cattle, hogs not dear Kyiv cousins,

grins not groans for Rogers Park preteens.

(miasma of cruelty’s purpose)

(to break a peoples’ spirit)

When we unearthed the bloodbath’s facts

sighs of relief became embarrassed stutters.

Children left to fathom a world’s dread,

parents’ silence a kindly confusing legacy.

(what are parents thinking now?)

(telling kids about Gaza now?)

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.

A CURRENT EVENT

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

by Cecil Morris

On last night’s news, the demonstrations

of officers with their newest “tool”:

the electric shock glove, a low-voltage stunner

that makes their pretend “criminals” drop

to their knees, agonized. They promise that,

this “tool” will cause no permanent harm,

will not leave a mark, and I think about

the old beatings—Jim Crow days—that left

no marks, about unsworn officers of abuse

with the shock gloves to keep their wives—

or husbands—or kids or dogs in line,

about encouraging compliance with

velvet gloves. I think about poor Midas

and his golden touch, about that episode

of Cheers when know-it-all postman Cliff

in avoidance therapy begins to shock

himself. I think of just desserts,

of what goes around comes around,

of ICE officers shocking each other

or themselves by accident

or having to don shock-proof rubber sleeves,

maybe whole wet suits as prophylactics,

the newest body armor by Body Glove,

and non-compliant protesters dressed

like frogmen, too.

Cecil Morris, a retired high school English teacher, has poems appearing in The 2River View, the Common Ground Review, The New Verse News, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. His debut poetry collection At Work in the Garden of Possibilities (Main Street Rag) came out in 2025. His second collection, Daughter Lost and Found and Lost, will come out from Kelsay Books in 2027. He and his wife, mother of their children, divide their year between the cool coast of Oregon and the relatively hot Central Valley of California.

LETTUCE REJOICE! (THE PATRIOTIC CYCLOSPORA CAYETANENSIS)

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

by Zumwalt

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

Trump’s CDC Stopped Monitoring Explosive Diarrhea Parasite Before Outbreak —Newsweek, July 10, 2026

It's a big win, a big win, so cue the parade—

Inflation is beaten! Our Fed target's made!

So how did we do it? Well, funny you ask—
We fired all the folks doing food-safety tasks.

No agency checking for bugs in your greens.
No budget for knowing what "parasite" means.
Sixteen percent cheaper—a triumph, a feat!
Who cares if there's germs in the lettuce you eat?

So cheers to the savings—we know you're all glad,

Even Taco Bell's prices have come down a tad.
You can now eat much cheaper than you did in the past

But please note, due to gastrointestinal side effects,

you may choose to fast.

Zumwalt’s poetry examines the intersection of identity, instability, and the mechanics of perception. Recent work is currently appearing in The New Verse News.

A MARRIAGE OF EAGLES

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 22:00:00 +0000

by stella graham-landau

From Nest to Deathbed, Jackie the Eagle Entranced California and Beyond. The bald eagle and her mate gained fame during the pandemic, as a livestream tracked their nesting attempts. She died while being treated for anemia. —The New York Times, August 10, 2026

mated for years

jackie is larger than shadow
her compadre of the skies
both hardwired to protect
each egg each feathered chick
perhaps they met in a playground of clouds
an accidental encounter
not paired by families imagining
a coupling worthy of majesty
they soar
own the sky
build aeries in the tops of giant trees
relying on architectural instinct
carried in their bones
jackie
an unpretentious name
for a mother
tasked to save her species
eons of ancestral instructions
to keep eagles aloft

build a nest
mate
lay eggs
hatch
fledge

repeat

stella graham-landau is a poet in richmond va. she has been published on the new verse news and other journals, websites, and anthologies. she loves the generous community of poets she has found online and welcomes conversations with other creators.

TABOO

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

by L. Roger Owens

In the evening of the day that negotiations

over the Strait of Hormuz threaten again to collapse

and Russian missiles kill seventeen souls

in Kyiv—we saw seven bodies still lying there, one

reporter says—the same day a progressive democrat

declares victory in a senate primary in Michigan,

the family of my daughter’s boyfriend joins us

for a game night. We’ve made brownies. They bring cookies,

peanut butter ones. Ice cream chills in the freezer.

The whole gang comes: mother, father, sister and her boyfriend

(who went to high school with my boys), younger cousin,

and the boyfriend himself, it goes without saying.

We sit in a circle in the family room like a shape poem,

our names prosodic when spoken,

the consonance of the v’s and m’s, hard g’s beat--

boxing; two r’s waltz together sweetly.

The game is one in which you prompt your teammates

to guess a word, but there are several you can’t say.

My word is banana, and five more are forbidden me:

fruit, peel, yellow, split, and bread. I make

banana bread whenever a family member returns home,

from college, say, or from a trip away

(something dead citizens of Kyiv will never do again).

“Welcome Home Banana Bread,” we’ve named it

in the family cookbook, and three bananas

are browning in the kitchen now, waiting to be smashed

into pancake batter. My teammates know none of this.

I yearn to say peel yellow fruit, and time runs out.

I alone decline crumbed cookie between my brownie

and ice cream, and while we spoon dessert

into our mouths, no one dares to speak

of the widening fiasco in the Middle East or allude

to human remains strewn among the streets of that great city,

its Golden Gate immortalized by Mussorgsky.

No one says, Thank God the centrist lost.

But you don’t mention these things, of course you don’t,

not when your families are gaming together for the first time—

you don’t. More ice cream, anyone?

L. Roger Owens teaches spirituality, ministry, and creative writing at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. He is an MFA student at Ashland University.

WE WON

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

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

“Dwindling Munitions” by Nick Anderson

a cento of public quotes from President Donald Trump in roughly chronological order

"The United States military, together with the wonderful Israeli partners,

continues to totally demolish the enemy far ahead of schedule

and at levels that people have never seen before.

Well, I think we've accomplished more in one week

than anyone thought possible. We're winning the war by a lot.

We've decimated their whole evil empire.

It'll continue, I'm sure, for a little while.

Let me tell you, we've won.

You know, you never like to say too early you won.

We won. We won the bet. In the first hour, it was over.

It's an excursion that will keep us out of war.

The war is very complete, pretty much.

If you look, they have nothing left.

There's nothing left in a military sense.

We've essentially defeated Iran.

Uh, I guess they can have a little bit of fight back, but not much.

Not much.

We'll be leaving in pretty much the very near future.

Iran is close to demolished. The only thing is the strait.

We are getting very close to meeting our objectives as we consider winding down.

We're doing a five-day period. We'll see how that goes.

And if it goes well, we're going to end up with settling this.

Otherwise, we'll just keep bombing our little hearts out.

Iran is begging to work out a deal.

I don't know if we'll be able to do that.

I don't know if we're willing to do that.

I think we'll make a deal with them.

Pretty sure. But it's possible we won't.

We are on track to complete all of America's military objectives shortly, very shortly.

We're going to hit them extremely hard over the next two to three weeks.

We're going to bring them back to the Stone Ages, where they belong.

MAKE A DEAL or OPEN UP THE HORMUZ STRAIT.

Time is running out—48 hours before all Hell will reign down on them.

Glory be to GOD!

Open the Fuckin' Strait, you crazy bastards, or you'll be living in Hell.

JUST WATCH!

Praise be to Allah.

A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again.

I don't want that to happen, but it probably will.

We're going to hit them very hard tonight.

We're going to hit them hard tomorrow.

We're going to hit them really hard the night after.

Next week gets really bad for them

because next week comes the power plants,

next week comes the bridges.

We're going to knock out all their power plants.

We're going to knock out all their bridges

unless they get to the table and negotiate.

The war in Iran is going along swimmingly.

We can do whatever we want.

And it should be, it should be ending pretty soon.

It was perfect. I mean it's perfect.

The Strait of Hormuz is completely open and ready for business and full passage.

We are winning big in Iran,

and you will see the fruits of that labor very, very shortly."

I was the only president in modern history who did not have any new wars.

Donald Trump, 2023

I will not send you to fight and die in a foolish, never-ending war.

Donald Trump, 2024

I didn't guarantee no war.

Donald Trump, 2026

Ed Gold has three chapbooks including Sundown (2023) and Loveship (2025) from Finishing Line Press. His poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Think, In These Times, Passager, Kakalak, and others. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with my wife Amy and dog Edie, and he coordinates the Skylark poetry contest for SC high school students. Ed is lucky to be working with Richard Garcia and the Long Table Poets.

I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW

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

by Sally Mills

That if I ever need to be flown out

of Turkey, under threat of attack

by Iran in response to a war

that I started, I may hide

in an airport catering container

if that is what I need to do, but

what I will not do, I promise, is

leave you on the old Air Force One

as a decoy. That is the depth

of affection I have for you

and you can take that to the bank.

xoxo

Sally Mills is a poet and attorney from Downeast Maine. She studied the Russian Silver Age poets and holds an MPhil on the works of Anna Akhmatova. Her work has appeared in The New Verse News and is forthcoming in Rat’s Ass Review. When not writing poetry or practicing law, Sally performs with The Damn, Girls! — Hancock County’s premier country-western girl band.

LIVING WITH MA NATURE

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

by Lenora Rain-Lee Good

Wildfires surround my town

air quality goes from green to red

my sister’s town is burning

her air quality is purple

I wear mask when outside

would wear it inside, but

they are paper and dissolve

in my cup of coffee, so I run

my air cleaner. Perfumes, smoke,

pollen, dust, anything to irritate

my larynx and my voice goes

or I sound like a pubescent boy

either was fine when my kids

were young and full of laughter

they have more sympathy now

I wish Ma Nature did.

Lenora Rain-Lee Good lives near the Columbia River in Kennewick, WA. Her latest chapbook is Saying Goodbye to Thomas published by Finishing Line Press. She writes fiction, radio dramas, and poetry. Her words have appeared in online and print magazines and anthologies, including Quill and Parchment, Ekphrastic Review, and Notes of Light and Dark: Southwestern Aubades and Nocturnes. Her favorite poetical quote: “A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.” —Robert Heinlein

PRIVATE ALTAR TRUMPS

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

by J. Alan Nelson

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

You can buy one for the mantel
or the corner of the kitchen table
where the bills used to go.

A golden Trump, small enough
to fit in the palm,
heavy enough to feel like something
earned.

For those who have decided
science is a rumor
and most other people
are an inconvenience,
except the ones who write checks
large enough to keep the foundries running,
the molds poured, the gilt applied.

Facts are only obstacles
on the way to the next order.
Denmark is a minor interruption
between here and Greenland.
Democracy is a temporary arrangement
that can be redirected,
like a pension check,
toward the manufacture of more golden figures
for the home altar, the office shrine.

Iran will be humiliated
in the proper sequence,
and a prize for peace
will follow as naturally
as the next shipment arrives.

Women and children may speak,
but their voices do not alter
the shine on the hair,
the tilt of the chin,
the fixed, triumphant gaze.

Place him where the light hits.
He does not require belief,
only space.

J. Alan Nelson is a poet, journalist, lawyer, actor, and nominee for a Pushcart Prize, Best of Net and Best Microfiction. He played the lead in the viral video “Does This Cake Make Me Look Gay,” the verbose “Silent Al” in HBO’s Emmy-winning SXSWestworld, and narrated New York Times videos on AIDS programs in Africa.

ENABLERS

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

by Elizabeth Kerlikowske

If you let your sons win at card games, they will never learn strategy.

If you talk down to them using simple baby words, they won't understand complexity.

Because you don’t want them to fail, you don’t make them do anything hard.

You accept every lie because it is easier and more comfortable than checking up.

If your son is always where the trouble is, your son is the trouble.

Your son knows you will bail him out, make the excuse, buy him another car.

Hell, you might even buy him the gun he uses to murder a man and then

kill himself. Your love knows no bounds.

Author’s note: I saw something like this play out in my own life when my stepmother did provide the gun my brother used at the end of the poem because she could not say no to him.

Elizabeth Kerlikowske teaches ekphrastic writing at the Kalamazoo Institute of Art and volunteers at an alternative high school.

INSOMNIA CHRONICLES LIX

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

by Erin Murphy

The night is full of insomniacs googling insomnia. When I hear contempt, I think contretemps. Instead of raging hatred, I see mild embarrassment, two girls showing up at prom in the same dress. Better yet, contra dance: two lines of partnerless dancers, a caller announcing moves to the beat of fiddles and mandolins. Years ago, a contra dancing club met Mondays in a local barn. Members brought potluck meals they kept warm under tea towels. Or so I imagine. I never went but was intrigued by the small ads in the weekly paper. All welcome, bring a dish. How did we find out about anything back then? No internet, no cell phones. If I were dropped in the middle of 1990, could I find my way home? The past is a foreign country, someone once said. Lately, so is this moment. During the pandemic, one house on our block had a Trust Dr. Fauci banner on the front porch. Across the street, neighbors planted a Fauci is a Liar lawn sign. My friend Joan says it’s everyone’s first time being a person. Most of us are personing the best we can. We try, try, stumble, try. Contra dancers weave in and out of other bodies, wipe brows with damp bandanas, grant grace for missed cues. Look each other in the eye.

Erin Murphy is the author or editor of sixteen books, most recently Swoon: New and Selected Poems (Grayson Books, 2026).

NEW YORK CITY, 7 AM, SUNDAY, 2026

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

by Naomi Pliskow

Fat pigeons peck hopefully

at Saturday night’s scat–

tickets, receipts, ketchup-stained napkins–

dotting grey cement as though they were

the leaves of autumn.

The Saturday night squawks and judders,

the clangs and gulps and sighs,

are replaced by an echoing quiet,

as though covered by a layer of soft cotton

intruded on only by pigeon murmurs and

the petulant honk

of a single metal beast on rubber legs

piloted by some human who didn’t

make it home last night.

The smell of sweat and alcohol

from a hooded passerby

interrupts the aroma

of bread baked at four this morning

when the baker’s dark hands grasped soft white dough

trying to hold on to these islands

for just a little while longer

before being forced to return

to his ravaged own,

where people peck for leavings

like hopeful morning pigeons

and bake bitterness into

every scarce loaf.

Naomi Pliskow published her first poetry collection in a three-ring binder at age eight. She recently returned to writing poetry after a long hiatus. Her poems have been published in One Art, Adanna, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Canary, and several anthologies. Her satirical song lyrics were published in The New York Times in 2024. Her chapbook Entering the Water will be released in September of 2026. She is editor of the Philadelphia Mad Poets Society newsletter.

AMERICAN SNAPSHOT

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

by Luis Benitez

English version by Araceli Lacore

Kodak of the mind

Polaroid of memory and sight

what departs

stays forever in dioramas of coagulated time

where old Daguerreotypes speak to each other

let’s place the word

let's make verbs with colors

nouns be the profiles

adjectives the shadows and highlights

pronouns be the men the women and the children

let history be their syntax

a frozen image

its mute spelling.

Luis Benítez was born in Buenos Aires on November 10, 1956. His 50 books of poetry, essays, and fiction have been published in Argentina, Chile, France, Italy, Mexico, Romania, Spain, Sweden, Venezuela, UK, USA and Uruguay. According to the London-based Ars Notoria Magazine, he is considered one of the most prominent voices in contemporary Argentine poetry and a leading figure in the genre throughout Latin America.

FIRE THIS TIME

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

by Gary Lark

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

This time
this time
like any other time
like no other time
our time.

Now I understand,
we’re disposable.
After a long life,
tasting the wind
from all directions
I get it.

Fires in Europe,
Canadian forests ablaze,
drought and floods,
we reach into the night
asking consciousness to save us.
The great beast of us
wheels and turns
desire in every hand.

Exploit and plunder marches on.
We could have,
we should have done something yesterday.
I know, I know
it will be different this time.

If I were a giant, I might pick up Congress
and shake it until the rats fall out
but I wouldn’t mess
with the janitors and secretaries.

I go to the river in the evening
to watch it flow through town.
I don’t want to drink it
but I do.

Gary Lark’s most recent collections are “Coming Down the Mountain,” “Easter Creek,” and “Daybreak on the Water,” His work has appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, Catamaran, and Rattle. Gary and his wife Dorothy live in Oregon's Rogue Valley.

DELETE AFTER READING

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

by Celeste DeSario

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

My friends say,
Don’t text your political poems.
You know we can’t have those on our phones.

Those Monsters Under the Bed do exist
and have crawled off the white spaces.
And now they lurk.
Waiting. Watching.
Listening to our conversations.
Recording.
Keep those words hidden.
Under cover

But I can’t.
I’m afraid.
I’m not the MAGA Dream Girl, you know.
I’m just an ordinary citizen—
ten fingers, no illusions about me…

I haven’t been to D.C. for a long time,
so, no that wasn’t me trailing my hand
through the algae-green water of the Reflecting Pool.
If I were there, I wouldn’t be able to see my reflection anyway—
the water clouded with bacteria,
and green scum rising to the top…
obscuring my view.
I’m too afraid to look…

Yesterday I pulled $70 out of my wallet
just to fill the tank,
even though I can’t really go anywhere anymore.

Who wants to face the airport check-in desk
and wind up on the floor, guns pointing at you,
for the chance to sit on a boat and watch
the icebergs calve and collapse into a warming Disenchantment Bay?

Cracking, thundering, echoing across the water
as they melt, sending waves skyward
while the tourists clap and cheer—
even though the earth is screaming at us
to bring down the heat.

Everything will be okay, because a deal with Iran
Is “imminent”, “close”, “finalized”.
Promised and promised…
At least forty times so far.
I’m not feeling it.
So, go back to being afraid.
Does that work for you?

Did it work in East Germany under Stasi?
Where an unfamiliar car parked nearby,
made you pull 1984 off your shelves.
Where neighbors would dig through your trash
searching for forensic evidence—
contraband chocolate wrappers from the West,
discarded letters or carbon paper
snatched up and pasted back together.
Evidence of thinking.
Where even a child’s birthday card
was ripped open before reaching its destination

No. It didn’t work.

And Leni’s footage?
The kids, clad in uniforms,
stiff with creases,
climbing flagpoles just to glimpse The Fuhrer.
Cheering, whistling as though he were a rock star.
Children reporting their parents’ dinner conversations—
Complaints of bread and potatoes again.
The long lines, the lack of butter.
The radio dial tuned in, low, listening to the BBC,
listening for the real truth of the world
through forbidden airwaves.

Those kids were patriots.

Where was I?
Oh. I’m still here. Stuck.
Staring at a screen where I delete my own words.
Do I dare to press send?
Will those agents be knocking on my door?
Scrolling through my phone?
Scrutinizing my computer files?
I’m almost at the end of my poem,
but I can’t send it to my friends.
I don’t want the border guards to deny anyone entry,
Or to detain people just trying to see their aging parents.

I guess I will send the poem out into the world.
To a writer. A poet.
Someone who knows the power of words.
Someone who provides a platform
for those of us who need it.

Especially need it.
Today.
Now.

More than ever.

Celeste DeSario enjoys breaking down big political illusions while also writing about personal grit and artistic passion. Her recent work appears in The New Verse News, The Dissident Voice, The Changing Times, The SportScribe, and The Ekphrastic Review. This portfolio includes sharp political satires like “There are Monsters Under My Bed”, "I’m the MAGA Dream Girl”, "The Peeling of American Flag Blue," and “I Ran,” alongside reflective pieces like "Bridging and Grappling," "A Leap of Affirmation,” and “Gaudi's Unbending Vision".

THE LAND REMEMBERS THEIR NAMES

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Ahmed Dremly

The ground was silent that morning.

Not empty—

silent.

It carried beneath its chest

the weight of a family,

the dreams of children,

the hands of mothers,

the footsteps of those

who once walked upon it.

The sky stood above Gaza,

wide and uncertain,

as if even the heavens

did not know where to place their grief.

After one thousand and ninety-nine days,

the earth opened her hands.

Not to take them,

but to return them.

One hundred and twelve souls

from the Abu Sharia family

rose from beneath the rubble—

doctors,

engineers,

mothers,

fathers,

children,

infants.

A whole family

written back into the memory of the land.

Gaza did not receive bodies that day.

She received names.

A mother of five stood on a rooftop,

holding flowers,

candies,

and the tears she could not hide.

She called to the sky:

Long live the martyrs.

A child who lost both parents

looked through a broken window.

The world was shattered before his eyes,

yet his voice remained:

For you, Palestine.

A man who survived

the death of everyone he loved

carried the remains of his family—

bones, photographs, memories.

He carried a universe

inside his wounded hands.

And he said:

The martyrs do not die.

An uncle who buried fifteen hearts

raised his voice:

Allah Akbar.

Not as a farewell,

but as a promise.

This land knows our footsteps.

This soil knows our names.

We live here.

We die here.

The streets of Gaza filled again.

Not only with mourning,

but with thousands of hands

reaching for the flag-covered bodies,

fighting for the honor

of carrying those

who carried Gaza before them.

Coffee was poured beside graves.

Stories were shared beside ruins.

And every wound

opened another memory.

Today,

the rubble has finally spoken.

It returned the last words

of those who rested beneath it.

Those who protected the earth,

and were protected by it.

Today, Gaza wears her grief

like an ancient dress.

And the land whispers:

They were never buried beneath me.

They were planted.

And I will remember their names.

Author’s note: The poem was inspired by the funeral held today for 112 members of the Abu Sharia family in Gaza, whose remains were recovered from beneath the rubble more than two years after they were killed. 308 members of the family were killed, while the remains of only 112 have been recovered. They were my neighbors, and I knew many of them personally.

Ahmed Dremly is a journalist from Gaza whose writings have appeared in Middle East Eye, Mondoweiss, The Electronic Intifada, The Intercept, Al-Monitor, and other publications. He is currently studying in Italy after leaving Gaza in May 2026.

YELLOW FINCH

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Wed, 05 Aug 2026 10:30:00 +0000

by Tara Menon

A yellow finch with blacks stripes on wings

stands on what’s left of a yellow zinnia.

The yellow finch explodes like the sun

after the rain and gloom of the day’s news.

I don’t bury my head in the sand.

The world throbs its troubles

and I feel its accelerated pulse.

The wars, the famines, the wildfires,

and zooming in, the family tragedy

of a woman, dedicated to her three children,

who strangled them when her husband

went to fetch pizza. She leaped to the ground

from a second-story window,

hoping for death, only to end up paralyzed

and put on trial.

It’s bad enough immigrants are put behind bars,

killed or handed trumped up charges.

It’s bad enough Black men are killed

for routine traffic violations.

Mothers with postpartum psychosis

are taken to trial and some are imprisoned

when they should be treated in hospitals.

The tragedy of lost children is compounded.

The yellow finch. The yellow finch.

The explosion of yellow on yellow.

Tara Menon is an Indian-American writer based in Lexington, Massachusetts. She is a two-time finalist for the Willow Run Poetry Book Award. Her latest poems have appeared in Gray Sparrow Journal, The New Verse News, The Sucharnochee Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, and Blue Heron Review.

THE OLYMPICS OF TESTIMONY

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Wed, 05 Aug 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Elaine Sorrentino

He’s given no warmup.

Tossed into the arena
with hungry litigants,
he pulls a timeline of horror
from under his fingernails,
pain mired in memory,
entertainment for the bloodthirsty.

From inside the stadium
and in front of home screens,
spectators judge the recounter
as he details the unforgiveable:

“Where are the kids?”
“They’re in the basement.”

His head remains in the lion's jaws,
he’s questioned over and over
until he's bloodied and defeated
and they are satisfied.

You may leave the witness stand now.

Elaine Sorrentino, author of Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit (Kelsay Books, 2025) has been published in journals such as Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, The New Verse News, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, Sparks of Calliope, Sheila-Na-Gig, Poetry Porch, Ekphrastic Review, and Haikuniverse. She is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle in Duxbury, MA.

USED BOOKS FOR SALE

noreply@blogger.com (Editor2) — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 10:00:00 +0000

by Brydon Caldwell

As developers race to build more powerful AI models, and lawsuits over copyright mount, a cottage industry has sprung up to supply them with millions of physical books that are stripped apart, scanned into training datasets, and discarded. —Yahoo! Finance, July 29, 2026. AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

Soft, almost like felt,

worn down by so

many different thumbs.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

A warm smell with

just a hint of must,

memories of comfort.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Words carefully arranged,

adjusted, revised just so,

telling a narrative.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Knowledge, hard won,

meant to be shared,

illustrated clearly.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Cultural threads woven

together to patch

gaps in society.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Lone voices calling

from the past, trying

to share themselves.

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

What cost will we pay

when the future devours

the past?

Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.

Brydon Caldwell is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. He was recently named the winner of the 2026 Icelandic Festival of Manitoba Short Story Contest. His writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, The Fib Review, and the upcoming Fear Dealer, Opolis 2026, and Still From Somewhere anthologies.