TWILIGHT ZONE CHILD’S PLAY

by Andrés Castro

Otherworldly, Rod Serling was
                                                 ahead
of his time,
     foreshadowing
an old fleshy Trump
                                with a skinny blonde boy
who tortured family and neighbors,
                                                        turning
     on a sadistic whim,
          anyone
                     into a grotesque
                                               creature,                       like a sprung jack-in-the-box
                                                                                    with a dunce-capped head,
before planting them
     in his homestead cornfield.
     No one dared to look at this boy
the wrong way.

This 60s episode,
     It’s a Good Life
in black and white,
                                                     flashes forward now
                                                                                      to 2025,
                                                                                           in bleeding colors,
                                                                                      where Trump rules
just like that boy,
     with unpredictable tantrums.

     Except,                                                                           our boy
                                                                                       would love to rule the world
if he could;
     Except,                                                                            now he has a cast of commercial
                                                                                        to mercenary flying monkeys circling
                                                                                        around him.

                                                                                                            His Hail Caesar!
                                                                                                                 Heil Hitler! moments
                                                                                                            have begun

on our way past cornfields                                                             to crucifixions
                                                                                                                 to revolutions.

Andrés Castro, a PEN member, is listed in Poets & Writers Directory. He keeps a personal blog, The Practicing Poet: Dialogue to Creativity, Poetry, and Liberation.

DIDN’T COME TO SCHOOL TODAY

by Shawn Reagan

Demonstrators hold a rally and march to protest a recent increase of activity in the area by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents on February 01, 2025 in Waukegan, Illinois. Scott Olson/Getty Images via ABC News.

I don't know why Lorenzo      didn't come to school today. 

Just as he didn't       present his project yesterday.

So much unknown      so easy to lose track of days. 

So, I hold to what I know.       I remain resolute. 

I know when gesture      is really Nazi salute.

I know the smell      of new school fascista.

I know it's winter      and there's ICE on the streets. 

and 

I know Lorenzo      didn't come to school today. 

Authors note: I am a teacher with many immigrant students. After Trump’s inauguration, ICE vehicles and agents began appearing on our city streets. Many of my Hispanic students had to stay home from school at this time. They were often the only members of their family who could speak English in case of a knock at the door. While the students have now returned, the fear remains.

Shawn Reagan is a poet, teacher, and husband from Minnesota. A sleeping giant of the poetic world, his work is currently focused on life with bipolar 2 and depression. He was shortlisted for the 2024 Tadpole Press Poetry Prize.

SWAMP THING

by Mark Hendrickson

Kermit the Frog grew up in a swamp  
before he moved to Manhattan  
where all the rats still skate on butter. 
He tried to warn us that rainbows are only illusions,  
back before his voice changed,  
back when swamps seemed quirky and cute. 
 
Speaking of swamps, a story came out today  
about the 2010 discovery by Felisa Wolfe-Simon  
of a low form of life that lives in the muck  
and somehow thrives on toxic arsenic; 
she has now discovered other seemingly mindless creatures  
that appear to thrive on sheer magnetism alone. 
 
I live in the blue center dot  
of a tidal pool made of salt and Windex  
surrounded by organisms that live  
on all that is poisonous, microbes that live  
by breaking down all structure,  
that thrive on decomposition.  
 
People cheer as every potentate since Saint Reagan  
swears to finally drain the swamp; yet instead  
we see it is the swamp that drains us. 
We are mangroves surrounding ourselves with mangroves,  
all standing up to our knees in it, 
mired in marsh and methane. 
 
We all know swamps smell like corrupted flesh,  
yet our nostrils are so saturated we can’t tell anymore. 
Complacency is a swamp we think is stagnant 
even as it spreads to engulf us, and Canada, and Greenland. 
We have become swamp things: reluctant heroes twisted by the world, 
trying to save what we can; a show too implausible to endure for long. 

Mark Hendrickson (he/him/his) is a gay poet and writer in the Des Moines area. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Variant Lit, Vestal Review, The New Verse News, Spellbinder, and others. Mark worked for many years as a Mental Health Technician in a locked psychiatric unit. He has advanced degrees in marriage & family therapy, health information management, and music. Follow him @MarkHPoetry.

THE LAYING ON OF HANDS

by Kathie Giorgio

Trigger Warning: The following poem narrates scenes of the sexual abuse of a child by an adult.

I was always told that

God is Love.

From the church I no longer attend

From the catechism I’ve forgotten

From Buddhists, reiki masters, Wiccans,

psychics, evangelists, all whose words

have blended together into a quagmire.

But… God is Love, I was told.

My ninth grade science teacher wore a

pin on the lapel of his suit jacket.

Every day. In a public school.

It said, “PTL Anyway!”

I asked him what it meant, in a quiet moment

during study hall.

He said, “Praise The Lord Anyway!” and laughed.

Then he asked me if I was saved.

I was anything but.

He told me to follow him and we weaved through

the classroom of students and desks. Right in

front of them. They turned and watched us go.

He held my hand.

He took me to the storeroom at the back. We went

inside. He shut the door. Locked it. Turned off

the Light.

Then he folded my hands between his and he prayed.

For me. He prayed hard. His hands grew warm around mine.

I thought I felt the Holy Spirit.

And then

Well, and then

he put my hands on himself.

and then his hands on me.

He lifted me onto a table and laid me back.

As he pressed into me, he said,

“Always remember I love you. Always remember.”

God is Love. PTL Anyway!

And I so wanted Love, I didn’t fight back.

I was fourteen years old.

I have always remembered his declaration.

And I’ve always wondered about Right and Wrong.

And now

Well, and now

I think of all the stories I was told. All the stories I read

as I devoured the bible front to back, side to side, old and new.

Looking for God. Looking for Love.

The Good Samaritan, who helped the beaten man on the side of

the road, passed over by others.

The rich man who boasted of his wealth, giving to the church,

but only from his surplus

while a poor woman gave all she had.

Two pennies.

Let the little children come unto me.

Jesus wept.

And I shudder as I think of those who call themselves Christians

electing a man they say is of God, who would push the Samaritan

out of his way

and kick the beaten man over the border.

The man of God, who held up an upside-down bible with one hand

while grabbing women “by the pussy,” he said, with the other.

The man of God, who would save bits of tissue

tissue with no heart, no brain, no body,

no thoughts, no wants, no cares

and ignore the cries of children who are hungry.

Who are cold.

Who have no homes.

Who are looking for Love.

Who become pregnant by a man who wears a pin.

PTL Anyway!

And I hear again now, God is Love.

I think back to that ninth grade science teacher

who made me feel like I might be Loved

Whose PTL Anyway button pressed into my bare breast

as he pressed into me.

And I gasped with the hope of it.

I cried with the pain of it.

And then spent years, wondering about Right and Wrong.

PTL Anyway

But I feel the last nail driven in,

not the Holy Spirit.

I see who they call a man of God

and what they believe God’s Love would do.

There are no hands to deliver my spirit into.

I believe in Nietzsche.

God is Dead.

Kathie Giorgio is the author of eight novels, two story collections, an essay collection, and four poetry collections. A new poetry collection Let Me Tell You; Let Me Sing will be released in 2026. She’s been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in fiction and poetry and awarded the Outstanding Achievement Award from the Wisconsin Library Association, the Silver Pen Award for Literary Excellence, the Pencraft Award for Literary Excellence, and the Eric Hoffer Award In Fiction. She is the director/founder of AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop LLC.

PRESIDENTS' DAY 2025

a villanelle

by Susan J. Wurtzburg

 

I sit, eyes wide-open, blank gaze,
Slow-panting dog at my back,
Ssh, ssh, soft breeze brushes hair.

 

Newsprint on the breakfast table,

Flaming pain bleeds white-and-black,

I sit, eyes wide-open, blank gaze.

WWII 𝔉𝔯𝔞𝔨𝔱𝔲𝔯 revival, a font label,                           

Brutal as “heil,” a trigger pull’s whack,

Ssh, ssh, soft breeze brushes hair.

 

Dog paw pastiches toes, under table,

Brings heart into mind’s teared track,

I sit, eyes wide-open, blank gaze.

Incomers, like me, toes under tables,

No papers safeguarding their backs,

Ssh, ssh, soft breeze brushes hair.

 

Blitzkrieg anew, focus: all of our vulnerable,

Let strong voices rise, we need to roar back,

I sit, eyes wide-open, blank gaze,

Ssh, ssh, soft breeze brushes hair.

Susan J. Wurtzburg has won or placed in several poetry competitions. She is a Commissioned Artist in Sidewalk Poetry: Senses of Salt Lake City, 2024, and an Associate Poetry Editor at Poets Reading the News. Her book, Ravenous Words, with Lisa Lucas will appear in spring, 2025.

LUNCHTIME FOR BILLIONAIRES

by Karen Warinsky

AI-generated graphic created by Nightcafé for The New Verse News.

President Trump is rolling back anticorruption efforts and ethical standards for himself and allies like Elon Musk. —The New York Times, February 12, 2025

 
The millennial check-out clerk
holds my 50 toward the florescent light,
squints hard to find a fake
which is harder by the day 
with so much fakery about,
and I wonder
who will exchange those phony notes
along with those played for the crowd 
at rallies and events?
 
Who will teach the young
the dimensions of truth;
how large, how important it really is,
how to hold assertions to the light,
see if they are real?
 
Hot with anger I ponder
what will be left after
the stuffing’s been kicked
the juice squeezed 
as billionaires slice us thin
try to make grinders
of us all,
garnished with dollar bills.
 
Will they realize in time
that people are worth more 
than money,
and will we do whatever it takes
to keep from being
eaten alive?

AI-generated graphic created by Nightcafé for The New Verse News.

Karen Warinsky is a former finalist of the Montreal International Poetry Contest and a 2023 Best of the Net Nominee. She is widely published in anthologies, journals and E-zines. Her books are Gold in Autumn (2020), Sunrise Ruby, (2022) (both from Human Error Publishing), and Dining with War (2023, Alien Buddha Press). Warinsky coordinates poetry readings under the name Poets at Large in CT and MA.

TRUTH, JUSTICE, AND BRAIN ROT

by Bonnie Proudfoot

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

Don’t tell me you spent all your allowance 

on comic books, or you used to stay up until 

daybreak, your knees shaping a tent under 

the covers, a weak flashlight, Superman, 

Supergirl, Batman, Spidey and the mutants, 

the whole gang rotting your brain, your eyes too. 

Did you stash your valor between the mattress 

and box spring, your rotting brain leaping tall buildings 

at a single bound, ready to keep evil at bay, fighting 

for, oh, truth, justice, and the American way.

 

Did you heft yourself out of bed on time 

for first period, or did your rotten brain let you 

snooze, then snooze some more? Did it make you 

listen to rock ‘n roll, sing "Sympathy for the Devil" 

as you walked to school? Did it know what 

"Satisfaction" really meant? And so what if 

your brain did rot? Blotchy, dark, and spongy, 

a not-so-fresh potato, or cottage cheese 

in the back of the fridge with curds of green mold 

lacing through? Would it rot all at once? Or 

one day no rot, one day riddled, one day a lot? 

 

So here you are, it’s minutes before midnight, 

kryptonite closing in, fascists tunnelling 

into Fort Knox, your knees a tent under 

the saggy covers, nothing left to lose. You’re 

scrolling through headlines at a single bound, 

seeking truth and seeking justice, index finger 

on your phone tapping with the dexterity 

of the Incredible Hulk threading a needle, 

the fate of the free world to defend,

secretly shouting Shazam, pushing send.

Bonnie Proudfoot's fiction, poetry, reviews, and essays have appeared in journals and anthologies. Her writing has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart. Her novel Goshen Road (OU Swallow Press) was the WCONA Book of the Year and long-listed for the PEN/ Hemingway. Household Gods a poetry chapbook, was published in 2022 (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions). A full-length poetry collection, Incomer, is forthcoming on Shadelandhouse Modern Press. Bonnie resides in Athens, Ohio.

MY HOUSE, YOUR HOUSE, AND THE PEOPLE’S HOUSE

by William Palmer

AI-generated graphic created by Nightcafé for The New Verse News.

Evil can be “defined most simply as the use of political power to destroy others for the purpose of defending or preserving the integrity of one’s sick self.”

M. Scott Peck, The People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Human Evil  

 

 

At home I hear a muffled buzz

then press my ear to a wall—

it feels soft

enough to push

my finger through. 

 

I cut out a square

and find a mass

of larvae squirming

in the light, eating

the backing—

 

a replica of the Constitution.

 

I hire an exterminator.

 

Sorry, but you have an infestation.

See the sawdust—they’re gnawing 2-by-4s.

 

They’re even going after steel beams.

Look at the tiny shavings.

 

There is no guarantee we can eradicate

what’s happening.

 

Please do what you can, I say.

 

Each day I listen for the lies.

William Palmer’s poetry has appeared in Ecotone, JAMA, On the Seawall, One Art, The New Verse News, and elsewhere. A retired professor of English at Alma College, he lives in Traverse City, Michigan.

DIVERSITY, EQUITY, AND INCLUSION AND HOPE

by Cathy Lee

Today, in a quiet English classroom

In Southeast Ohio,

An English teacher 

And special needs teacher 

Discussed how to incorporate 

The work of students in the special needs classroom

In this year’s school-wide literary anthology

Of poems, stories, and art.

This year’s theme 

is hope. 

Some of these high school students will 

Be able to circle images of pictures

That give them hope.

Some of these students 

Have the ability to write a few sentences

And draw a picture about

what gives them hope.

Most of these students 

Rarely get included 

in school-wide projects,

Often remain hidden

And anonymous

Like Boo Radley.

But we 

are working 

To change that. 

While pompous politicians 

Flaunt their abilities to dismantle 

Programs for DEI, 

We move forward,

Inviting the voices

Of our fellow humans  

Who can name hope

By circling an image of a bird,

Or drawing their dog,

Or writing about a yummy piece of apple pie. 

Mmm, mmm. So good.

Cathy Lee is a wife, mother of almost adulting daughters, one in college and one in high school, and a high school English teacher in Southeast Ohio. She enjoys running, baking, and reading. 

FRIDA KAHLO AS A KEYCHAIN

by Terri Kirby Erickson

My Frida Kahlo keychain, a gift from a longtime
friend in Lubbock, is made of felt, hand-embroidered 
with the brightest threads. Her pink floral headdress 
 
is rainbow-shaped, her eyebrows like a minimalist 
painting of a bird in flight—one solid line, double-
arched, meeting in the center of her forehead. With
 
eyes forever closed, this keychain Frida is always 
smiling. She never had polio or walked with a limp. 
Her spine and pelvis were never broken, her uterus 
 
never pierced by an iron bar. In fact, she has no body, 
only a lime-green tassel where her neck should be. 
To her, Diego is just a name, not a faithless husband, 
 
no one to whom her tortured letters were addressed. 
Hanging from a set of keys, she cannot know the fate 
of brown-skinned immigrants gathered like herds 
 
of cattle, handcuffed and transported, the families who 
may not find each other again, the crying babies, their 
stolen mothers. Keychain Frida has no arms to paint 
 
their pain in vibrant colors—a small portrait of herself 
in the corner of the canvas, boldly staring, her blood-
red heart dangling between her breasts like a pendant.

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven full-length collections of award-winning poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” Latin American Literary Review, ONE ART, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Rattle, The SUN, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and many other literary journals, magazines, newspapers, and anthologies. Among her numerous awards are the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, International Book Award for Poetry, and the Annals of Internal Medicine Poetry Prize. She lives in North Carolina, USA.