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Sunday, September 06, 2026

DESPITE THE WRECKING BALL (ROOM)

by Indran Amirthanayagam


Cartoon by Dave Whamond


I celebrate you, reader, and me

despite the chaos, despite 

the willful neglect

of the public purse, 


despite the murder

without trial,

the rounding up 

like cattle, 


the callous disregard

for public health,

the spreading

of snake oil beliefs,


United States

in loathing, lurching

towards ruin

but somehow


surviving 

still despite 

jabbering

and chipping


away at 

all due process

by this monster

who came in 


elected

to the erstwhile

People’s 

House


to make

room

for a

wrecking ball.



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.

WHAT WILL IT TAKE

by Mary Saracino




What will it take to end
this multi-millennial madness,
this lust for war and power,
this emphasis on fear,
scarcity, competition?

What will it take to wake up,
to say no to all that seeks to harm,
to say yes to all that seeks to heal, to unite
to see that we are kin to all—humans and non-humans,
to celebrate diversity and dance in the arms
of cooperation and love,
a symbiotic tango imbued with gratitude
where flourishing is mutual?

What will it take to uncloud our eyes,
unjail our hearts,
unchain our minds,
free ourselves from the edicts,
the dogmas, the ideologies that spew
hatred, cruelty, lies, and every other
evil known to humankind?
We need circles, not ladders,
communities, not hierarchies.

We are not commodities
to be bought and sold,
and neither is the Earth
with all Her bountiful gifts.

The trees are trembling,
the lands are on fire,
the winds are roaring,
the birds are begging us
to heed the cries of Mother Nature
who gifts us with abundance,
water, rain, wind, food, sunshine, shelter,
asking only for reciprocity, giving
back what we take, honoring Her
by sharing her bounty, not hording it.

We are destroying our only home.
We are polluting our souls.
We are committing ecocide,
decimating everything
that is sacred and true
and vital to our future.

What will it take for us
to reclaim our birthright,
the gifts bestowed upon us by Nature
in all Her many forms?

What will it take for us to walk,
hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm,
shoulder-to-shoulder
to change the world,
dismantle what has been so wrong
for far, far too long?

We need leaders who will lead us
to prosperity and peace,
who will proclaim our joint responsibility
to care for one another and the planet,
who know that might is not right,
that war is not the answer,
that kindness, compassion, empathy
are the seeds we need to sow
to create a better way to live,
build a symbiotic future
where we can all survive and thrive.

What will it take for us
to raise our howling voices,
in unison and proclaim:
“We’ve had enough! You do not own us, or the planet.
We must seize the reins and reinstate sharing and caring,
establish a new way, a better way, before it’s too late!”


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.

Saturday, September 05, 2026

THANK GAWD MARIA

an abcedarian
by Susan Vespoli


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


answered her phone
because I had texted
Can you come help me
do my yard?
every day 
for a week. She and her husband and son are
godsends to me. Saints
hauling clippers and blowers and rakes
in the back of their old red truck,
January to December, this 
kind crew shows up, whistling as they
lop off tree branches,
machete oleanders,
neaten bougainvillea, trim vines
overhanging block walls and dangling car-
port. Prompt responders to my 
queries for ten-plus years – and so, no
response rallied my anxiety,
spurred my dread, amped my
trepidation amidst in-
undation of news reports of
vile ICE squads
whisking away humans. Oh, let them be okay, I
eXclaim to myself over and over—and then they are.
Yes, Maria laughs. Text broke, only voice works on her
zonked phone. This morning they arrive, wave Hola!
Zip their magic.


Susan Vespoli believes in the power of writing to stay sane.

FOR GLORIA STEINEM

by Bonnie Proudfoot


Image by James Housand via Shutterstock


Goddam the boss’ hands,

the father’s tantrums, 

the mother’s tears, goddam

the glass ceiling, the broken

feeling, the casting couch 

and teacher’s pet, the face

slap, the butt pat, Phyllis Schlaffly

and June Cleaver, goddam

the eyes that stared at my

chest when I gave it my best,

the shoulder shrug, the what’s

it to you, the quid pro quo, the

that’s how it go, the go along

to get along, the pecking order,

the firing line, the patronizing,

the patriarchy, the aspirations,

the late ratifications, just

pass the damn Equal Rights

Amendment, and then

for the love of Gloria, Betty,

Bella, Shirley, and Dolly,

enforce the damn thing.

 


Bonnie Proudfoot used to read MS magazine as soon as it came out every month for free in the bookstore in the student union at the University of Buffalo. She pretended she was browsing. It was life-changing.

Friday, September 04, 2026

TRADE

by Zumwalt


President Trump on Monday lashed out at communities that are protesting data centers, suggesting that residents who do not go along with the artificial intelligence revolution must prefer to be “backwards and poor.” —The New York Times, August 31, 2026


It’s a fair trade.
Water for compute.

Convert all the reservoirs.
Pump the aquifers to cool the language models.
Water for compute.

It’s a fair trade.
Energy for the processing.

Switch the substations to priority routing.
Make the desert a giant server farm.
Energy for the processing.

Prices are right for data and power.
Step up production:
More servers, more carbon in the air;
More processing, less rivers, more exhaust in our lungs.

Rising global temperatures are ripe to drive up prices.
Droughts increase water’s premium.
Aquifers get depleted.
Power becomes even scarcer.
Cooling costs rise.

Little Johnny wants to make money.
How can he not help to do so?
Invest in AI and pollute at the same time.
Easy money.
Pollute on a small scale:
Pocket change.
Pollute on a large scale:
Wealth beyond dreams.

Rising Temperatures,
Erratic Weather,
Algorithmic Growth,
Scarce Water Resources,
Civil Unrest
All put stress on
Grid supplies.

Now Johnny has to work harder.
He burns the midnight coal.
And makes more money.

Data centers, crypto mines and gigawatts
Make deserts out of wetlands.
Cooling fans, diesel backups and transformers
Make hazardous waste the specialty in trade.

But it’s a fair trade.
Quality of Life for Velocity of Life.

It’s a reasonable trade.
More processing for less plants and animals.

We will switch the future for the present.
Make our dreams a giant dustbowl.
Swap future prospects for a generated prompt.

Principles are right for the harvesting.
Let’s step up consumption:
More compute, more poison, hotter temperatures;
More processing, less rivers, less need for people.

It’s a good, honest trade.
I can write away the guilt.
Post my outrage to a monetized feed
And feel just a little better
As everyone increasingly feels worse.


Zumwalt’s poetry examines the intersection of identity, instability, and the mechanics of perception. Zumwalt is a proud repeat contributor to The New Verse News.

Thursday, September 03, 2026

THE (B)OLD COIN, ALWAYS GOLDEN

by Jennifer Schneider

And so today, Americans will be able to honor 250 years of great American heritage by buying a questionably legal one-dollar coin for roughly $2.44. If you’d like to know who came up with such a brilliant plan, just look at the coin. —The Guardian, September 2, 2026

The first time I held a golden coin in my palm,
I was digging for treasures in a dusty attic.

My grandmother had recently passed
and her house was on 1-800-GOT-JUNK’s 
weekend route.

In the corner stood an ornate chest,
a trunk, short and wide: my family’s dimensions.

The trunk held nylons, faux pearls, and worn denim.
Grandmother had few secrets, but I found one of them. 

In the pocket of a pair of old Levi’s, there was a coin
with a name, date, and origin worn past recognition.

I’ve kept it, thinking it might be worth something.
After the truck took what no one claimed, I did more digging.

Beneath a microscope, the coin’s name, date, and origin
remained a mystery. I learned that American currency 
generally reserves its profiles for the dead. No golden goose 
has yet survived the press. Washington reportedly refused 
his own face on money: too much like a monarchy. 
Spencer Clark did not share his reluctance.

The story goes that in 1866 he placed
his living face where another Clark’s
was meant to go. Congress responded 
by prohibiting the portrait or likeness 
of any living person. Too bad ambiguity
outlived Clark’s defiant personality.

As Grandmother would say, nonsense 
and mischief belong in dirty handkerchiefs, 
not the Treasury or a treasure chest.

I revisit the coin and admire how little it asks to be known.

My grandmother used to talk of an embarrassment of riches.
We were never rich; I understood only the embarrassment.
Years later, holding her coin beneath a lamp, 
I finally understood the other half.

On my screen, a new golden dollar entered circulation.
This new coin has no trouble telling us who it is.

A golden goose in a suit. An eagle on the reverse. 
The birds never meet. LIBERTY curves above one.
The other carries E PLURIBUS UNUM in its mouth.

The Mint calls the coin golden.
Let the record show there is no gold.

My grandmother’s coin has kept its metals to itself.
The Mint lists his composition: copper, zinc, manganese, nickel.

Mine will not say where it came from. 
His came from Philadelphia without a mark to prove it.

One has forgotten.
One has been constructed.

Mine lay alone in a pocket.
His comes with nine million duplicates.

Mine cost an afternoon
and a truck of stuff no one wished to circulate.

His costs two dollars and forty-four cents
for every single dollar purchased.

When a retired attorney asked the court to stop the new coin, 
the court asked what harm he would suffer personally.
Nine million faces were not personal enough.

Some nights the old coin resembles my grandmother.
Legally, this would be permissible.

Tonight, beneath the lamp, my grandmother disappears.
For a moment, the face is mine. I turn it over.


Jennifer Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of RecollectionsInvisible InkOn Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.