IN THE PRESENCE OF PEACE

by Ron Shapiro

 

Photo by Ron Shapiro

On the Metro towards DC, I feel

a sense of excitement and anticipation,

a call for peace, an invitation to reflect,

to be mindful, to remember who we are.

 

Arriving at the Lincoln Memorial over

looking the Reflecting Pool, I notice

the always steadfast Washington Monument

while the Capitol seems smaller today.

 

From my history of anti-war protests

towards the government and its reckless

policies, I wanted to experience the antithesis

of such mass gatherings voiced with rage.

 

To witness people pausing their busy lives,

leaving behind their troubles and woes,

to assemble with the intention of offering

gratitude for these two dozen Tibetan monks

 

with a message of love, peace and kindness,

crossing borders of red and white states,

honoring this country’s dream of diversity,

equality and hope. Nothing magical about

 

their intention and effect on others. Just

like-minded people inhaling and exhaling

together in their presence, listening to words

of sacred communion uplifting the darkness

 

from this country and the world. Without

any mention of politics today, only signs of

peace, acceptance and kindness sauteed

with a joyful spirit reflected in smiles.

 

And rather than most everyone holding 

a phone, flowers grace their hands. 

though a large crowd, elbow-to-elbow,

thousands and thousands if I had to guess.

 

A stillness in the cool afternoon winter air

as the first monk appeared, walking barefoot,

smiling, his positive energy pulsating into

my chest. Was that a tear on my cheek?

 

Hands clasped, my fingers touching, offering

homage to their long journey of 2300 miles

over 15 weeks, rekindling a feeling of peace,

inviting the light of a new day into this land.

Ron Shapiro, an award-winning teacher, has published over 20 poems in publications including Nova Bards 24 & 25, Virginia Writers Project, The New Verse News, Poetry X Hunger, Minute Musings, Backchannels, Gezer Kibbutz Gallery, All Your Poems, Paper Cranes Literary Magazine, Zest of the Lemon and two chapbooks: Sacred Spaces, Wonderings and Understory, a collection of nature poetry.

BRANKS

by Julie Steiner

Images of Epstein victims as depicted in Feb. 8, 2026, Super Bowl ad. Image of branks from an oil painting by John Willie, pseudonym for John Alexander Scott Coutts, for Bizarre, a sadomasochism magazine published 1946–1959. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Brank/branks: A device formerly used to punish women judged to be noisy and quarrelsome, consisting of an iron curb for the tongue, held in place by a frame around the head. Also called a scold’s bridle.


You have to tell the truth, but tell it slant.
To lay it bare’s unbearable. You’ve tried.
You’d like to leave it buried, but you can’t.

Too few have cared to hear a woman rant
since Homer (“Sing, O Muse, of anger”) died.
You have to tell the truth; but tell it slant,

since, frankly, even Keats would have to grant
this truth’s no beauty. This, you’ve had to hide.
You’d like to leave it buried. But you can’t,

so Dickinson’s advice is relevant.
She’ll be your Virgil, your inferno-guide.
You have to “Tell [...] the truth, but tell it slant— ”

“Tell all the truth.” But don’t get adamant,
“Or every man be blind—,” she qualified.
You’d like to leave it bare. (Read: But you can’t.)

Loud girls get label-gagged: once, Termagant,

Virago, Shrew; now, Bitch. Take that in stride.

(You have, to tell the truth.) But tell it—slant

or no—you must. Omit the bitter. Scant
the pathos. Cut the caustic. Snip the snide.
(You’d like to leave it, buried.) But you can’t

accuse the rich of rape, or lawyers chant,

“No, he’s the victim! She’s a slut who lied.”

You have to tell the truth, but tell it slant.
You’d like to leave it buried. But you can’t.

Julie Steiner is a pseudonym in San Diego, California. Besides The New Verse News, recent venues in which Julie's poetry has appeared include the Ekphrastic Review, Light, Lighten Up Online, and Snakeskin. See more on her Substack, Off-Piste on Mount Parnassus.

A BLOT UPON THEE

by Zumwalt

 

 

 

 

"One prominent House Democrat, Rep. Jamie Raskin of Maryland, said Monday afternoon that he had reviewed the unredacted documents [of the Epstein files] and saw  'tons of completely unnecessary redactions... I saw the names of lots of people who were redacted for mysterious or baffling or inscrutable reasons,' Raskin said." —CNN, February 10, 2026

 

 

What Blindness now doth mark this stream of text,
Where Blame falls dark, and we are left perplexed.
The blurred distinction between right and wrong—
The weak are blistered by the brazen strong.
The blundered records, bleached of wealthy name
Won't bear the Guilt, now blotted free from shame,
While those who bled a trail of broken trust
Are bluntly bared, the others cloaked with dust.
What blatant gall to hide the rich man's Sin,
To shield in blacked-out lines the wolves within,
Now battered, those who bear no Stain at all—
What Blight is bred in this corrupted hall?
There is no Justice, just the shattered teen,
Her blank Betrayal b-l-i-n-k-i-n-g on our screen. 

 

 

Zumwalt's poetry feeds on alienation, shifting reality, and forced adaptation. Zumwalt is a proud repeat contributor to The New Verse News, and was recently nominated for Ink Sweat & Tears "Pick of the Month." 

FOR THE WATCHERS

by Greg Watson

 

 

Driving my daughter to school this morning, circling the block past the long line of buses, we notice again the parents and neighbors who now stand watch on each corner, braving the sub-zero St. Paul air like half-frozen shepherds, red hearts stitched to their bright yellow vests. Some wave, some sway from side to side in puffy down jackets and snowsuits, silver whistles dangling, as if this were a dance with music only they could hear. "I'm glad they're here," my daughter says. "But I wish they didn't have to be." I nod in agreement. I miss the fourth grade crossing guards, their orange plastic flags waving up and down in sync, laughing with each other, looking each way twice. Though they have not disappeared as the others have—Amalia, Valentina, Angeles, Santiago, Liam, Diego—stolen and flown by secrecy of night to a windowless room thirteen hundred miles away. Stolen by those who call themselves the law. Last night my daughter stayed up past bedtime reading a book about the Montana grizzly attacks of 1967. I asked if was too scary, too intense, and whether it might give her nightmares. "No," she said evenly, "wild animals don't scare me, or natural disasters. Only people sometimes. Only people."

Greg Watson's work has been featured in numerous literary journals and anthologies, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He is the author of eleven collections of poetry, most recently Stars Unseen (Holy Cow! Press). He is also co-editor of The Road by Heart: Poems of Fatherhood (Nodin Press). His forthcoming collection, The Shape of Your Absence, will be published by One Subject Press in April. 

A WHISTLE AND A HONK FOR OUR CITIES UNDER SIEGE

by Raymond Nat Turner

 

 

 

 

Exploding eyeballs of children in chokeholds. Shivering 

seniors drug out into teen temperatures in their underwear;

bloody faces of body-slammed elders, face prints in snow.

Packs of 250lb. fantasy football bettors/NFL-wannabes pile on.

Invasion of the body snatchers! Deputized traitors / MAGAt 

magicians disappearing loved ones. Boss Tweet’s bounty hunters—

$50,000 bonuses — body-slamming, beating down, choking and

Redacting 1st , 4th,  14th and other amendments—on our dime!

Home doors busted open like piñatas by battering ram-wielding

thugs. Shards of car window glass shower city streets with freezing

chaos and terror. 

Another US city’s under siege. Will the reign of ICE stall in snow?

Burrito shop hungry hardhats flooded for lunch; 

for strategy sessions; for 30 minute escapes into

sports sections folded up in sturdy denim back 

pockets: EMPTY.

Coffee shop where co-workers; old and new

neighbors and welcome visitors gathered to chat

over cappuccino, chai, mocha, Americano; or sat

journaling or answering messages: EMPTY.

Corner church swollen with Sunday harmonies 

with communion; with fellowship: EMPTY.

Neighborhood school’s steady stream of shrieking drop-offs 

and pickups ground to sudden halt.

Clinic’s steady stream of cold and flu sufferers: are missing

in action. Community life is strangled under brownshirt siege.

Recalling “No Kings” rally ‘eons ago.’ Signs reading: NO WAR BUT 

CLASS WAR! Recalling contagious rage against grifting Judas. And

feeling hopeful as hell. Remembering solidarity’s our silver lining

in swastika infused clouds … almost filling battleship gray skies...

 

 

Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; Black Agenda Report's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC.

DANCING WITH MR. BUNNY

by Alan Walowitz

 

 

Alan Walowitz is a Contributing Editor at Verse-Virtual, an Online Community Journal of Poetry.  His chapbook  Exactly Like Love  comes from Osedax Press.   The Story of the Milkman and Other Poems  is available from Truth Serum Press.  From Arroyo Seco Press,  In the Muddle of the Night, written with poet Betsy Mars.  The chapbook The Poems of the Air is from Red Wolf Editions and is free for downloading. 

WHISTLE CHOIR

by Jennifer Clark

 Bde Maka Ska, January 31, 2026

Whistles once nesting in our throats like drowsy wrens

now fly out of their warm homes and hatch bright noises,

cracking the white glaze of ice creeping over this cold, hard land.

A whistle is a toy, is a shield, is a song of resistance 

rising above this raucous world bursting with whiny snowblowers,

chirping dishwashers, the damp sound of fear.

Whistles sway from necks and perch on the edge of lips

forming o no you don’ts. Galloping through towns,

whistlers on their midnight rides emit the same sharp staccato cry: 

Danger is coming. We love you, neighbors. Run. Do not come outside.

Some will cover their genteel ears and complain of the shrilling.

Do not grow disheartened.

Remember: you don’t need everybody.

When you grow weary, march onto the frozen skin

of Bde Maka Ska where deep below largemouth bass,

walleyes, and muskies await April’s orders.

As wind howls, stand shoulder to shoulder with your neighbors and form

an SOS sounding the alarm. As any good referee will tell you,

until the game is over, don’t set down your whistles.

Jennifer Clark’s fourth poetry collection, Intercede: Saints for Concerning Occasions, was recently released by Unsolicited Press. Clark is also the author of three more books, including a memoir, Kissing the World Goodbye, which blends family stories with recipes and was named a top-selling book of 2022 by Unsolicited Press. You can find her at writingwithoutanet.substack.com where she writes about writing, poetry, books, and gives out free magnets to her cartoon contest winners.

3 VERY GOOD YOUNG POOR

by Mickey J. Corrigan

Justice Department under scrutiny for revealing victim info and concealing possible enablers in Epstein files...

     In a 2018 email to Epstein, another redacted individual wrote: “I found at least 3 very good young poor.” 

     “Meet this one,” the person continued. “Not the beauty queen but we both likes her a lot.” 

     —CNN, February 5, 2026

The redacted
they culled
they hawked
they bartered
girls not women
sucked in a nightmare
too young to grasp
escape, recover
now women not girls
faces splashed online
names and nudes
abusers hidden
blacked out shame
very good young poor
splashed in full
nothing on, nothing
protecting them 
from bad old rich
powerful driven
to use, abuse, lie 
in other countries
powerful men
lose positions 
power, face
while in the US
very good girls
young poor
sucked in
spit out
while the machine 
of money, power, abuse
drives on, on
the system as is
only winners winning

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan hides out in the lush ruins of South Florida. Salt Publishing in the UK released Project XX, a satirical novel about a school shooting. Bloodhound Books UK published What I Did For Love, a spoof of the classic Lolita. Poetry has been published in literary journals, chapbooks, and collections.

MOTHER’S MILK

by Jan Chronister

file photo of mother labeling frozen breast milk

When one mother was taken by ICE, another stepped in to donate breastmilk  —The 19th, February 2, 2026

Nursing moms in Minneapolis

pump, save their extra breast milk,

share it with those who have babies

left in their care, their mothers

disappeared by ICE.

The milk is frozen,

delivered when needed in coolers.

Right now there is no danger

it will thaw out on the way.

What kind of people

abduct a nursing mother?

Leaves behind an infant,

sometimes alone?

What happened to dry up

the milk of human kindness

in their hearts?

Moms in Minneapolis hope

when the weather warms up,

and the ice melts, 

they no longer need to worry.

Jan Chronister is a retired educator who splits her year between the extremes of northern Wisconsin (by Lake Superior) and southern Georgia. She has authored three full-length poetry collections and twelve chapbooks. Jan edits and publishes the work of fellow poets under the imprint of Poetry Harbor.

MISSING

by Patricia M. Phillips-Batoma

For the Guthrie family

In the Sonoran desert 
a mother is missing 
and the world wonders 
who could do this. 
Her children on TV 
try to break through. 
The star sibling, 
with the made-for-TV smile, 
brighter than any screen, 
vast as a continent, 
breaks down. She sniffles. 
Her mouth twists 
in her small mortal face 
where crisscrossed lines 
read like a map 
of all Earth’s sorrows. 
So many know this disaster. 
They sit on the same couch 
as these three siblings, 
with family near 
and ordinary days out of reach. 
We are not built to endure 
the snatching away of goodness and light, 
of normal human people. 


Author's note: The lines in italics echo the first video put out by Savannah Guthrie and her two siblings.

Patricia Phillips-Batoma is a writer and teacher who lives in Illinois. She has published poems in Skylight 47, An Capall Dorcha, The New Verse News, Off Course, Plants and Poetry and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis.