SHOP STILL OPEN?

by Alex Stolis

Can’t imagine what she felt. 

When I was five I got lost

in a train station. My whole body

shook from the inside. 

I wet myself. 

Wasn’t ashamed. 

I’m sure she had it worse. 

Can’t imagine what she smelled. 

I worked at a nursing home 

inhaling shit, piss, vomit—

tasting the stink of death. 

Held my breath

Used Vicks. 

I’m sure she can’t forget. 

Can’t imagine what she saw. 

During withdrawal

I’d wake up sober. Felt certain 

I was still drunk. 

I had visions. 

Believed them. 

Hers are worse. 

Can’t imagine what she heard. 

My parents fought with fists.

Called us mistakes. 

What we never heard

Shop still open?

Yeah

Alex Stolis has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full length collections, Pop. 1280 and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Ekphrastic Review, Louisiana Literature Review, Burningwood Literary Journal, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife was released by Louisiana Literature Press, RIP Winston Smith from Alien Buddha Press, and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres in by Bottlecap Press. He lives in upstate New York with his partner, poet Catherine Arra.

STATE OF THE UNION

by Tin Fogdall

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

Sun draws

around window blinds

eight gold lines:

 

twin parallelograms, 

a pair of coffins, 

two bucks. 

 

Once again, my man’s 

freckled skin,

robes on two hooks,

 

the ceiling still

whole, unpierced

 

by ammunition

—one more time the magazines

emptied elsewhere.

 

Let’s be honest:

I pulled on two socks, 

two clever shoes so I could walk

 

on burning ground

without having to feel

the flames.

 

One more time, a body grows

cold under plastic.

It wasn’t me.

 

I strolled down the street, 

brick by brick 

in honeycombed 

 

tessellations—

it went on

forever. Around my neck,

 

the smallest tiles.

See how the bones

sparkle.

Author’s note: CNN updated their school shooting statistics 17 hours ago (as of this writing), presumably to include Bend, OR. The number? 52.

Tin Fogdall was born in Seattle, adopted by New England, and is living in Vermont. Her work has appeared in The Threepenny Review, Poetry, The Missouri Review, The New Republic, and many other journals. She is a finalist for the National Poetry Series, a finalist in the Jeffrey E. Smith Editors’ Prize at The Missouri Review, a former New Hampshire Poetry Fellow, and has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. She earned her M.A. in creative writing from Boston University. Follow her on Instagram @kmfogdall.

WEBSTER GREEN

by Jan Chronister

Was just announced as the 2027 

Benjamin Moore Color of the Year,

one of its Historical Color Collection,

described as a “warm and welcoming” hue

along with Shakespeare Tan,

Nelson Blue, Townsend Harbor Brown.

At $61 a gallon

I won’t be buying any soon,

just spent more than that

to fill my tank.

To really be historical

they should have named it

Reflecting Pool Scum.

Editor’s note: The graphic is from benjaminmoore.com although we have replaced its framed painting with a photograph in keeping with the idea of Jan’s poem.

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.

CARRY ON

by Chris Bullard

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

President Donald Trump’s administration announced Thursday it was suspending Microsoft and several other firms from a program allowing foreign workers to apply for green cards, as it also lashed out at universities that bring international students to the U.S. on exchange programs. —AP, October 9, 2026

At the terminal the limit was one idea per person.

Some tried to sneak on with extras.

They were turned away or deported.

The captain half-apologized saying,

“We have to cut back and save weight with a storm coming up.”

The wine steward passed by as I stowed

my idea in the overhead compartment.

He whistled, “That’s a beaut.”

“Thank you,” I said, “I’ve had it since high school.”

 

After we deplaned, we passed through Customs

My idea was given a visa. Other ideas were denied entry.

I could see them wheeled away out back where

they were left in case of an emergency need for thought.

I secretly mourned for all those ideas that had been lost,

but I knew that my idea was always the best.

Wrapping it in a government-issued blanket, I went

looking for an official service center to register my idea

so the authorities knew it had a good home.

 

Chris Bullard is a native of Jacksonville, FL. His work has appeared in such publications as Rattle, Pleiades, Hole in the Head Review and Scientific American. Moonstone Press published his book, Arguments For: New and Selected Poems this year. He was nominated this year for the Pushcart Prize. He lives in Philadelphia, PA and is currently in hospice care for lung disease.

NEW WHITE HOUSE PRESS SECRETARY LIMERICK

by Paul A. Freeman

Cartoon by Gary A. Huck

 

Zakaria, Katie, praised Trump;

a twelve-minute-long verbal hump.

Her stopping and starting

was like verbal farting—

before she is pushed, she should jump!

 

Paul A. Freeman has most recently published The Movement – A Dystopia-Americana Novel. He has had two other novels, a children’s book and an 18,500-word narrative poem published, as well as scores of short stories, poems and articles. He lives and works in Mauritania, Africa.

CHRISTA PIKE IS BACK IN PRISON

by F.D. Jackson

My husband wants her to hang.
I’m certain he wants the whole 
world to hang:
the Latino that he's convinced is
taking his benefits, 
the two ladies that live down the street,
the little boy that wears a rainbow tutu, 
the teenager wrapped in a keffiyeh, 
our neighbor, Diane, who cries over 
melting polar ice sheets and glaciers.
All our faces burgundy muddy colored, 
eyes bulging, tongues lolling to the side.
 
I want Christa to eat and sleep well, 
to take long walks around the yard, 
to smile and laugh, to read and learn.
To pray to the universe, fall to her knees, 
grieve for Colleen, grieve for herself
(that baby girl born to alcoholic parents, 
raped by her grandmother’s partner).     
To write a book, give some of the money 
to Colleen’s mother. 
To advocate for abused children.
 
I want Christa to wipe tears from her face, 
pull her shoulders back, set her jaw in stone
and walk out of prison a free woman.
 
But I live in a small southern town with him.
I can’t just say all this aloud, can I?


F. D. Jackson lives in the southeastern U.S. She writes about loss/grief and the restorative and transformative power of nature. When she is not reading or writing, she can be found wandering the Gulf Coast with a cold drink in her hand. F. D.’s works have appeared or are forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, FERAL, Third Wednesday, Wild Roof Journal, Williwaw, Cosmic Daffodil, Soul Poetry, Prose and Arts Magazine, and others.

FLEET WEEK IN SAN FRANCISCO

by Margaret Gannon

The grandchild of 

Vietnamese survivors

manicured the nails of an 

aging antiwar activist

in an upscale San Francisco spa,

ambient quiet music defeated by

aggressive thunder of jets 

in arrogant military formation,

come and gone 

in the time it would take 

napalm to strip the skin

of the tourists on Fillmore Street. 

Death dressed up as 

circus performance.  

Margaret Gannon is an aging antiwar activist in San Francisco.

PREY

by Christine Sikorski

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

They say it’s easiest if the girl has no father.
They say earn her trust, ask her questions.
How’s school? Do you have a boyfriend?
 
They say, don’t rush. It may take weeks, even
months. Lead conversations slowly toward more 
private subjects. How far did you go with him?
 
Find small ways to touch her. Squeeze her arm 
when she gets in the truck. Pat her thigh, laughing,
when she says something funny. Compliment her. 
 
You have gorgeous eyes. Wow, you’re really smart. 
You’re more mature than some women twice your age.
Be patient. One day, you’ll sense the moment is right. 
 
With your left hand on the wheel, your eyes on the road, 
use your right hand to press your advantage. Keep talking, 
as if this is ordinary, normal. Something friends do.


Editor’s note: The New Verse News is honored to continue to host, in the wake of the news at Cornell, a series of courageous memoir poems.

Christine Sikorski’s work has appeared in The New Verse News, coastlines review, Waterstone, Little Patuxent Review, Quartet, One Art, This Was 2020: Minnesotans Write About Pandemics and Social Justice in a Historic Year, and elsewhere. Her honors include a Minnesota State Arts Board Grant and Academy of American Poets Prizes. She has taught at two universities, the Loft Literary Center, a homeless shelter, a community center, and other venues. She lives with her family in Minneapolis.

VANISHING ACT: ICE IN AMERICA

by Sarah M. Prindle

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

Pull a rabbit out of a hat,

pick a card,

levitate a large table.

Such magic tricks bring joy

and gasps of amazement.

But smoke and mirrors

can be deceptive,

engendering fear

of the unknown.

When harmless strangers

are distorted into threats,

magic takes a sinister turn.

Children playing at recess,

women behind the store’s counter,

men toiling in the field…

Poof! Gone.

Masked men swarm the area

and make them disappear,

a vanishing act that brings grief

instead of wonderment.

 

Sarah M. Prindle received an Associate in English from Northampton Community College. She loves reading everything from historical fiction and memoirs to poetry and mysteries. She hopes to someday publish her own novels and poetry collections and has already had her work published in several literary magazines and websites.

YOU REALLY SHOULD HAVE READ THE FINE PRINT

by Celeste DeSario

Dedicated to Chief Harry Wallace of the Unkechaug Nation and to all Sovereign Indigenous Nations working to reclaim sacred lands and to revive stolen languages that speak the truth to history.

Thank you for welcoming us to your lands,
And for teaching us to plant crops that actually grow.
The corn, squash, beans 
Helped us survive when the seeds we brought from overseas failed.
Thank you for teaching us to use fish to fertilize soil too poor to grow crops.
We got rich shipping your deer hides and beaver pelts back to the motherland,
while you helped us build birchbark canoes and guided us along ancient trails.
Thank you for showing us how to identify wild blueberries 
And harvest cranberries hidden in bogs.
And sharing with us how to use Sumac to ward off fevers and colds.

And thank you for introducing us to Pokeweed
So, we could use its ink to sign treaties
We had no intention of keeping.

So many promises…
We will protect your homelands,
(we are not calling them reservations…yet)
Your right to hunt, fish, gather on land we stole from you.

Don’t worry.
We’ve got it from here.

Celeste DeSario writes poetry to process and make sense of life’s events. Her work is featured in The New Verse News, The SportsScribe, The Changing Times, The Ekphrastic Review, The Dissident Voice, and Three-Line Poetry. She will not be celebrating Columbus Day.

DEAR CHRISTOPHER

by Christine Anderson

The fallen Christopher Columbus statue outside the Minnesota State Capitol after a group led by American Indian Movement members tore it down in St. Paul, Minnesota, on June 10, 2020. 

Photo by Tony Webster at Flickr.

Hero of our youth:
Charading as pioneer-explorer
Worthy of our praise
And missing class on a Monday.
You, with your flag staked onto holy ground:

Like a schoolyard bully finding a dime
And yelling, “finders keepers!”
Like a limping dog
Marking elm bark with rank urine.
Like landing on the moon in 1969
And claiming discovery.

We behead your statues;
We wash our hands of your crimson stain
And honor you for who you are:
Directionless sailor
Enslaver-trafficker
Murderous thief.

Very respectfully,

Christine Anderson

Christine Anderson is a poet from Chicago, Il. Her work has previously been published in The Chicago Sun-Times, After Hours, and The Agepe Review. She is a civil rights paralegal and an M.A. candidate in Creative Writing at DePaul University.