LETTER FOM A BESEIGED CITY IN AMERICA

by Margaret Hasse

So alone, each of hundreds in our north

star state––beings sniffed out, run 

down, dragged, tied up, shoved 

in, head-cracked, driven, dumped 

in dark places, disappeared.

So alone, the rest of us snugged at home 

hearing news of atrocities, watching 

videos of masked men in our home-

town toting machine-like guns, grabbing, 

kicking, shooting, and we who knew

not or actually knew the taken, first feel 

unbelief, numbing fear, geysers of inward 

anger and sorrow for the numberless hurt 

and the named dead.

We became roused and risen to 

outward acts: deliver food, guard 

school children, record kidnappings with 

eyes and cameras as on the boy in 

a blue bunny hat, send money, join

groups, trail black cars, shriek alerts

with whistles, light vigil candles, wield signs, 

march, lay flowers on the bloody snow, say no.

A whole community besieged becomes 

a whole community of care, protest and 

resistance, a testing ground for whether 

kindness and the Constitution can hold up

against the battering ram of govern-

ment run amok as we gather in our cold time,

our beautiful city under attack, to hold 

hands with neighbors whether citizens or 

citizens-to-be while spokespeople for

the outrage name-call and hob-gobble truth.

We here know what we saw and see, 

and gradually then all at once, people 

across the country are paying attention, 

posting their support, writing the wrongs 

to their leaders while Springsteen 

sings his “Streets of Minneapolis,” a song 

like a flag to carry, and Judge Biery near

the southern border in the lone star state

frees from detention a man and his young 

son stolen from Minnesota, noting in 

his order that “the case has its genesis 

in the ill-conceived and incompetently-

implemented government pursuit

of daily deportation quotas... ”–– all 

just and sympathetic action from all

over the country eases our city’s 

isolation and bolsters hope 

our democracy will endure. 

Margaret Hasse is a poet living and working in the Twin Cities. She has published nine books of poetry, and has received many honors, such as a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.

CHOSEN

by Linda Parsons

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

You, yes, you. On the porch glider of memory, 

thinking again of your grandmother’s grease-

stained kitchen and how she saved you. You, 

in the first snow of the year, the burdened photinia 

limbs, the night’s blue note. I mean you. You 

who’ve been griping and gnashing your teeth 

in the constant upheaval—not just our country’s 

bruised fist, but the world entire, its tectonics adrift. 

It was your idea, when the roll was called up yonder, 

to take up your pallet, to rise like Lazurus, 

his winding sheet of myrrh and aloe trailing behind. 

To say, Me, I’ll go. I’ll go to that time, that cliff 

and split sky, that rage of brother against brother 

against sister, unfriending right and left. 

Left from right. It’s my time. My time to be 

a lighthouse, to shine far and wide over veined 

stones and broken vows alike, though my heels 

bleed, my steps falter. My time to march 

on the winter streets and hold high my sign: 

God is watching you kill.

 

Remember 

your Ecclesiastes: Time and chance happen 

to us all. And what will you do with this time, 

this chance to sweep your beam along the rocky 

shoreline, to pull whoever outlasted the nor’easter 

back to breath? This is your time—to spend 

like a wastrel or shower the heavens with a gracious 

plenty. You engine of steam and plow. You 

shoulder to the squeaky wheel. You asked for it. 

You volunteered to help turn the tide 

and guide this mother home. 

 

Linda Parsons is the Poet Laureate of Knoxville, Tennessee. She is also the poetry editor for Madville Publishing and the copy editor for Chapter 16, the literary website of Humanities Tennessee. She is published in such journals as The Georgia Review, Iowa Review, Prairie Schooner, Southern Poetry Review, Terrain, The Chattahoochee Review, Shenandoah, and many others. Her sixth collection is Valediction: Poems and Prose. Five of her plays have been produced by Flying Anvil Theatre in Knoxville. 

NEW CHEERS FROM THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST

by Cecil Morris

Get a load of this: Columbia, Breakside unveil beer made from bear poop" —Oregon Public Broadcasting, January 28, 2026.

Bear scat—that’s bear crap 

to those of us not naturalists 
or bearded survivalists wise 
in the euphemisms of nature 
(or ursinus faeces if you 
prefer the snooty gloss of Latin 
or Pooh poop if you’re still child-like 
and delighted by certain sounds). 
Bear scat beer—a new lager called 
Nature Calls—is a wild brew infused 
with—dare I say it—shit collected 
in Montana, the big sky state, 
where a new breed of ranchers scour 
the land for the not-quite-gold gold 
and sell it to be fermented. 
I suppose the USDA 
does not inspect or certify 
for purity the scat in vats 
of yellow lager so you might 
be getting a foragers blend 
of deer droppings or raccoon turds. 
Does that matter? The real question: 
Would Norm drink it were it on tap?

Norm superimposed on Breakside.com screenshot.

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.  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.

THE REVOLUTION IS BEING TELEVISED

by Alex Stolis

after Gil Scott-Heron

You cannot escape it by staying home 

the revolution is alive

the revolution is a nuclear sun melting black ice

the revolution will not let you rest.

There are no news highlights

there is no news, only revolution,

no memes, no theme song, no uniforms,

no military-industrial complexion.

The revolution is being televised

in B&W

in Technicolor

in IMAX 3D.

The revolution is being televised as you read this

the revolution does not care about talking heads,

doesn’t believe in DHS or FBI or ATF or 

any other alphabet-despotic soup.

The revolution is being televised

while you eat, sleep, make love, 

while you want to believe things are normal,

ignore the revolution at your own peril.

The revolution is being televised

coast to coast, station to station

a commercial free telethon streaming 24/7

it is Bot-proof, cleared of influencers.

This revolution takes no prisoners

it names names & kicks ass, it spins 

spin back to truth, it’s a Springsteen song 

written & recorded in 48 hours.

There will be no taping or film at 11:00

no reruns,

tune in or turn out

the revolution is being televised.

There will be no ctrl-alt-delete

lock screen, reboot

this revolution is being televised

is being televised live.

Author’s note: Last week, Bruce Springsteen wrote a song in protest of the ICE actions in my hometown, Minneapolis. It brought to mind Public Enemy's song "Revolution" which brought to mind Gil Scott-Heron's song "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" which, in turn, brought this poem to me. I am reminded of how art is connected, the power of words and how we, the people, do have the power to direct history.

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.

JUDGEMENT

by Judy Salcewicz

Mariano Barbacid, who leads the Experimental Oncology Group at the Spanish National Cancer Research Centre (CNIO), developed a treatment that has successfully and completely eradicated pancreatic tumours in mice, without any major side effects. The discovery was hailed as a potentially significant turning point in the fight against this disease. However, a segment of social media users mocked a birthmark on Barbacid's face and made numerous offensive and superficial comments, rather than recognizing the scientific achievement. —Money Control, January 31, 2026

Is it because we’re reading fewer books

that we forget not to judge them by their covers?

A disparagement, a quick dismissal

and we miss out on adventure, insight,

inspiration, knowledge, heroes to emulate,

and so many things that improve our lives.

Pancreatic cancer is a deadly disease--

with a five-year survival rate is 13%

Dr. Mariano Barbacid,

a Spanish cancer scientist,

and his team found a triple-drug therapy

that eliminates pancreatic tumors in mice.

This remarkable discovery is cause for

celebration and hope that it will lead

to a human cure.

Instead of celebrating, many online disparagers,

focus instead on the Doctor’s birthmark.

Judy Salcewicz is a New Jersey poet and writer who believes in the power of words.

TO THE REPUBLIC

by Athena Kildegaard

It is hard, right now, to think

of America, my country, it no longer
holds together inside its borders. 
Four decades ago, every school day, 
I asked one of the twelve-year-olds
in my charge to lead us in the Pledge
of Allegiance. It was the law, this recital.
As good a way as any, I thought, to begin.
Words, words, slippery as jello cubes,
hardly join, now, to anything real.
My heart beats, my hand firms itself
to my chest—this friction, this viva—
but my tongue dare not lift, my lips
not open, my body not burst
with air, with light. America, where
have you gone?

You are in Minneapolis,
America, handing out scarves and hats,
standing beside your neighbors, lifting
whistles to your lips because your lips
have power, your breath has power,
you are teaching us how to be Americans.

Athena Kildegaard is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Prairie Midden (Tinderbox Editions), winner of the WILLA Literary Award. 

AUTHORITARIANISM

by Scott Lowery

 

No point appealing to the heart

            or soul it doesn’t have, so save

                        your breath. It needs its namelessness,

 

but name it with too many syllables 

            and it wins again, the goon squad’s 

                        tracks wiped clean by grocery lists, snow,

 

football scores. Just four words 

            on my sign: Breathe Easier—Join Us!

                        Hah! Not really! jokes the nervous

 

young marshal in his or her 

            neon vest at the busy crosswalk—

                        too cold to breathe easy here today!

 

It’s what we do at these things—

            wry smiles, weather complaints,

                        bits of chatter to pass around

 

like balm for our deeper shivering.

            Most of us have paid our protest dues 

                        before, are dressed for bitter wind,

 

giving motorists our cheerful best

            reflected back by honks and hand 

                        waves, leaning our way behind unshattered 

 

windshields. Faces like or unlike 

            ours, bright momentary smiles—

                        running to Target for toothpaste or beer, 

 

some Happy Meals on the way home, 

            trying not to see those prices rising like

                        flood water, halfway up the basement steps. 

 

Give us a good old 

            disaster any day of the week,

                        we all know how to pitch right in,

 

wade through mud and wreckage

            in our rubber boots. Same kind 

                        of summons is why we’re here, 

 

boots, signs and all. So, thanks 

            for the wave but next week join us, 

                        please—all of us breathing easier, 

 

warm bodies out in the cold to say 

            it plain and clear. Name it Wrong. 

                        Name it Not While I Can Breathe.

 

Scott Lowery is a poet, songwriter, and teaching artist, who currently lives with his wife and cats in Milwaukee near their young grandkids. More than ever, he is proud to have grown up in Minneapolis. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Great River Review, River Styx, North American Review, Canary, and elsewhere, including several anthologies, ekphrastic shows, and podcasts. Lowery’s award-winning second chapbook, Mutual Life, observes small-town life against a looming backdrop of pandemic, climate change, and extremism. Find more, including work with young authors, at www.scottlowery.org.

JANUARY BOUQUET

by Katherine Smith

The only antidote for America 

is to go outside in the freezing cold winter

and dream of the most beautiful city on earth

or even this universe (there may not be any other). 

This city is Granada.  Inside my house 

I think only of Minneapolis, of winter.

Outside my house I dream of Grenada and spring

on the slope leading towards the white limestone caves

where the pink dusk hovers over the Alhambra and the Sierra Nevada.

By day I once walked through the summer palace of the kings of Spain.

By night I listened to flamenco and the percussive shoes of dancers.

By day the stained glass of the cathedral blossomed

like the roses in the summer palace. Beauty softened the blow

of the inquisition six hundred years before

just as a memory of joy softens the blow of the shootings,

and the military on the streets of Minneapolis. Nothing 

is more consoling than the dream of a beautiful ruin,

for the ugliness happening to America. I lay memory

like a wreath on the roadside 

where Alex Pretti and Renee Good died.

Katherine Smith’s poetry publications include appearances in Southern Review, Boulevard, North American Review, Ploughshares, Mezzo Cammin, Cincinnati Review, Missouri Review, and many other journals. Her first book Argument by Design (Washington Writers’ Publishing House) appeared in 2003. Her second book of poems Woman Alone on the Mountain (Iris Press), appeared in 2014. Her third book, Secret City, appeared with Madville Press in 2022. She works at Montgomery College in Maryland.