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Friday, March 22, 2019


by Michael Cantor

The city bosses and their smoke filled rooms
gave us Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower;
and once you get beyond cigars and booze,

the smell of Scotch and misbegotten power,
there’s still the knowledge that those drunken fools
picked out Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower.

But now we’ve fixed the system, passed new rules—
the people choose their leaders, not some hacks—
and all acknowledge that those party tools

were mostly focused on each other’s backs.
Today, the public’s voice is clear and loud—
the people choose their leaders, and the hacks

just keep the score; and we can all be proud
that this is how democracy will flower.
Indeed, the public’s voice is clear and loud:

the rule of law has fundamental power.
But every night that inner tune resumes:
The city bosses and their smoke filled rooms
gave us Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower.

Michael Cantor’s first full-length collection Life in the Second Circle (Able Muse Press, 2012) was a finalist for the Able Muse Prize and 2013 Massachusetts Book Award for Poetry. A chapbook The Performer was published in 2007. His work has appeared in The Dark Horse, Measure, Raintown Review, frogpond, New Walk, Think, Light, and numerous other journals and anthologies.

Thursday, March 21, 2019


by Shelly Blankman

The Hill, March 14, 2019

You gross millions in the public eye,
ride us on roller coasters of tears
and laughter at every jolt, get paid

to crusade for the starved, the sick --
lost souls left behind by war and hate
who blanket the globe while you snuggle

under your cozy quilt. You strut the red
carpet in your glitzy gowns and stilettos,
flashing your porcelain smile for the cameras

as crowds echo your name. But you never
let us see you without your makeup, did you?
We never saw you after the credits had rolled,

We never saw you play the role of a lifetime:
A thief who could buy your kid’s way into
a school for the elite. We saw you lounging

in bistros, sipping your lattes, chatting with friends
while a world away from Hollywood, an Ohio woman
sits in jail. She is Black. Poor. Alone.

She was led there hunched, shackled,
in a black-and-white striped uniform.
She sobs for her daughters, the ones she registered in

a better school using her father’s address. A father
with whom she once lived. No bribery. No money.
No bistros. No lattes. Nine days prison. Three years probation.

No fan clubs to rally around her.
No rich lawyer to let her go.
Just tears. Just tears.

Shelly Blankman is an empty nester who lives in Columbia, MD with her husband, foster dog and 3 rescue cats. They have two sons who live in New York and Texas. Shelly's career has spanned public relations and journalism, but her first love has always been poetry. She has had a number of poems published in journals, such as Praxis Online Magazine, Poetry Super Highway, Ekphrastic Review, and Social Justice Poetry.

Wednesday, March 20, 2019


by Eric Greene

It was a momentous vote for the United Methodist Church, as the future of the country’s second-largest Protestant church hung in the balance. In a former football stadium in St. Louis last month, church officials and lay leaders from around the world voted to strengthen their ban on same-sex marriage and gay clergy, a decision that could now split the church. But at least four ballots were cast by individuals who were not authorized to vote, according to interviews and a review of the church’s records. The individuals were from African delegations whose votes were critical to restricting the church’s rules on homosexuality. The final 54-vote margin against gay clergy and same-sex marriage exceeds the number of unauthorized votes discovered so far. But the voting irregularities raised questions about the process behind the divisive decision, which devastated progressive members. Some have discussed leaving the denomination and possibly creating a new alliance for gay-friendly churches. Church leaders are now discussing whether new votes should be called, Bishop Thomas J. Bickerton, who serves on the commission on the general conference, said in a phone interview. —The New York Times, March 14, 2019 Above: Members of the United Methodist Church reacted to the vote last month to strengthen the ban on same-sex marriage and gay clergy. Credit: Sid Hastings/Associated Press via The New York Times

I don't know the difference
Between a Methodist and a Baptist
Or an Episcopalian and a Presbyterian.
But I do know the difference between truth and falsehood.
One of them has power—
Power to split a church in half:
And m = the Methodists,
About to blow themselves apart by their own blindness—
Blind to the simple truth that
We are all what we are meant to be!

Eric Greene is a member of The Southeast Michigan Poetry Meetup Group. He has been previously published in TheNewVerse.News.

Tuesday, March 19, 2019


by Pepper Trail

Greta Thunberg on a stage in Helsinki after speaking to a crowd of 10,000 people at a March 15, 2019 Fridays for Future rally.

You will lie down in shallow water
Shelter under roofing tin
Move on, keep on moving

On small screens, the most fortunate
Will remember coral reefs
Forests not on fire, elephants, tigers

You will have children, yes, because

You will sing to them
When they are hungry, feverish
When the storm rages

Some few of you, the saintly few
Will not hate us, not curse us
Will forgive

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

Monday, March 18, 2019


by Nan Ottenritter

Last year, American Bridge submitted a FOIA request when it was reported that Trump’s former head of the Office of Refugee Resettlement kept a spreadsheet of information on pregnant minors in his care, including whether the minor had asked for an abortion. Those documents were finally received and Rachel Maddow made them public on March 15, 2019.

after Randall Jarrell’s “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner”

From border’s legal crossing I fell into the State.
And I nurtured a rape child in my belly.
Fourteen years old, separated from parents,
Dates of assault, menstrual cycle tracked,
Caged, and baby birthed, I became State’s enemy,
And you wonder why.

Nan Ottenritter is a poet and musician who lives in Richmond, VA.


by Jo-Ella Sarich

Credit: Jorge Silva/Reuters via Aljazeera

You were
the bawdy older sister; we thought we were
coquettish, the fish
on the end of the hook. Your tears
were a map traced upon the backs of doors; the other land
of someone else’s pain. I count the seagulls
carving new wounds across my eyelids -
30; 40; 49; someone said ‘terrorist’,
and our world shifted
just that fraction like a coin flipped. Now this mirror,
now this dress that
makes my thighs look like the Port Hills
at dusk and you hold me,
for just a moment and say,
I know what it means
to bleed inside. Some say
Aoraki’s feet are awash in his tears; some say
tears are just the ties that bind us. Men are
shouting in loud voices while our parents
are in bed; in summer we shook, now
we stand still. You call me, the one
who taught me how to count
with both hands and I try and
imagine how you feel
in Orlando right now, holding a lock
of my baby hair and praying,
Is nothing ever sacred?

Jo-Ella Sarich is a lawyer, writer, and mother to two young girls living in Pito-one, Aotearoa New Zealand. Her poems have appeared in a number of print and online publications, including New Statesman, The Lake, Cleaver Magazine, Barzakh Magazine, Quarterday Review, Shoreline of Infinity, takahē magazine, Shot Glass Journal, the New Zealand Poetry Society’s Anthology for 2017 and the Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2017.

Sunday, March 17, 2019


by Dana Yost

Calling them
white nationalists
gives them a pass,
gives them a level of credibility
well above reality.
It’s a lame, tame
name and I say
no more of the same:
call them what they are:
sleazes with triggers.
we set aside
our mourning
to lay
this on
You don’t
get the 
polite name.
You get
the blame.

Dana Yost was an award-winning daily newspaper editor and writer for 29 years. He is the author of five books, including a history of the rural Midwest in the 1940 era, another period of isolationist, anti-immigrant, white-supremacist attitudes and acts. He has lived his entire life in the rural Midwest.


by David Mason

Sydney Morning Herald, March 24, 2017

When you have left, beginning to look back,
you can see everything they covered up,
the iron of neighborhood, the layered hates.

Men go armed to market. They do not talk,
though lips move, emitting sounds like fists.
The commentators say the nation’s mad

yet too few get up from a chair and move.
There are no pitchforks, torches at the gates,
and all the lowered eyes look very sad.

The statues might have warned us this could happen,
those noble men accustomed to their slaves,
those domes and obelisks and public greens.

Now an island lies at peace in a southern sea
with well-kept paddocks, trees of cockatoos,
the stirring of a clerk in the bottle shop.

Here monuments, like peoples’ homes, are small.
You set out never wanting to look back.
You do look back. You look and try to breathe.

And if you think you’ve found your perfect island,
think further to what you do not see or hear.
There hasn’t been a change in human nature.

Here too the ammunition clip has clicked
crisply into the automatic rifle.
So quiet you can hear dead children scream.

David Mason is an American poet living in Tasmania.

Saturday, March 16, 2019


by Mickey J. Corrigan

Flint-eyed  and bound
for ash on the edge
of bursting
into flame, that's
when you pull out
the mic and the camera
the global keyboard
and clickity clack share
your outrage journalism
in machinegun blasts

Never mind what all
the offense archaeologists
will dig up when
they dissect your diatribes
from the city crumble
bleak state disasters

Pay no mind
to the PC anthro-apologists
who'll scrape
the jackboot muck
off your commentary
after the bombs fall,
the mushroom cloud
passes overhead

You are still on target
your electronic pulpit hot
your right a kind of wrong
a viral spread
of abyss-mal charisma
peanut butter and bile
on the bread of our ears

our daily bread
we must take in
as we wait
for you
to explode.

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan lives in South Florida and writes noir with a dark humor. Books have been released by publishers in the US, UK, Canada, and Australia. Poetry chapbooks include The Art of Bars (Finishing Line Press, 2016) and Days' End (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2017). Project XX, a novel about a school shooting, was published in 2017 by Salt Publishing in the UK. 

Thursday, March 14, 2019


by Robert West

on eBay

“The devil can cite Scripture to his purpose”
—Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

We used to say to get his way
   Old Scratch himself would quote it,
but never thought we’d see the day
   he’d act as though he wrote it.

Robert West's poems have recently appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Light, Red Dirt Forum, and Asheville Poetry Review. Co-editor of Succinct: The Broadstone Anthology of Short Poems (Broadstone Books, 2013), he's also the editor of both volumes of The Complete Poems of A. R. Ammons (W. W. Norton, 2017).


by Edmund Conti

Of course there was heartbreak and strife
     As he travelled through valleys and peaks
But he “lived an otherwise blameless life”
     Which he managed in two or three weeks.

Edmund Conti's life is best left unexamined.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019


by Alejandro Escudé

Available from Nielsen Magic

     “Sir, we don’t use cages for children,” the DHS secretary said. “Yes. I’m being as clear as I can, sir. Respectfully, I’m trying to answer your question.”
     “Just yes or no. Are we still putting children in cages?” [House Homeland Security Chairman Bennie] Thompson asked again.
     “To my knowledge, [Customs and Border Patrol] never purposely put a child in a cage,” [Kirstjen] Nielsen stated.
—Salon, March 6, 2019

When the child first enters the cage,
The spaces in the chain-link are made of words.
The words are in Spanish, they read, jaula, carcel,
A series of synonyms meaning the same thing.
A child is also the child entering; one could
Make a cage out of anything. Even sunbeams.
The doorway, a  gleaming nexus of rays,
the benches made of aurora borealis green,
and the child would be a child sitting on it, waiting
for the wound in her to heal with a parent’s touch.
There are many words, and also, there aren’t any others.
The immigrant is an outsider, an illegal, an alien.
Words on their own never show compassion.

Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

Tuesday, March 12, 2019



by Huma Sheikh

A bitter winter in Srinagar had just started to ease when the latest crisis in Kashmir was sparked on 14 February. That afternoon a local member of a Pakistan-based militant group rammed a car laden with explosives into a bus carrying Indian paramilitaries. The explosion was heard for miles around. At least 40 people were killed, the highest death toll from a single attack in the history of the insurgency. Above: A Kashmiri Muslim woman looks on as Indian government forces stand guard after clashes with separatist protesters. Photograph: Yawar Nazir/Getty Images. —The Guardian, March 2, 2019

No matter what the glistening forms
in blue cosmic wings tell me, I see
drones soaring in despair.

I left Kashmir lives ago and my veins
drained of past gore,
hallucinate in this world—Florida’s panhandle,
pounding, floating wraiths, spanning the distance,
Rumi’s chaotic freedom.

Today, on the internet, a deceased trooper's daughter wailing;
forty mugshots scrolling the dead across the screen;
Kashmiri students, children of Indian Kashmir,
disappearing in Dehradun dungeons,
eyes of Sikh keepers burning a storm—protestors’ roar outside;
Kashmiri traders in Lucknow, whipped and kicked;
pack animals, carrying identity wares.

How to rebuild a sense of refuge when hope beans spill,
dissolve, in a battle?
Hadn’t these students, traders, escaped warfare in Kashmir?
Deaths bloom for the kith of the slain;
memories of dear ones an endless crackle of real flesh storm
dropping to ashes.
For Kashmiris still there,
war an everyday meal,
some eat, some fast by chance.

I question violence;
India and Pakistan’s territorial land-grab war,
ask myself if voicing feelings,
otherness, isn’t transcending bitterness?

Kashmir floats with me even here,
new crises piled on old ones—
a pedantic coop, winged prison,
war crumb confetti.
I do the ant’s painstaking
weight lifting of fragments—
senile Socrates.

Huma Sheikh is originally from Kashmir, currently pursuing a Ph.D. in Creative Writing at Florida State. Her prose and verse have appeared in various journals and magazines. A memoir and book of poems are in progress.

Monday, March 11, 2019


by Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco

Luke Perry, who became a household name playing Dylan McKay in the 1990s TV series Beverly Hills 90210 suffered a stroke and died on March 4.

how many girls
are writing sad poems
for dylan

as we speak maybe

not girls
maybe just

who have eye cream
and hard jobs

i was a brenda but
you broke my heart with kelly

and i cried
in my old cutoffs
on the couch in our old house

and i forgot
until just now

what we had meant

when we were young
when we were going to change
the world

but now
i drop my kid at school
i see my face
slipping away in the rear window

and i think
of surfer boys

who would have loved all us cold girls
in the right way

if they were real

if we had let them
if the things we were

were ever
good enough

Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco lives in California's Central Valley, and co-edits One Sentence Poems. Her chapbooks, Various Lies, Lion Hunt, and Water Weight are available from Finishing Line Press, Plan B Press, and Right Hand Pointing (for free!) respectively.

Sunday, March 10, 2019


by Earl J Wilcox

Source: Meme

We have sprung forward,
lost an hour, here and there.
To close this gap time
let’s consider ourselves
fortunate: in these lost
minutes we have avoided
25 new lies by T***P—
not seen a so-called
news conference in which
T***P evades a dozen reporters’
questions--closed our ears
for 3600 seconds to the sounds
of a callow voice of hypocrisy
self-praise, pure narcissism and
a million nanoseconds of fake rage.

Earl J Wilcox is regular contributor to TheNewVerse.News.

Saturday, March 09, 2019


by Devon Balwit

Unlike Abigail, I wouldn’t have made it
past the scullery. The first caustic prank
would’ve undone me. I would never think
to steal a horse and ride for herbs, unfit
for such machinations. Pushed and tripped
by courtiers, I’d have shrunk to rabbit stature,
nose aquiver, precisely when a vicious nature
would serve me better. A gun lifted and fired
point-blank at my midsection would’ve sent
me scurrying to the alleyways to a whore’s life—
forget corsets, pineapples, and assignations.
But this Machiavellian she could plumb intent
and flummox the devious, energized by strife.
So brutes ascend, while the meek tender resignations.

Devon Balwit's most recent collection is titled A Brief Way to Identify a Body (Ursus Americanus Press). Her individual poems can be found here as well as in The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Fifth Wednesday (on-line), Apt, Grist, and Oxidant Engine among others.

Friday, March 08, 2019


by Mickey J. Corrigan

A sign is posted outside of Orchids of Asia Day Spa in Jupiter, Fla., one of several spas closed in south Florida as a result of a six-month investigation into sex trafficking. —Times-Republican, February 28, 2019

All you see is the romance
of palm trees in an ocean breeze
sugary sand and slim suits
on slick brown bodies. You think
it's like your fantasies of love
soft bare skin and lickable sweat
and that's the trick—
naked seaside indolence
disguised as a pretty poem
your dreams breezy and loose
as a mid-day tryst
after salted dips in aqua
waves, margaritas
sipped in umbrella shade.
Lift up your sunglasses, friends—
drip-dry your mushy hearts, your
sentimental smarm
and take a good look
at the overshadows
the slave ships and rope burns,
the storm clouds, the flooding doom
with tints of unbearable intensity.
Faux is perfect for paintings
but here
paradise is a trompe-de-l'oeil
in a vast holding cell.

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan lives in South Florida and writes noir with a dark humor. Books have been released by publishers in the US, UK, Canada, and Australia. Poetry chapbooks include The Art of Bars (Finishing Line Press, 2016) and Days' End (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2017). Project XX, a novel about a school shooting, was published in 2017 by Salt Publishing in the UK. 

Thursday, March 07, 2019


by James Penha

Bali’s Day of Silence has been updated
to match Hindu antiquity: no mobile
phone service, no internet, no airplane
landings or takeoffs, no cars or motor
bikes, no talking, no walking—I cannot
even walk the dog—a day of meditation!
without Calm, my mindfulness app? One
might think a religion with so many gods
might have deitized some thing with wheels
or code. But Ogoh-ogoh is a jealous sort
who demands purity and for at least a day
an end to the pollution of the old island’s
spirits from the craft of human beings.

James Penha edits TheNewVerse.News .

Wednesday, March 06, 2019


by Pepper Trail

Very high carbon dioxide could suppress cooling clouds, climate change model warns —The Washington Post, February 25, 2019

The icebergs—did you see them, before?
Great rambling beasts of the Southern Ocean
White, or the faded blue of memory
Broken but whole, inanimate and alive
Taking from us, as they approached
Our breath, our warmth, our words
Now, mere wave-broken pools of melt

Next, emptying out the world, everything
Needful of the space we have filled
Elephants, bears, wolves, whales
And also the small, requiring things
To be just so, intricacy of this bee, that flower
The curving tongue, the perfumed throat
Doomed by their entangled perfection

We came to accept all that, and yes
We struggle to remember the time before
The storms, and the skeleton reefs
Droughts, floods, crumbling shores
Spreading deserts, absent glaciers
The burning forests, the sinuous rivers
Working their way through the city streets

Yet, still somehow, we never dreamed
The clouds themselves, reliable as mountains
Could be added to the roster of extinction
That we would live beneath an empty sky
That between us and the burning sun
Would remain only a merciless nothing
An atmosphere exhaled by us alone

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

Tuesday, March 05, 2019


by Rick Mullin

by LysergicAcid25

The Conversation lingers and abides,
a live feed to the hungry living room.
Incessant Facebook messaging provides
an outlet to the core where we assume
participants are pro-democracy,
politically correct, and mostly woke.

Arriviste Ocasio-Cortez
is on the line. We love the way she spoke
to power only yesterday. She says,
“Après le déluge, you can count on me!”

The Special Counsel wraps up any day.
The noose is tight and we expect it all
to come together. Confident, we stay
awake, empowered by the spectacle
of drying paint on MSNBC.

Rick Mullin's newest poetry collection is Lullaby and Wheel.

Monday, March 04, 2019


by Mary K O'Melveny

Michael Cohen by Ross Studio

I am not a bad man
and yet
I am not a good man

I knew the road’s rules
and yet
I went off the rails

I loved my family
and yet
I brought them pain

I am not an angry man
and yet
I am not a satisfied man

I am a problem-solver
and yet
I caused complications

I am a loyal man
and yet
I betrayed everyone

I know what truth is
and yet
I used to lie for a living

I am not a sorry man
and yet
I am a man filled with regrets

One does what one can
until that is no longer an option
Then one becomes someone else

and yet

Maybe it is better
Maybe it is worse
My guilt may set me free

and yet

Mary K O'Melveny is a recently retired labor rights attorney who lives in Washington DC and Woodstock NY.  Her work has appeared in various print and on-line journals. Her first poetry chapbook A Woman of a Certain Age is available from Finishing Line Press.

Sunday, March 03, 2019


by Richard Garcia

Hey Donald, where have you been?
I haven't seen any Donald
Duck Part II movies. And what happened
to that uncle of yours,
Scrooge or something, used
to swim in his swimming pool full of
money? Some people say he just one day
disappeared, and now you have enough
money to sail your yachts across oceans
of money. I know, they're grown up now
and working for you, but I always
wondered about those nephews of yours,
Huey, Dewey, and Louie. How did they
just show up like that one day? And who's
their momma? Do they both have the
same Momma? Did you adopt them from
some Iron Curtain country? What
happened to Daisy? And I never could
understand about that dog of yours. I
mean, if Pluto is a dog, just who or what
is Goofy? He's got the feet of a clown,
body of some lanky oaf, face of a buck-
tooth bloodhound and talks like some
stupid alien. Is he human or some kind of
DNA experiment gone wrong? Donald,
I'm worried about you. You hiding out?
It's not enough to be a comic book hero
anymore. You have to be a franchise, a
package, several  blockbusters, T-shirts,
hoodies, action figures. You've got to
keep up, Donald. You know, I heard about
that flop of a Clark Kent. He doesn't even
know there's no newspapers any more.
He was seen running around skid row in
that same business suit. And guess what,
he was still looking for a phone booth.
Just a word to the wise Donald, get your
spidey sense going. Maybe get yourself
a mask, a costume or something.

Richard Garcia's recent books, The Other Odyssey from Dream Horse Press and The Chair from BOA, were both published in 2015. His recent book Porridge was published by Press 53 in 2016. His poems have appeared in many journals, including The Georgia Review, Spillway, Poetry and in anthologies such as The Pushcart Prize and Best American Poetry. He lives in Charleston, S.C.

Friday, March 01, 2019


by Susana H. Case

I tried to explain the origins of blackface
to my bewildered Italian tutor,
who grew up in Perugia
and doesn’t read American
newspapers. I, too, had never seen blackface, 
growing up, but that was in New York City,
where burnt cork or grease 
would not have been thought funny, I hope.
Vaudeville, I think . . . I hesitated, 
or the earlier minstrel shows.

I was bewildered too. We shook our heads,
thinking of Italian companies 
that recently had to pull 
a Gucci balaclava sweater and Prada 
charms for purses,
blackface imagery on luxury.
Fat red lips on a black background
startled passersby on the East Side,
including me, who would never 
again enter their stores, both companies 
not having understood America, 
or having understood it too well.

Susana H. Case is the author of six books of poetry, most recently the erasure book, Erasure, Syria (Recto y Verso Editions, 2018). Her most recent book of traditional poetry, Drugstore Blue, was published in 2017. She is also the author of four chapbooks, two of which won poetry prizes. Her first collection, The Scottish Café, from Slapering Hol Press, was re-released in a dual-language English-Polish version, Kawiarnia Szkocka by Opole University Press in Poland. Her work has appeared in CalyxThe Cortland ReviewPortland ReviewPotomac ReviewRattleRHINO and many other journals. 

Thursday, February 28, 2019


by Fran Davis

"Meet Ed Calabrese, Who Says a Little Pollution Can Be Good For You" —Mother Jones, February 19, 2019

EPA—call home—you’ve gone too far
axing toxic standards
            no exposure level safe
in favor of

Pollutants in low doses
induce adaptive responses
the hormetic scientist blares
bullhorn provided by big agro,
big chemical.

No exposure level safe
is such an onerous bar
when toxins can be taken in doses
to booster adaptability.

Monsanto, Syngenta and Dow are singing hallelujah.

Insecticides, fungicides, herbicides
those deadly bug killing, weed killing,
fungi killing - cides
may be good for us,

might not cause cancer, distrupt hormones,
frazzle neurons, mess with reproduction
if taken
in little whiffs, quick licks, tiny sips.

Proper dosage is the thing,
a smidgeon of Imidacloprid,
spurned by Europeans, but what do they know?
Still the most popular insecticide on earth.

Please thank Bayer Cropscience for their efforts on your behalf.

Bring on the neonics
5,000 times more toxic to bees than DDT,
no worries. Robot bees are coming soon,
haven’t you heard?

The sweet air hovering over strawberry rows,
active ingredient in tear gas
may help us adapt to
tear gas.

Sell-out to agrochemical chimeras?
Ignore those faint cries, EPA.
The big guys have landed a scientist shill.
In the era of T***p
rules can be ditched like Roundup snuffs weeds.

Passionate about food safety, Fran Davis was so furious to learn the EPA might lower standards for toxics she had to launch a word protest. She lives and writes in coastal California. Her work has appeared in TheNewVerse.News, newspapers, magazines, travel books and print and online journals.

Wednesday, February 27, 2019


by Donna Katzin

The House on Tuesday passed a resolution to overturn President Trump’s declaration of a national emergency on the southern border, as majority Democrats painted an apocalyptic portrait of a lawless chief executive out to gut the Constitution. —The Washington Post, February 26, 2019

An emergency                                                              
sleeping in our subways, Sal
knows no other home.                                                              

Her belly a beast,
Alma picks through the trash when
no one is looking.

Pedro camps between
boards that used to be his house
in Puerto Rico.

Santa Rosa Ruth
sifts through rubble where wildfires
devoured her mother.
With bare feet we map
our way through the wilderness,
build bridges—not walls.

Donna Katzin is the founding executive director of Shared Interest, a fund that mobilizes the human and financial resources of low-income communities of color in South and Southern Africa. A board member of Community Change in the U.S., and co-coordinator of Tipitapa Partners working in Nicaragua, she has written extensively about South Africa, community development and impact investing. Published in journals and sites including TheNewVerse.News and The Mom Egg, she is the author of With the Hands, a book of poems and photographs about post-apartheid South Africa’s process of giving birth to itself. 

Tuesday, February 26, 2019


by Mickey J. Corrigan

The fields full of grazers
heavy hooved, fat with milk
stomp through the dirt
cudding the last of the green
green grass, bovine calm.

The world barnyard shakes
with squawking, honks
four-footed agents of history
remnants of a civil society.

Clucky hens scatter wildly
combed heads still intact
no wiser
than small goats in pasture
black horns rubbed smooth.

The last members
of the club
of nonclubs,
in the dark heart
of a mafia state.

Beyond the waste of farmland
the future
the darkness
a tunnel
that ends
at brass-knuckled  doors

from the other side.

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan lives in South Florida and writes noir with a dark humor. Books have been released by publishers in the US, UK, Canada, and Australia. Poetry chapbooks include The Art of Bars (Finishing Line Press, 2016) and Days' End (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2017). Project XX, a novel about a school shooting, was published in 2017 by Salt Publishing in the UK. 

Monday, February 25, 2019


by T R Poulson

I wish all emergencies could take place like this:
a theater in the city, stage guns made of rubber
and metal to withstand so many drops and hits
in rehearsals, forgotten lines and flubbers.

The line: I am not throwing away my shot,
as the killer creeps in—Lord show me how
to say no to this—that flutter, why not
here among the songs? The heartbeat now

slows, the patron falls, as Aaron Burr’s pistol
pops. Dying is easy, young man, living
is harder. It plays out as in a crystal
ball. Gun! No prayers, thoughts, forgiving

this time. If only hearts could always feast
on rhymes, as the attack of living lurks, looms,
the gunman a mere actor, a ghost deceased
long ago. I want to be in the room 

where it happens, where everything is just
musical, where lights give me an eyeful,
where words spoken, though fiction, I trust,
and paper walls surround non-shooting rifles.

T R Poulson lives in San Carlos, California.  Her work has appeared previously in TheNewVerse.News, as well as in Rattle’s Poets Respond, Verdad, J Journal, and others.  She enjoys basketball, windsurfing, and going to plays, including a recent performance of Hamilton in San Francisco, which took place the day before the performance in which there was a false shooter alarm.

Sunday, February 24, 2019


by Mikki Aronoff

Illustration by Nate Beeler for the Washington Examiner

rolls in, rumbles like children                                  
wobbling cookie sheets to and fro:
tinny tremblings of puppet show storms.                                        
After hail that sizzles, rain falling up
and moon shine scorching, thunder
smells of mica, tastes of worms, cracks
like inattention to detail, like sugar cookies
burnt around the edges. It thunders
like a blunder and jobs on the line,
your furloughed father bellowing
commands and punishments meted out
from the crimson of his fury, all four walls
closing in, biting the hairs on your arms.
Nowhere to brace your back but up
against the squeeze of the room.
Your hands fly up. Thunder howls —
a wolf pack searching for shelter,
the wall in the way. It screeches
like fault lines rubbing, sweats like caves
belching sulfur and blind fish, roars
like a love letter uncrumpling in the basket,
mocking your isolation. Thunder claps
a wave from someone you hate.

Mikki Aronoff’s work has appeared in The Lake, EastLit, Virga, Love Like Salt, Weaving the Terrain, Rise Up Review, Trumped!, bosque7, Love’s Executive Order, Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine, Ekphrastic Review, SurVision, and elsewhere. A New Mexico poet, she is also involved in animal advocacy.

Saturday, February 23, 2019


by Jonel Abellanosa

After "Guernica" (1937) by Pablo Picasso

Skulduggery of shades put me in.

Grays for taste buds, ground grainy

as doves. I smell blood.
expel hollow air, and I hear.

Palms like blue cornflowers,

luring to be pulled. Charcoal

bodiless arm and leg, but not

deep as indifference, the world

still a bullring. I can’t help but
see the orange president, his hair
spearing the horse, its painful
neigh my neigh, your neigh.

The sun is a slug, a bullet

lodged in the complacent spine.

Light lingers for lies, how we
still believe no one else dies.

A previous contributor to TheNewVerse.News, Jonel Abellanosa resides in Cebu City, the Philippines. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Rattle, Poetry Kanto, McNeese Review, Mojave River Review and Star*Line. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and Dwarf Stars award. His fourth poetry collection Songs from My Mind’s Tree was published in 2018 by Clare Songbirds Publishing House (New York), which will also publish his collection Multiverse. His poetry collection Sounds in Grasses Parting is forthcoming from Moran Press. His first speculative poetry collection Pan’s Saxophone is forthcoming from Weasel Press.

Friday, February 22, 2019


by Ben Prostine

Laura Contreras protests in Cincinnati, Ohio against President Trump's declaration of national emergency. ALBERT CESARE, The Cincinnati Enquirer via USA TODAY Network

A state of emergency is not the same thing as a
catastrophe, or a disaster. The key is in the first word.
It is the state in emergency. And it means certain things

emerge: off shore drills and coast guard ships,
the strip mine and the strip search and digital fingerprints –
an administrative task force on ad hoc prisons

and job destruction in the public sphere: more
security guards, more border patrols, customs and police
forces in-vested in military garb while a new design

for a portable bullet proof wall is engineered
and investments rise in razor wire stock. The day ends
with the Dow Jones and the Nasdaq looking up.

But disaster – that’s something different, older, astral.
It’s written in the stars, in fate, in sense: burning up
the bowels of the earth means bringing in a rising tide.

And catastrophe just takes us downward. The drama
of the state comes to its off-script denouement as
the choir desires to enter the theater once more.

The propped walls come down. Speech turns from
the ten thousand screens and returns to the streets, the fields,
something common: a world to be turned upside down

and rooted: this one round burning earth to be made green
again. A solidarity in the ruins, a power in the light –
out of disaster and catastrophe, emerging sprouts.

Ben Prostine lives near Soldiers Grove in southwest Wisconsin where he works as a herdsman, farm hand, and writer. He is the host of Poems Aloud!, a forthcoming radio program airing on WDRT (Viroqua, WI).

Thursday, February 21, 2019


by Julie Steiner

“With the Vatican resisting change, it will have to come from outside the Catholic world.”—“Catholic Church ‘nowhere close’ to confronting global ‘epidemic’ of child sex abuse by priests,” The Telegraph, 19 February 2019

1. A Concise Translation of the Vatican’s 1962 Crimen Sollicitationis Instruction 

some priests behave badly.
Give all who know it—even children—hell
if they tell.

2. The Good Samaritan (Luke 10:29-37)

The priest and Levite couldn’t pause.
They scuttled past the victim.
To keep their cold religious laws,
the priest and Levite couldn’t pause.
The heretic could help, because
such rules did not restrict him.
The priest and Levite couldn’t. [Pause.]
They scuttled. Passed the victim.

3. The Lost Sheep (Luke 15:3-7)

The Shepherd leaves the ninety-nine
to save the one who’s in perdition.
The flock stay put, convinced they’re fine;
the Shepherd leaves. The ninety-nine
lose sight of him when they decline
to join him on his rescue mission.
The Shepherd leaves the ninety-nine
to save the oneWho’s in perdition?

Julie Steiner lives and writes in San Diego. Besides the TheNewVerse.News, the venues in which her poetry has appeared include the Able Muse Review, American Arts Quarterly, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Rattle, and the Rat's Ass Review.