THE GULF OF AMERICA, NÉE MEXICO

by Susan Ayres

The U.S. Department of the Interior announced on Friday that they will implement President Trump’s name change for the Gulf Coast.(wjhg)

 

                        I laugh at what you call dissolution,

                        And I know the amplitude of time.

                                                            —Walt Whitman

 

And yet she too is dissolved in a sea

of fears and worries. Will the rocks smash

her if the saltwater lets her go? In the muted

submersion there’s an isolation. The air

 

bubbles rise in a tickle. Small fish nibble

her toes. It’s not like she’s fallen to pieces.

She’s just lost her reason, her name.

She’s the brain mush and muscle mash

 

of dark swirls in the clear green water,

the murky way men possess women. Her particles

bond to the tickles. The waves push her

forward with the incoming tide. She laughs

 

at what they call dissolution. Floating

face down she knows the amplitude of time.

Susan Ayres is the author of Walk Like the Bird Flies (Finishing Line, 2023) and Red Cardinal, White Snow (Main Street Rag, 2024). Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her poems and translations have appeared in numerous journals. She studied Spanish in Cuernavaca, Mexico, practiced karate for nine years with her son, and now spends time in Texas writing, collaging, teaching, and learning tai chi.

LIFE AT LAND’S END

by Mary Eileen Knoff

In January, for thirty years, I have left behind
grey Seattle skies to sit beside the Pacific shore
at Land’s End, on the Baja’s southern tip,
seeking respite from the northern chill.

Each year, thunderous surf lashes the land,
crashing against its standing stone, La Roca,
filling the sky with mist and foam.
This year the scene turns my thoughts toward home:

there an explosion of presidential orders
overwhelms like a deluge, threatening
to reshape truth as surf reshapes the sand.
Can our country withstand the onslaught thrust upon us?

Many of us now cast about for a course
to follow through these treacherous times.

Life at Land’s End calls out to me through the fog:

Stand firm like this rock, persist like the tide
shine like lighthouses for those who ride on stormy seas.
Your words and deeds of truth and mercy will be guides,
like bright, shining stars in a blackening sky,
like rafts of life on fear and greed’s wicked seas.

Mary Eileen Knoff spent the first two decades of her professional life as an English teacher, editor, and freelance writer. In the mid-1990s she studied for pastoral ministry and then served as a spiritual companion and small group facilitator since the early 2000s. She has lived in Redmond, Washington near the foothills of the Cascades for the last thirty years. For the last decade I have been crafting a collection of poems about life on the pond that I call Ponderings. I am in search for a publisher of that collection these days. In 2012, as part of a doctoral program in ministry, she collected, edited, and published writings by myself and others, now in a second edition, called Seasoning the Soul: Meditations for the Celtic Year.

TODAY THE SKY BLED RED

by Kyle Hina

Today the morning sky bled
red with memories that I can
only imagine from a far, all
caught up in the air beneath
the hazy sun. Wisps of a thing 
infinitesimally small in size but
of infinite magnitude, summoned to
one last sail across heaven’s sea.

Somewhere in there, I’m sure,
is the country blue farmhouse 
that grandpa built, with the tan
guitar in the corner that turned 
him into Johnny and grandma 
into June when he played it. 

There are the skinny emerald
pines that dotted the trail of
a friend’s first date.  And the 
silver and rust car that caught
her sobs when she found 
that love isn’t always evergreen.  

There is the ivory wedding gown, 
all bejeweled and moth-balled, 
that hung in the closet, still 
awaiting its turn to renew a
couple's love. And the matching 
aqua tie that the husband was 
too scared to wear, for fear it 
might find that brown tea stain 
to match all of the others.

A teal blanket that went home
with the baby and the yellow
cleats he wore when he kicked
his last goal. Violet flowers, 
magenta scrapbooks. A faded 
purple skateboard and greyscale
photo of the family reunion, 1989.

On and on, memories too 

numerous to count rise in a 
prism’s worth of colors, but 
carry too much despair to 
form a rainbow. Instead they 
coalesce into a crimson blanket 
that covers the city like a car 
too old to ever be used again. 

In another world, white men 
in black suits point fingers and
shout names, maneuvering for
attention like children at a funeral.  
But my eyes are on the horizon,
where tonight the sky bleeds red.  

Kyle Hina is a husband, father, software engineer, and musician living in Zanesville, Ohio with his wife, two sons and dog. He has one published short fiction work on 101words.org .

DISPATCH FROM GAZA

by Carolyn Martin

Palestinians make long trek back to their demolished homes in Gaza —USA Today, January 28, 2025. Photo by Mahmoud Issa (Reuters via USA Today)

The father writes he’s home again 
with wife and three kids.
Ceilings, walls, and floors still here, he says.
Our souls were kept safe.
The garden is green, he says: 
a color gone from their eyes for years
and his three-year-old is confused.
She falls on stone pathways and, rising up,
can’t find sand to brush away. 
His sons lie in bed at night 
where ceilings block stars
in the cloud-curated sky. 
He asks them if they’re afraid.
They dig up bravery and ask,
Our tent. When are we going back?
After their lifetime away, the father wonders,
How will I ever teach children of war
to live in a house again?

Author's Note: This poem is based on a message I just received from a contact in Gaza.

Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards” as her daily mantra. She is blissfully retired––and resting––in Clackamas, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications throughout North America, Europe, and Australia.

LEFT

by Margaret Rozga

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

What is left?  

The word could mean

an abandonment,

or a departure from,

as left a warm bed

as when your love departs for a new love

 

But, no.

I refuse to leave us in this land of negativity.

because that’s not all that’s left.

There’s left as a direction

as in turn left at the corner…

 

There’s left as remainder, what is still there

as in a winter coat left

on the back of a dining room chair,

or as in leftovers,

as in sometimes chicken soup that’s leftover

tastes better the 2nd day         

 

That brings us to where we want to go—

the positive

 

Left as positive—

We have ideas left.     

We have time left.

We have energy left.

We have truth and respect for truth left.

We have values left.

We have a left left.     

We are that left and

we are left growing here, growing stronger.

Margaret Rozga, University of Wisconsin Milwaukee at Waukesha Professor of English Emerita, served as the 2019-2020 Wisconsin Poet Laureate and the 2021 inaugural artist/scholar in residence at the UW Milwaukee at Waukesha Field Station. She has published six books, most recently Restoring Prairie (2024) and Holding My Selves Together: New & Selected Poems (2021).

WHEN OUR ROOKIE QUARTERBACK IS AS FAMOUS AS TOM BRADY, WILL THIS JANUARY 20 MATTER?

by T. R. Poulson

Caleb Williams [at the center of the above] photo received a series of phone calls Monday afternoon [on January 20, 2025] that elicited immediate emotion, followed by a sense of long-term clarity and anticipation. The Bears quarterback's phone rang while he was driving down the highway in Florida. President & CEO Kevin Warren, chairman George H. McCaskey, general manager Ryan Poles and special advisor to the President/CEO and chief administrative officer Ted Crews were on the line. Calling from Halas Hall, the group told the 2024 No. 1 overall pick that Ben Johnson would be the team's new head coach. —Chicago Bears, January 23, 2025

Stocks spike green today and hands hover on Bibles

while I think of football—do glorious days lie

ahead? Fans know something about faith and tribal

loyalty. Consider the Chicago Bears, the ways they

stumble. Fun fact: Caleb Williams, in his rookie

season, played nine straight games without a lazy

or dumb interception. Sometimes you have to look

hard to find stars. Still, faithful fans lit the stands

orange and blue. I dubbed Caleb unlucky

when he fell.  Fun fact: all nine games in that span

without a pick were losses. His line crumbled

around him while he darted among grasping hands.

You keep going, he said. Did he ever fumble

faith? Only a girl who still wears a Walter

Payton jersey would dream of seasons jumbled

with wins. Imagine! Our new head coach will alter

history, make Caleb a legend, make Soldier Field

great again, so great nothing else will matter. 

T. R. Poulson believes the best way to deal with a bully is to ignore him. She's a passionate Bears fan, and was excited about the hiring of Ben Johnson as head coach on inauguration day. Her work has previously appeared in The New Verse News and various publications, including Best New Poets, Gulf Coast, American Literary Review, and Booth.  She is currently seeking a publisher for her first manuscript, tentatively titled At Starvation Falls.

DISCOURSE FLAMED OUT

by Kenneth Johnson

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

Words once enlightening,
now smoldering on a trash heap,
thoughts unraveled like smoke
rising, intertwined, undecipherable.
The air, thick with thieves,
is a place where meaning
crumbles, dissolves
before it can be formed.
Voices that once nurtured
dialogue now carefully hone 
their obsidian edges.
Once, we built conduits,
word by word,
constructed to withstand scrutiny,
to span great divides.
Now, we stand at the ruins,
watching the remnants 
flicker out into darkness.
Discourse flamed out,
the ashen particles
becoming less dense
as they float aimlessly,
finally disappearing.

Kenneth Johnson is a Pushcart-nominated poet and visual artist living in Claremont, California. He is the author of the chapbook Molten Muse.

HEALTH ALERT BULLETIN CONCERNING CAPITOL CLIMATE CHANGE

by Lynne Barnes

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

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

Be advised:

 

Now is a time of high stress.

It’s in the air like smoke and ash.

You must mask while you’re out

and get inside as soon as you can.

 

Get inside circles of humans who see, know

who you are, circles of people who allow you

to share your emotions and thoughts.

 

Sharing inside circles of trust

can boost your immune system,

help neutralize the pollution

of this air we are breathing now,

 

air hazy with particulate matter of fear

that has come upon us suddenly

in this last half of

the month of January, 2025.

 

Take care.

Lynne Barnes is a retired psychiatric nurse and librarian who has lived in San Francisco since 1969. Her poetry memoir, Falling into Flowers (Blue Light Press, 2017) was a finalist for the 2018 Eric Hoffer Book Award.

THE BIRTHRIGHT OF HOME

by Dick Altman

Attorneys general from 22 states sued President Trump in two federal district courts on Tuesday to block an executive order that refuses to recognize the U.S.-born children of unauthorized immigrants as citizens, the opening salvo in what promises to be a long legal battle over the Trump administration’s immigration policies. —The New York Times, January 21, 2025

Reports of Navajo people being detained in immigration sweeps sparks concern from tribal leaders: The DOJ argued in court that Indigenous people don’t have birthright citizenship under the 14th Amendment, so neither should children of noncitizens born in the US. —Arizona Mirror, January 24, 2025

I marvel,

over six months,

as crews,

of master

craftsmen,

mostly

undocumented,

give birth 

to my house,

overlooking

Rio Grande’s

valley.

 

I watch as raw hunks

of sandstone

bewitch

into new life

as Anasazi-style

walls.

Slabs

of the same rock

sculpted

into geometric

mosaics

of outdoor

walkways

and portals.

 

Amaze

as a Rumsford

fireplace,

known

for its high heat,

transforms

out of nothing

more than

firebrick,

cinder block,

and plaster,

into a work

of art,

reminding

of Spain’s

Middle Ages.

And so

the entire house

evolves

in that spirit.

 

I begin to wonder,

as the birthright

of countless

newborns,

of alien parents,

is in effect,

stripped

from the Constitution,

could

the government

call into question

the legality

of my house,

conceived

by undocumented

foreign labor,

to exist

on American soil?

 

I imagine

coming home

one day

to an empty lot,

not even a trace

of the concrete

underpinnings.

Posted on one

of many Aspen

I planted

over the years,

a document

claiming to be

an executive

order.

 

It reads:

“Your home,

propagated

by illegal

foreign labor,

has lost

its birthright

to shelter you.

The government

has no recourse

but to remove it

from your

property.

You’re welcome

to rebuild

with trades

of authentic

American

descent.”

 

What can I say,

as I look down

at Pueblos,

diminished

by untold eras, 

so they must

have seemed,

of America’s

dispossession?

What    can   I   say?

Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Wingless Dreamer, Blueline, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems, published on four continents.

REGARDING NEWS OF JANUARY 20, 2025

by Jacquelyn Shah

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

At home alone I don’t inaugurate.

As silent never-wish-to-witness, I

will read the news that’s fit-to-print, berate

the rest that shouldn’t even amplify

what’s nothing but unspeakable and grim. 

So watch––I’ll sit me down with paper, pen

and try to think of every synonym

for fiend and bully, brute and sadist... Then

inspired, I can write (restrained) a snippet

that indicates my indignation that 

my nation’s gone. Although this meager sonnet 

is nothing more than insubstantial chitchat,

I’ll revel in my puny getting-even:

shunning blather that I can’t believe in.

 

Jacquelyn “Jacsun” Shah has AB–Rutgers U (magna cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa); MA–Drew U; MFA, PHD–U of Houston: English/creative writing. Poetry publications: chapbook (small fry); full-length book (What to Do with Red); poems in journals. Hybrid memoir: (Limited Engagement: A Way of Living). She was a 2023 Pushcart Prize nominee. Obsessive, she has written 540 centos.

NEWSPAPER RUBBER BANDS

by Peter Henry

I miss newspaper rubber bands
The useful stash in the kitchen drawer
I miss the thud on the driveway
Promising hours of reading—
Detailed stories, facts, interviews, and opinions
Often fertilized by Deep Throat sources
Dropping follow-the-money clues.
With no heft, no will to fight the empowered villain
Mainstream media caved in to threats and paid $15 million

I miss fact checking and shame heckling
The sting of a snapped rubber band on bare skin
I miss the retreat from deceit
When waved newspapers cleared smoke
From smoldering embers
Tended by nefarious dissemblers
I miss the pink fingers of editorial endorsements
Now dead and blue from binding bands
Stretched over them by fat wealthy hands

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

Peter Henry is a retired information technology specialist and former high school English teacher. Besides poems, he writes songs, builds musical instruments, and explores the outdoors. A father and husband, he lives in Northern California with his wife.

ELEVEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT AN INAUGURATION

by Roberto Christiano

"I am out with lanters (sic) looking for myself."    

—Emily Dickinson

 

I am awake. I am a foreigner. Illegal. I am my 
parents. I know that I am not illegal. I feel that I 
am. I am scared.

My father was illegal. If you were stuck in 
poverty with Hitler’s trains running through you 
and countries crumbling before you, you’d be 
illegal too.

Musk gives the Hitler salute. Or is it the Roman 
salute? You know, the one you do to Mussolini.

My mother’s row house in the Italian section of 
D.C. was searched by the FBI for possible 
connections to Mussolini. Every Italian house 
was.

Male and female. Since when was that an easy 
divide?

Melania hides her face under a boater hat just as 
America hides her soul under a bushel.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

It snowed here. I can’t shovel. Uncontrolled high 
blood pressure. A man and his brother shoveled 
for me. Carlos and Zé. They won’t be here 
tomorrow.

I worked at the Library of Congress for twenty 
years. Our guards are the same as the Capitol 

guards. On January 6^th our guard was killed.
There are no degrees of separation. Separation is 
an illusion.

I am scared. I feel that I am. I know that I am not 
illegal. I am my parents. Illegal. I am a foreigner. 

I am awake.

Author’s note: Father married Mother and became a U.S. citizen. Mother was already a citizen.

Roberto Christiano won the 2010 Fiction Prize from Northern Virginia Review. He received a Pushcart Prize nomination for his poem, Why I Sang at Dinner, in Prairie Schooner. His poetry is anthologized in The Gávea–Brown Book of Portuguese-American Poetry (Brown University). His full legnth collection, Port of Leaving, is published by Finishing Line Press. Other poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Rattle, The Washington Post, Writer.org, and The Sow's Ear.