NOW THERE IS NOTHING NEW

by Eric Nicholson

Keir Starmer has announced that Britain will “fight for peace in Europe” with a generational increase in defence spending paid for by slashing the foreign aid budget. The move, just two days before the prime minister is due to meet Donald Trump, raised immediate concerns that he was pandering to the US president, and fury from aid groups that say it could cost lives in countries that rely on UK support. —The Guardian, February 25, 2025

Now there is nothing new,

The Minister of Fear has spoken,

We are vulnerable, we must meet force with force

And station Destroyers on the Thames.

Now there is nothing new,

We stand naked on the beaches, in the fields, in the hills

As icy gusts of fear whip across the seas.

Now there is nothing new.

Footsoldiers and tanks must protect our shores,

Drones and jets must command our air space,

Battle ships defend our coastline.

Now there is nothing new.  

Factories must go into overdrive,

Re-armament is good for Growth,

Our conveyor belts must convey security,

Fear must be assembled night and day.

Now there is nothing new.

Office windows must be blacked out,

Street lights switched off,

The London Underground prepared.

Now there is nothing new.

Rule Britannia.

Let the younger generation 

Fight the good fight,

MAD is might is right:

Now there is nothing new.

Eric Nicholson is a retired art teacher residing in the UK. He remembers protesting as a member of Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in his younger years. He does not often write political poetry but in today's climate finds it difficult not to.

WHEN PENS RUN DRY

by Patricia Carragon

AI-generated image by Canva for The New Verse News.

When pens run dry
and keyboards break down.
 
When lips are sealed 
and hands and feet turn numb.
 
When polarization hits all forms of intelligence 
and emotions function only to exist.
 
Then we become data 
to feed the mainframe’s program.
 
Each movement, thought pattern
monitored and regulated daily.
 
A program to be upgraded 
by the whims of a certain elite.
 
The prophecies of Orwell, Atwood, 
and Huxley—
 
1984 is now. We are The Handmaid’s Tale.
Welcome to your Brave New World.

Patricia Carragon hosts Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology. She is the editor of the new online journal, Sense and Sensibility Haiku, and listed on the poet registry for The Haiku Foundation. She received a 2025 Best of the Net nomination for her haiku, “Cherry Blossoms” from Poets Wear Prada.  Her latest novel is Angel Fire (Alien Buddha Press, 2020). Her books from Poets Wear Prada are Meowku (2019) and The Cupcake Chronicles (2017). Her book Innocence was published by Finishing Line Press (2017).

A TrOcitieZ

by Abby Caplin

AI slips into my personal emails, a spying  
Big Brother, peering over my shoulder. Last fall, money
circled  
down the drain, in what might be our last election.
Eight years, I guzzled the news. Now I sip and worry how “Dt” might get 
flagged by Em’s tentacles, if not weirdly written. 
Google renames the Gulph.of.MeXicoh to the Gulph.of.AmeRikaH, our maps  
hijacked by data centers in Dallas. Institutions, 
international alliances, even lowly pennies have not been spared. My neighbor 
Jenna, a vibrant woman with twin two-year-olds, was laid off last Friday by Dt/Em’s  
kangaroo government. AI sums up what’s inside my email: 
Letter of Rejection from The New Yorker; Ruth had surgery; Abby offers advice on 
medications. My mother always told me to   
never underestimate the stupidity of the American people. 
Oh, how she was right! I rewatch 
Pride and Prejudice where a wealthy man learns from a strong female lead, so 
quaint, and You’ve Got Mail, where a 
revenue-oriented man’s heart is softened by a trusting,
spirited woman, but not enough to not destroy her livelihood.  
Tr 
Ump will someday be laid out, like Savonarola, upon his bonfire of the 
vanities. But for now, I should watch 
what I write, for the mighty egos, 
extracted from the ashes of the Third Reich, are celebrating their carnage,  
yucking it up in private jets. Congratulations, Na 
Zis, though you too will fail. 


Abby Caplin's poems have appeared in AGNI, Moon City Review, Mudlark Flash, Pennsylvania English, Salt Hill, and elsewhere. Among her awards, she has been a finalist for the Rash Award in Poetry, The Poetry Box Chapbook Prize, and a nominee for Best New Poets, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize. She is the author of A Doctor Only Pretends: poems about illness, death, and in-between (2022). Abby is a physician in San Francisco, California.

AT THE DEMONSTRATION

by Pepper Trail

fiftyfifty.one

I am walking through the rain
To a demonstration, to live up to myself
My daily statement—
People should be taking to the streets –
So, today, I am
 
Far from the center of power
We line our homely avenue
Photograph each other
Do our duty, raise our ragged chants
Do not consent
 
A lifetime ago, my friends and I
Gleefully taunted the college-town cops
Proud in their polished riot gear
Ran through tear gas
On our feet the wings of victory
Of belief in victory
 
Past our days of feral joy
We gather now for warmth
To greet each other beneath the sky
Leaning in, shoulder to shoulder
Together, we disbelieve the news, the daily news
Deny that our country is what it is
Again

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.

TO A SUFFRAGIST FROM HER NEIGHBOR

by Jan Chronister

Actress Dorothy Newell “Creates Sensation with Suffrage Plea Painted On Her Pretty Back,” The Topeka State Journal, November 6, 1915. Photo: Chronicling America: Historic American Newspapers, Library of Congress.

You return from the protest,

VOTES FOR WOMEN

painted in perfect letters

across your broad back

bared by a daring dress,

hair a mess, banded

with a sequined scarf. 

You look tired from the fight.

Please don’t end up in jail

like Alice Paul. Put on

some clothes. Stay home

with your child. 

We don’t need the vote.

Jan Chronister splits her year between northern Wisconsin and southern Georgia. She has authored three full-length poetry collections and ten chapbooks. Her most recent is the fifth annual chapbook recounting the year through poems. Jan poetry appears in numerous print and online journals and anthologies. She also enjoys helping fellow poets publish their work.

ON THE JOB

by David Chorlton

AI-generated image by Canva for The New Verse News.

Late glow on the slopes, desert streaming
between the ridgeline
and the streets below, Friday afternoon,
T-shirts spotted with the stains
a day’s work leaves behind
                                                  and cashiers
at the supermarket scanning
what the weekend needs. Mourning doves
for restfulness, grackles for
opportunism and he who all day
wheels the carts
                               stacks another line to steer
back to the entranceway. So much
to be done: bread to bake and orders
to compile, restrooms to be cleaned
and a country to be run. A painter
splashed white is picking
up fruit,
              a man dressed in black
casually steps between coffee
and the cookie shelves with a sidearm strapped
conspicuously at his side. So much
to be done:
                    wash the floors, make
appointments, secure domestic peace
and spray the fruit to keep it fresh. Almost
Saturday, but there’s work
for the workers to do even when the sunlight
looks nervous. No rest
for the doctors, mechanics, plumbers
and all
           who believe that even
a rudderless ship reaches port in a storm.


David Chorlton lives in Phoenix close to a mountain preserve. He likes to keep track of the wildlife at the meeting of desert and the urban zone as well as the people at the nearby supermarket. His book Dreams the Stones Have was published last year by The Bitter Oleander Press.

ROCK CREEK

by Jeremy Nathan Marks

-for Roberta Flack

Today Roberta Flack reunites with Donny Hathaway at a Carter Barron concert among crowds of Washington’s famed cherry trees peeper frogs visiting dignitaries

Marvin Gaye in attendance an alternate inauguration out of doors among glorious birds

Ben Shahn might paint a syrinx chorus oh how the capital creek flows Amanda Gorman

Richard Blanco Robert Frost Maya Angelou read their work

 

I grew up here and I’ve strolled the park with the crows and the deer

watching winter turn to spring  

from far away its song of the public good is still softly killing me

 

Roberta Flack is about as well known among the mandarins in the Maison Blanche

as Richard Wright James Baldwin and Ralph Bunche Emmanuel Macron comes to town

and between correcting facts and straightening records he says France isn’t just a remembrance

of past things like the Somme the Ardennes and Maginot it’s also Nina Simone Josephine Baker

 

I grew up here have often wondered  

where is the love?

not among trees and flowers natives and exotics imperial gifts and the green thumbs

of Lady Birds in our quondam swamp of Camelot the Brain Trust on the Potomac

Rather within those amnesiacs who cannot see what it takes to get to be how great we already are

the ranging octaves and ingenious melodies rhapsody of a people who keep offering everything 

after every betrayal because getting my own means putting it out but as Ms. Flack asked

Compared to what?

Jeremy Nathan Marks lives in the Great Lakes Region of Canada. His latest book is the short fiction collection, Captain's Kismet (Alien Buddha Press, 2025). You can follow him @Sandcounties on Substack.

BONES OF THE REPUBLIC

by Earl David Freeland

I weep.

The king didn’t take the throne.
The elephant knelt—
tuskless,
trumpeting fear,
its weight crushing the roots
of a nation it once carried.

Palms open,
backs bent,
offering the crown
wrapped in fear,
cheap flags for bows.
Will there be midterms?
Will it matter?
When power hums the same note,
ballots dusted under a golden sneaker,
lines redrawn to cut out the noise—
cut out us.

Maps don’t divide now.
They silence.
States, neat and obedient,
stacked under a crown.

What world waits for my son?
A place where truth
gets dragged—
hair tangled in fists,
paraded like a lesson.

Freedom?
Traded for chain-slick comfort.
Easy.
Cheap.

The anthem plays.
Hands rise—
not for hearts.

I see it—
the Mouth of Putin,
slick, wide, laughing.
Spitting out slogans,
black seeds rooting into
boots,
barbed wire,
burned books.

Long live the king,
they say.
And mean it.

I weep.

But I’m watching.
And if democracy dies here—
I’ll bury it with teeth.
Bared.
Fists raw.
Tear the ground open
and dig through the bones
the elephant left behind

Earl David Freeland is a mathematician, former cartographer, and teacher whose poetry balances precision with raw vulnerability. His work explores societal critique, existential themes, and human complexity with unflinching honesty. His poems have appeared in Poets Reading the News and reflect a deliberate rejection of polish in favor of visceral authenticity.

LOSING MY MOTHERS

by Nancy Fitz-Hugh Meneely

Detail of a Boomf greeting card.

I'm mother to a mother and the mother
she is married to. I love their way with Lilly, 
child whose mysteries will not be plumbed. 
The picture of her father shows him 
blond and serious at 8 
and that is all we know of him except that 
Lilly's smarter than her mothers can account for
and given to a fear of dark and a ready shame
they do not suffer in themselves.
But they are gorgeous in their mothering.
Asked “How Are You Unique?”, the daughter writes
I HAVE TWO MOMS. All caps.
 
I love these mothers, too, so much I miss them
when we’ve been apart a week. I am ridiculous.
They live five miles away.
 
And now I contemplate a brute and sudden loss.
I picture Jackboots hauling, shackling them
in such a way they cannot touch.
I see their neighbor, welcoming with cookies last July,
now watching from an upstairs room,
bitter with contrition, fearful for herself.
 
I’m powerless against the monstrous threats.
My terror, even loneliness, begins ahead of time.
Perhaps I am ridiculous, but if I lose my mothers
and their child, I'lI will myself
to swallow memory
or die of it.
 

Nancy Fitz-Hugh Meneely's first book Letter from Italy 1944 was noted by the Hartford Courant as one of thirteen important books published by Connecticut writers in 2013. It provided the libretto for an oratorio of the same name which was performed by Connecticut chorales and symphony orchestras. Her second book Simple Absence (Antrim House) was nominated for The National Book Award. 

AMERICAN REQUIEM

by Michelle DeRose

with a nod to Anna Akhmatova

 

Justice for Dr. Teresa Borrenpohl: a GoFundMe

Can you describe this? I said I can't.
Five weeks of maces swung wildly
at fragile national monuments. A demand
for five bullets, self-inflicted. Five-
alarm fires ignited from sea to renamed
sea. Three white stars deemed more
than four Black ones, extra credit
for the red hat, for looking central cast.
Fifty stars dangle below thirteen stripes
at 7569 feet. One woman dangles
from the dark-draped arms of three
Idaho coats. Blinkered eyes claim
caring plus competence equals a chainsaw.
Self-proclaimed American gods shed
no grace on Ukraine. Shame.

Newly named Professor Emerita of English at Aquinas College in Grand Rapids, Michelle DeRose’s poetry won the Chancellor’s Prize in 2024 and the Faruq Z Bey Award in 2023 from the Poetry Society of Michigan. Her poetry has been published in dozens of venues, most recently The New Verse News, Sparks of Calliope, The Midwest Quarterly, and Dunes Review, and is forthcoming in Months to Years and One Hundred Poems for Hearing Dogs (anthology). She is participating in the 2025 Stafford Challenge—a cohort of poets who have committed to writing a poem a day for a year. The daily news supplies plenty of material for that effort.

DARK TIMES

by Tricia Knoll

“CPAC speech transcript aka Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before” by Jesse Duquette

We talk about now as if ominous shadows smear our thinking toward inevitable end times. Balance the probabilities of the asteroid coming too close with betting on the Super Bowl coverage of who will get more time on the camera: the girlfriend or the President. Trying to understand the ferocious truth of half-time rapper lyrics while dancers recombine the colors of the American flag to taunt a black Uncle Sam. Race. Religion. War. Lies. Impossible alliances. Obsequious sort-of-leaders speak mumbly words. Babies starve inside aid tents flapping in the wind until the tents disappear.  No one is sure where their food is tied up on a dock. We look askance at neighborly birds and ask if we are expected to laugh at a man who would be king. A poet says this is when we sing the dark songs. Few people, not enough for a loud chorus, seem to have learned the words. There are so many dark songs. Another says this is the time to rise. Maybe it is, but the planes are crashing. And I am snow blind. 

Poet Tricia Knoll has four-foot icicles hanging from the eaves of her house in Vermont. She shatters them with shovels as panacea for the angst of these days. She had measles as a child and knows it is no joke. Links to her nine books and dozens of published poems some of which are songs to the dark times at https://triciaknoll.com

DEATH CLEANING

by Melissa Balmain

“Swedish death cleaning [is the] tradition of decluttering and organizing one's life before passing away.” —The Spruce
 

My junk had piled up for years
wherever I could shove it.
Decluttering? Just not my thing—
and yet, this week, I love it.
 
So long, old pamphlets, pens, receipts,
and shirt with half a collar!
Hello, bare floors and empty drawers!
I’ve triumphed over squalor!
 
I used to think I’d never need
to death-clean like the Swedish;
no midlife ill had goosed my will
to keep my closets neatish.
 
Whose symptoms of mortality,
whose fast-approaching coffin
and crumbling bone, if not my own,
could make me tidy often?
 
Now as our nation’s vitals teem
with metastatic cancer
for which a cure is far from sure,
I’ve finally got my answer.

Melissa Balmain edits Light, America's longest-running journal of comic verse. Her latest book of poetry is Satan Talks to His Therapist (Paul Dry Books).

FIVE THINGS I DID LAST WEEK

by W. Luther Jett

• I wrote three poems: The first compared you to a destructive gale; the second was a lament; the third was a curse.

• I met a friend for lunch. We spoke of you. Our words were not kind.

• I watched a bluebird fall in love. His love was hopeless, still it gave me hope.

• I called a friend in recovery from surgery. This was not the same friend I met for lunch, and we did not speak of you at all.

• I led a poetry workshop and hosted an open mike. I know that poetry alone cannot defeat you, but poetry is one way to say you will not defeat us. Our poems will out live your demands. You cannot fire us. We are the fire.

W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland and a retired special educator. His poetry has been published in numerous journals as well as several anthologies. He is the author of six poetry chapbooks: “Not Quite: Poems Written in Search of My Father”, (Finishing Line Press, 2015), and “Our Situation”, (Prolific Press, 2018), “Everyone Disappears” (Finishing Line Press, 2020), “Little Wars” (Kelsay Books, 2021), “Watchman, What of the Night?” (CW Books, 2022), and  “The Colour War”,  which has just been released by Kelsay Books. His full-length collection, “Flying to America” was published by Broadstone Press in 2024.

JUMP TO IT

an abecedarian

by Cecile Earle

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

A grasshopper chirping and clicking his legs
by the flower pot, sees me, sits up, rolls his eyes,
“Come on,” he says to me, “A 
dictatorship is coalescing.
Even I know—Let’s call it what it is: 
Fascism. Has a stun gun turned you into statues?
Gather your forces,” he says, “Come on
humans! All of you—Yes, you too, Cecile. Now!
In this moment! Wake up! 
Jump on it! Now! You teeter! You 
know nations can explode in a flash!
Listen! All I see you doing is waving arms,
making gestures, filing papers. And still,
nothing is coming together as this 
oligarchy solidifies like a glacier. And you?
Puzzled. Positing solutions. Talk. Talk. Stuck in glue. 
Questioning as you chatter, chatter.
Rally now.
Stop them.
Time’s up! Don’t 
use now to 
veer on the side of caution!
Wake up! Democracy! Ours! Don’t let
X and his minions rule our world!
You can do it,”  the grasshopper says, as he 
zips into the garden. Waves. “See you tomorrow.”

Cecile Earle taught English at UCB and Bay Area Colleges. She also focused on Latin American affairs and social justice as editor with the Center for the Study of the Americas in Berkeley. She has published poetry, essays, memoir, and short fiction, and she has won awards for writing on immigration, nomadic migrations in Northern Kenya, and climate change with, among others, Soul Making Keats of the National League of American Pen Women, Bay Area Poet’s Coalition, Word Peace, and the Mendocino Writer’s Conference.

LETTER TO CRAZY HORSE

by Roxanne Doty

Left: A 1934 sketch of Crazy Horse (Tȟašúŋke Witkó) made by a Mormon missionary after interviewing Crazy Horse's sister, who claimed the depiction was accurate. —Wikipedia. Right: The Native American activist Leonard Peltier—convicted in 1975 for the killings of two FBI agents—was released from federal prison on Tuesday after Joe Biden commuted his sentence at the end of his presidency in January. In a statement, Peltier said that he was “finally free!” —The Guardian, February 18, 2025

Innocence is the weakest defense
Leonard Peltier says, it has a single voice,
can only deny, while Guilt has a thousand voices
all of them lies. They said
you were resisting imprisonment
when George Crook’s military guard killed
you with his bayonet. Some call this murder
but language and land prevail.
 
The old medicine man says,
You could make a lovely mountain
into a great paperweight.
Can you make the monument to you
in the Black Hills into a wild, natural mountain again?
 
Today, I see people still longing
for justice and facing defeat,
the lust for stolen lands
still raging, white settlers still rampant.
I hear the thousand voices of guilt.
 
We all need your spirit now, Crazy Horse,
you, the last great figure of resistance
who inflicted defeat on the powerful.
And we need the patience and wisdom
of Leonard Peltier, finally free.

Author’s note: This poem was inspired by William Stafford’s “Report to Crazy Horse.” Italicized quotations by Leonard Peltier are from Prison Writings, My Life is My Sun Dance.

Roxanne Doty lives in Tempe, Arizona. Her debut novel Out Stealing Water was published by Regal House Publishing, August 30. 2022. Her first poetry collection was published by Kelsay Books in the spring of 2024. She has published stories and poems in Third Wednesday, Amethyst Review, Cloudbank, Quibble Lit, Superstition Review, Cagibi, Espacio Fronterizo, Ocotillo Review, Forge, I70 Review, Soundings Review, The Blue Guitar, Four Chambers Literary Magazine, Lascaux Review, Lunaris Review, Journal of Microliterature, The New Verse News, International Times, Saranac Review, Gateway Review, and Reunion-The Dallas Review.

SWITCH

by Arlene Weiner

Source: Wikimedia Commons

For more than a decade, the West has faced off against the East again in what was widely called a new cold war. But with President Trump back in office, America is giving the impression that it could be switching sides. —The New York Times, February 18, 2025

The boys thought it would be fun
to throw the switch, watch trains
derail. It would be rich
to watch passengers tumble out,
scream. Maybe some would be naked.
 
There were deaths. The feral boys
didn’t care. Order and law
were boring. Boys would be boys
making noise, making money,
thinking it funny to upset sacred cows.
 
Watch it on Twitch, a sport
putting people through the woodchipper
the boys’ skipper, a double dipper, boasted,
who boosted his gaming scores.
Nobody came to stop the boys. 
 
Some men would be boys, breaking trust,
ghosting friends, tribal, looting, bribing,
gleeful masculine energy in a red hat. 

Arlene Weiner lives in Pittsburgh, where she is active in community poetry groups. Ragged Sky Press has published three collections of her poetry, most recently More (2022).