BORDERS

by Howie Good

Nature abhors borders. A smoky haze from Canadian wildfires blots out the sun in Columbus, Ohio. An earthquake under the Sea of Japan shakes skyscrapers in LA. The Earth shares one skin. Borders are human constructs, a kind of illusion, lines that appear on maps without appearing on corresponding landscapes. Governments speak of the sanctity of borders. The smoke from far up north has turned daylight where I live a ghostly amber. There are no borders, really, only fences and patrols and checkpoints as if there were. Men have died by the millions defending what doesn’t exist.

Howie Good's latest poetry collection True Crime was published by Sacred Parasite in Berlin this year.

$100 A BARREL

by Hassan Ismail Adekunle 

The market celebrates first.

Screens bloom green
while somewhere
another mother counts
the hours between explosions.

A barrel crosses
an invisible number
and suddenly
every analyst has a sentence,
every politician
a target,
every headline
a price.

No ticker records
the cost of a fisherman
who does not sail,
a child who learns
the grammar of sirens
before multiplication,
or the cashier
watching gasoline
rewrite this week’s grocery list.

They tell us
energy is security.

Yet the lamps
burn brightest
in boardrooms
far from the sea
where ships move
like nervous prayers
through narrowed water.

History has learned
to invoice grief.

It sends the bill
to those who never voted
for missiles,
never traded futures,
never owned
a single share
of tomorrow.

The market closes.

The sea
does not.

Hassan Ismail Adekunle is a Nigerian poet whose work explores contemporary life, politics, memory, and identity. His poems have appeared in Willy-Wash and other literary magazines. He lives in Nigeria.

WHAT HE DID FOR THEM

by Marge Piercy

Cartoon by Ben Jennings / The Guardian

The Epstein files reveal how

the very rich relate entirely

to each other. They live 

in hermetic opulence.

 

Epstein was not only pimp 

but connector. He gave

the rich and powerful what

they wanted, forbidden

 

sex, a sense of always

being in control, someone

they wanted to hang out

with: the connector.

 

We’re way beneath their

gaze, their understanding

any more than we know 

intricacies of ant life.

 

Too small for us to notice,

we step on them casually

as we go on our way, just

as the rich do to us.

Marge Piercy is the author of twenty one poetry collections and seventeen novels, including Woman at the Edge of Time and SEX WARS. A lifelong feminist, socialist, and anti-war activist, her writing has been exploring labor, environmental justice, and the struggle for a more equitable world over the last five decades. 

I MUST SAY SOMETHING

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

It seems necessary to say something

Just to keep our heads from exploding

The horrors Bibi and the Orange Idiot commit

Never stop

All unspeakably cruel

All that leave us at a loss for words

And yet we must say something

 

This morning I read 

That Israel bombed a home in Gaza

Where a family was asleep in their beds

Six people were burned alive

As they slept

I am at a loss for words

And yet I must stay something

 

This morning I read

That Donald Juniper Trump

Cut billions from a government food program

Meant to provide sustenance 

For the children of the poor

Many of whom will now experience extreme hunger

Many of whom will starve

I am at a loss for words

And yet I must say something

 

What shall I say?

Sorry family who were burned alive

Sorry starving children

How utterly inadequate the words seem

How pathetic in the face of the deaths

Being arrranged by the powerful

For the powerless

I will always be at a loss for words

When coming face-to-face

With the cruelty of the plutocrats

As they dance on the graves of the powerless

And pick the pennies from their pockets

And yet I must say something…

Buff Whitman-Bradley podcasts his poetry at thirdactpoems.podbean.com .

SLIMY GREEN CESSPOOL REFLECTING CAPITALIST RULE

by Raymond Nat Turner

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

Capitalism says corporations are people… It says,

Money’s speech… Buying, bossing, sock-puppet

politicians on Capitalist Hill; White Supreme Court; and

Offal Office’s corrupt cabinet of Epstein class War House.

Capitalism pulled One Big Beautiful Bank Job, stage whispering, 

DOGE really means Department Of Grifter Enrichment! Then,

boasted about looting fruits of our labor; while its Cruel Reich Cult 

casually kills on our streets and strolls unaccountable into the sunset.

Capitalism’s painting our streets crimson, killing class bothers and sisters 

San Diego to Maine. Turning cobwebbed warehouses into torture, murder,

Mengele Medicine hells. Bombing humble boats full of fish on the high seas.

Reducing apartment buildings, hospitals, schools teeming with dreams to rubble…

Capitalism crowned a chainsaw prancing prince of apartheid

First Techno-Fascist Trillionaire. And celebrated his warped

worldview of spastic stiff salutes and spit-shined jackboots—

Mirroring the stinky, slimy green, cesspool—reflecting capitalist rule.

The stinky, slimy green, cesspool—reflecting capitalist rule

Mirroring testosterone-intoxicated, pomade man, obeying orders 

of Captain Morgan, Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. Foolish Fox-box 

foot soldier lusting blood: Blowing up schoolchildren and teachers!

The stinky, slimy green, cesspool—reflecting capitalist rule

Algae attack, metaphor for war. Peeling paint, Pentagon pimps

shredding social safety net with looped, weapons-testing, wars

Horrific, eternal, trade shows of terror… 

Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; Black Agenda Report's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC.

SEVEN-POINT-FIVE PERCENT

by Gale Naylor

after Jose Hernandez Diaz

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

Wearing a tie can reduce blood flow to the brain by seven-point-five percent. I’ve heard the percentage is higher if the tie is red. And long—with its triangular tip seeking a fly like the tongue of some metal-infatuated snake, while the tail tightens around a thick neck—carotid compression. Does lack of oxygen fill the brain’s airless void with dreams… of castles lined with gold; of consequences for thee, adoration for me? Seven-point-five percent. This one, simple fact explains so much: Why rich, suit-and-tie men still seek, long after they should be sated. Why heads—of state, of corporations, of patriarchal households—make decisions empty of heart. The simple cause: compression; the cascading effect: low brain blood-pressure, lack of oxygen, loss of compassion, community, empathy——who knew blood was so important! 

Poetry is how Gale Naylor makes sense of the world as a survivor of incest and sexual abuse; they hope their voice helps other survivors feel less alone. Gale's poems have appeared in Exposed Bone, Calliope-on-the-Web, S/He Speaks 4, Jupiter Review, The Ekphrastic Review, and the California Poet Laureate’s “Our California” website. Gale received an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles in 2026.

I DON’T GOT NOTHING. I DON’T GOT NOTHING

a collaborative poem 

by Amaré Fields and Ron Riekki

“I gotta run at eight.”  “So we got seventeen minutes to write this.”

“He gotta a gun and hate.”  “He’s seventeen years old bleeding to death.”

He was a kid. He could’ve been mine as me could have been yours.

We don’t have that kinda lingo in Seattle.  We have everywhere a battle.

With 9mm ruler sticks measuring out your lifespan.  Kadir Skinner,

19-years-old.  “We have a warning.  This video is difficult to watch.”

Have you seen Sinners?

Fourteen shots, 2 blocks ran. He was running.

How does someone defend themselves with their back turned?

Grey hoodie turned red with hate.  How does someone hear

Black words?  I’m not talking about the good cops.  We’re

talking about the bad cops.  We’re talking about black ops.

We’re talking about being hooded, dropped. “He was clearly

running away.” He has a gun he had a gun. The only gun

to his head pointed by the one with the blue

thread.  “I gotta run at eight.”  “So we got eleven minutes to write

this poem.” Cops protecting a land they not even

from. Drum bomb, Iran with a gun. 14 shots

10 blocks from the sun. You motherfucks

ain’t want this son. Honey bloody money

call for your mum.  We’re not talking about the Black cops,

we’re talking about the bad cops.  Bad cops

ain’t far from the good cops. 10 blocks

running from the blue opps.  Black bodies not far from

their homes.  Shot. Glock 19 MOS pistol

whipped car with lights too

bright. I can’t see.  Pissed writing this.  Resist.

I can’t see I can’t see. I. Can’t. See.

He was clearly running away.  Unarmed.

Unharmed?  Hell no.  Fuck the politicing

the hall of pity, shit ain’t witty.  Fuck the politicing

coming straight from the underground, a young brother

got it bad ‘cause he’s dead. Dead, honey. Dead,

you hear that. Dead.

You better start running now, motherfucker

We not talking about the Black cops,

the bad cops; shoot you down

front of your dad cops.

“Where’s your cousin?”

“He’s deceased.”

Body camera video of deadly police shooting released.

“I gotta run at eight.”  “We got three minutes to write this fucking poem.”

Ain’t bout the poem no more.

Words on a page

can’t hold this rage.

Please, don’t shoot.

I can’t see. Blood in my eyes

I can’t see.

I can’t sleep.

He can’t do anything except sleep.

If you held a microphone up to this brother

What would he say? 

Amaré, we got one more minute to write this poem:

what you got to say to the world?

Fuck the politicking this is real life.

Klu klux hold the world to a real knife.

Amaré Fields is a young Black and Japanese poet and scholar currently attending Yale University.

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice. 

BEING NEIGHBOURLY

by Brydon Caldwell

As humanity expands to

fill the globe, so too

does density as we are

stacked one on top of

another on top of another.

Neighbours, who used to be

a friendly wave across a 

field, are now as close as

thin sheetrock, plaster, 

and some studs.

In our proximity, our

capacity has not changed;

we are no more magically

tolerant of others than before.

We share a space that is

subject to the elements,

acts of God, even fire, water,

and air. Accept or deny

climate change, we all live

on the same globe with

common conditions. We can

turn on the kitchen fan when

the smell of curry gets too

strong, but none of us have

control over Mother Nature.

Still, it is easier to blame

someone nearby for those

things that are beyond our

dominion, rather than face

the shared responsibility for

dealing with those outcomes.

What, then, is the

neighbourly response?

Brydon Caldwell is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. A lifetime of creativity and flirtation with the written word has finally coalesced into writing that he’s proud to put out into the world. His writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, The Fib Review, and the upcoming Fear Dealer, Opolis 2026, and Still From Somewhere anthologies.

SMALLEST AREA COMPATIBLE

by Pepper Trail

Valley of the Gods in Utah’s Bears Ears National Monument. Dreamstime Photo by Paul Brady.

 

The President is to reserve "the smallest area compatible with the proper care and management of the objects to be protected." —The Antiquities Act of 1906

President Trump on Monday reduced the size of two national monuments in Utah by nearly 3 million acres, teeing up a legal battle over whether presidents have the power to shrink such sites in the first place. Mr. Trump signed two executive orders to sharply cut the Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monuments to less than 10 percent of their current size. Both sites are known for their sandstone canyons and vast mesas, which are rich in wildlife habitat as well as archaeological sites of importance to Native American tribes. —The New York Times, July 13, 2026

• A body, small, feverish with measles, crying into the hospital dark?
• An automobile, pinned to the curb, bullet-holed, its driver dead inside?
• The dancing-ground of desert grouse, scraped bare and sold for the oil beneath?

No, stick to this case:

A landscape unbroken but for the lines we draw

Canyons, plateaus, water and the channels it makes

Sagebrush and juniper, birds and lizards and deer

Marks etched on sandstone cliffs, testimony to other ways of being

 

A National Monument, “Bears Ears”

   named by the peoples who shared this land

Hoon’Naqvut, 

Shash Jaa’, 

Kwiyagatu Nukavachi, 

Ansh An Lashokdiwe

delineated by thousands of years of indigenous knowledge

thousands of pages of scientific analysis

thousands of voices raised for protection

 

or

 

slashed overnight by 90%

ignorance glorified

harnessed to political calculation and greed

 

The smallest area compatible with proper care and management?

• Our society, torn apart by division and violence?
• Our nation, sinking into a morass of corruption and tyranny?
• Our planet, hurtling toward unchecked climate chaos?

Decide

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.