Guidelines



Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com. No simultaneous submissions. Use "Verse News Submission" as the subject line. Send a brief bio. No payment. Authors retain all rights after 1st-time appearance here. Scroll down the right sidebar for the fine print.

Friday, October 09, 2026

LIVE EXECUTION LIMERICK

by Paul A. Freeman



December! We are gonna see a

livestreamed execution; ’twill be a

more obvious sign,

of US decline—

behaving more like North Korea.

 

Paul A. Freeman is the author of The Movement, a dystopia-Americana novel set in a future United States of America. The book is available from Amazon as an ebook download and as a paperback. His debut book, Rumours of Ophir, a crime novel taught at ‘O’ level in Zimbabwean high schools, was also translated into German. In addition to having two novels, a children’s book and an 18,000-word narrative poem (Robin Hood and Friar Tuck: Zombie Killers!) commercially published, Paul Freeman is the author of numerous published short stories, poems, plays and articles. He works and resides in Mauritania, Africa.

DÉJÀ VU ALL OVER AGAIN

by Steven Kent


The Guardian, October 7, 2026


Imagine all the crony moola

I'll acquire when I beat Lula.

Got to get the courts controlled here;

That's a bill of goods I've sold here. 

Right away I'll pardon father.

Legal channels? Yeah... why bother?

Democracy is what we're after—

Yanqui, you've no room for laughter!



Steven Kent is the poetic alter ego of writer and musician Kent Burnside. His work appears in 251, The Asses of Parnassus, Blue Unicorn, The Dirigible Balloon, The Hypertexts, Light, Lighten Up Online, The Lyric, The New Verse News, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Philosophy Now, The Pierian, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry, Snakeskin, Well Met, and Well Read. His collections I Tried (And Other Poems, Too) (2023) and Home at Last(2025) are published by Kelsay Books.

THE UNITED STATES OF BRAZIL

by Indran Amirthanayagam 





I throw up my hands. I cannot 

understand how half the country 

votes for stepping off the cliff 


of righteousness, the rule 

of law, protection of the weak 

and the other; how so many 


can see only belly button,

door lock, money swirling

on line, quick payments 


and the roaring feijoada, 

caipirinhas flowing 

and no more focus


on that favela up the hill.

Pied Piper and the Bible,

holiness and the puritan’s


American dream, wealth 

equals God’s blessing,

but aren’t we in Brazil…


the evangelical globalized,

localized, homogenized, 

two frontier myths become one, 


the United States of Brazil,

at least half the residents

singing hymns, marching 


to the sea to build beach-

front property, marching 

to the forest to burn it down.



Indran Amirthanayagam received Sri Lanka's State Literary Award for White Space Sonnets.  He won the Paterson Poetry Prize for The Elephants of Reckoning. His Lettre aux residents du monde is forthcoming from L'Harmattan. Amirthanayagam edits Beltway Poetry <www.beltwaypoetry.com>publishes at Beltway Editions >www.beltwayeditions.com>. He writes indranmx.substack.com

PATRIOT

 by A.M. Silvestri


“They could take out a city,” he said. “Let them take—Let them take out Los Angeles. Let them take out San Diego.” 

Graphic generated by AI; words generated by DJT.



There was a time

I knew what the word meant.


A flag on a porch.

A hand over the heart.

A uniform folded away

after the wearing was done.


Patriot.


It was not a threat.

It did not need to be shouted.

It did not belong

to one man.


Now the word comes dressed

in red hats and anger,

printed across shirts

beside the face of a politician,

as though love of country

required love of him.


And the flag follows.


From truck beds,

from rally stages,

from poles crowded

with the name of a man

above the name of a nation.


Until sometimes

I hesitate to raise mine.


Imagine that.


An American

made uncertain of his own flag

because someone else

has wrapped himself in it.


Then I heard a president say,


Let them take out Los Angeles.

Let them take out San Diego.


I heard those words

and looked at my flag.


Fifty stars.


Not red states.

Not blue states.


States.


Los Angeles is ours.

San Diego is ours.

Detroit is ours.


The small town.

The crowded city.

The farmhouse at the end of the road.

The apartment window

six floors above the street.


The people who agree with me

and the people who do not.


All of them.


Patriot.


I keep turning the word over,

trying to find the thing

I remember.


Not obedience.


Not a red hat.


Not loving a president

more than the country

he was elected to serve.


And not the accusation

hurled at anyone

who refuses to follow.


You do not get to tell me

that dissent is disloyalty.


You do not get to measure

my love of country

by my love of you.


Maybe patriotism

was never the shouting.


Maybe it was always

the quieter thing.


The hand over the heart.


The uniform folded away.


The flag on the porch

moving in the morning wind

with no man’s name beneath it.


There.


That is my flag too.


It belongs to the protester

as surely as the parade,


to the one who questions

as surely as the one who salutes,


to every American

unwilling to confuse

a man with a country.


Maybe the flag does not belong

to the loudest man

who wraps himself in it.


Maybe it belongs

to whoever refuses

to surrender a single star.


So I will keep flying mine.


Not because of him.


In spite of him.


Because he does not

get to have it.


Patriot.



A.M. Silvestri is a Michigan writer and retired professional firefighter whose poetry often draws upon nature, place, memory, public life, and the ordinary moments that reveal something larger. His current work includes ROOTED: A Year of Haiku.

Thursday, October 08, 2026

TO SAVE A LIFE

by Chen-ou Liu




The finale of the Israeli award-winning documentary NAZA, a Hebrew acronym for "collateral damage," captures a father trapped in a furnace of grief. Heat radiates from the tangled grid of collapsed iron and melted plastic. Coughing through blinding smoke, he drags broken blocks of drywall away, his cries echoing off the smoldering rubble that traps his children.

calm between fireballs
an armless girl gazing 
heavenward, yet…


Chen-ou Liu is the author of five books, including Following the Moon to the Maple Land (First Prize, 2011 Haiku Pix Chapbook Contest) and A Life in Transition and Translation (Honorable Mention, 2014 Turtle Light Press Biennial Haiku Chapbook Competition). His tanka and haiku have been honored with many awards.

THE NAME ON THE LIST

by Rajat Chandra Sarmah 


India Cut 130 Million From Voter Roll, Fueling Protests Against Modi: Public anger is growing over an exercise that critics say undermines the world’s largest democracy, particularly disenfranchising Muslims under the Hindu nationalist government. —The New York Times, October 6, 2026

Someone went looking for his name.

It had been there before—
among thousands of other names,
quietly printed,
waiting for a finger
to find it.

This time,
the finger moved down the page
and stopped.

Nothing.

He looked again,
then once more,
as if another reading
might put the name back.

Outside, something was changing
across the country.

Young people had begun
to gather in the streets.

What had been spoken quietly
inside drawing rooms
was now moving towards the road.

People who had watched in silence
were finding one another,
coming together in numbers
that could no longer be ignored.

Questions that once stayed indoors
were now being carried outside.

Who decides
whose name remains?

Who checks the list
before the list becomes
the truth?

In some places,
victory and defeat
stood closer than expected,
while the list
had grown shorter.

Numbers that once fitted
quietly into a column
now carried the weight
of people.

Petitions reached the court.
Dates were fixed,
then moved.

An election waited
for an answer
that had not yet arrived.

The anger spread.

People who had stood apart
were now filling the streets,
thousands upon thousands,
no longer willing
to remain apart.

Barricades went up.
Roads were closed.
Notices appeared.

The crowd was asked
to turn back.

But the streets kept filling.

Not everyone agreed
on what had happened.

Still, too many people
had begun to ask
whether the institutions
they had trusted
were still listening.

For years,
trust needed no proof.

You entered a polling booth,
pressed a button,
and went home.

Now people were looking
more closely at what happened
before a vote became a number,
and who was responsible
for what came after.

Something once taken for granted
was becoming visible:

the distance between
a citizen's faith
and the institution
that asks for it.

He folded the paper.

His name was still missing.

There was no way to know
who had taken it away.

For the first time,
he understood
that finding it again
might require more
than going to the polling booth.


Rajat Chandra Sarmah is a writer from Assam, India, and the author of eight books. His poetry and prose have appeared in literary journals and publications in India and internationally. He is a previously published contributor to The New Verse News and has received several literary awards and recognitions.