CHICAGO STOCK (YARDS) 1954

WHISPERS OF THE NOW

by Corey Weinstein

We were born on a sigh of relief

trembling lips after Nazi butchers’ blade,

pasty grins of “don’t mention it please”

elders hiding this truth from their brood.

 

Trembling from Babi Yar family’s ruin

our adults invoked a solace of silence.

Just let us strive, be free range kids. 

We, fizzy bubbles of sorrows’ cauldron.

 

     (now this genocide in Palestine)

     (children, press, doctors targets)

 

High grades and high jinks were our sweet lot

summer’s play, bikes and balls all day.

Bubbles can only break, learn the horror

noxious smells waft up from stockyards.

 

     (rubble trapped death stench)

     (homes and hope lie in waste)

 

Hot days joy mixed with sirloin slaughter

what could our folks have had on their mind?

Pens of cattle, hogs not dear Kyiv cousins,

grins not groans for Rogers Park preteens.

 

     (miasma of cruelty’s purpose)

     (to break a peoples’ spirit)

   

When we unearthed the bloodbath’s facts

sighs of relief became embarrassed stutters.

Children left to fathom a world’s dread, 

parents’ silence a kindly confusing legacy.

 

     (what are parents thinking now?)

     (telling kids about Gaza now?)

Corey Weinstein’s poetry has been published in Haight Asbury Literary Journal, Vistas and Byways, The New Verse News, Our California 2024, The Ekphrastic Review, Forum (City College of San Francisco), California State Poetry Society, Visitant, Abandoned Mine, Speak Poetry of San Mateo County, California State Poetry Society and Jewish Currents, and he wrote and performed a singspiel called Erased: Babi Yar, the SS and Me. In his free time, he hosts San Francisco OLLI’s Poetry Workshop Circle and plays the clarinet in his local jazz band, Tandem, his synagogue choir and woodwind ensembles.

A CURRENT EVENT

by Cecil Morris

On last night’s news, the demonstrations

of officers with their newest “tool”:

the electric shock glove, a low-voltage stunner

that makes their pretend “criminals” drop

to their knees, agonized. They promise that,

this “tool” will cause no permanent harm,

will not leave a mark, and I think about

the old beatings—Jim Crow days—that left

no marks, about unsworn officers of abuse

with the shock gloves to keep their wives—

or husbands—or kids or dogs in line,

about encouraging compliance with

velvet gloves. I think about poor Midas

and his golden touch, about that episode

of Cheers when know-it-all postman Cliff

in avoidance therapy begins to shock

himself. I think of just desserts,

of what goes around comes around,

of ICE officers shocking each other

or themselves by accident

or having to don shock-proof rubber sleeves,

maybe whole wet suits as prophylactics,

the newest body armor by Body Glove,

and non-compliant protesters dressed

like frogmen, too.

Cecil Morris, a retired high school English teacher, has poems appearing in The 2River View, the Common Ground Review, The New Verse News, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. His debut poetry collection At Work in the Garden of Possibilities (Main Street Rag) came out in 2025. His second collection, Daughter Lost and Found and Lost, will come out from Kelsay Books in 2027.  He and his wife, mother of their children, divide their year between the cool coast of Oregon and the relatively hot Central Valley of California.

LETTUCE REJOICE! (THE PATRIOTIC CYCLOSPORA CAYETANENSIS)

by Zumwalt

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

Trump’s CDC Stopped Monitoring Explosive Diarrhea Parasite Before Outbreak —Newsweek, July 10, 2026

It's a big win, a big win, so cue the parade—

Inflation is beaten! Our Fed target's made!

So how did we do it? Well, funny you ask—
We fired all the folks doing food-safety tasks.

No agency checking for bugs in your greens.
No budget for knowing what "parasite" means.
Sixteen percent cheaper—a triumph, a feat!
Who cares if there's germs in the lettuce you eat?

So cheers to the savings—we know you're all glad,

Even Taco Bell's prices have come down a tad.
You can now eat much cheaper than you did in the past

But please note, due to gastrointestinal side effects, 

                     you may choose to fast.

Zumwalt’s poetry examines the intersection of identity, instability, and the mechanics of perception. Recent work is currently appearing in The New Verse News.

A MARRIAGE OF EAGLES

by stella graham-landau 

From Nest to Deathbed, Jackie the Eagle Entranced California and Beyond. The bald eagle and her mate gained fame during the pandemic, as a livestream tracked their nesting attempts. She died while being treated for anemia. —The New York Times, August 10, 2026

mated for years

jackie is larger than shadow 
her compadre of the skies 
both hardwired to protect 
each egg each feathered chick
perhaps they met in a playground of clouds 
an accidental encounter 
not paired by families imagining 
a coupling worthy of majesty 
they soar
own the sky 
build aeries in the tops of giant trees
relying on architectural instinct
carried in their bones
jackie 
an unpretentious name 
for a mother 
tasked to save her species
eons of ancestral instructions
to keep eagles aloft

build a nest
mate
lay eggs
hatch
fledge 

repeat

stella graham-landau is a poet in richmond va. she has been published on the new verse news and other journals, websites, and anthologies. she loves the generous community of poets she has found online and welcomes conversations with other creators.

TABOO

by L. Roger Owens

In the evening of the day that negotiations

over the Strait of Hormuz threaten again to collapse

and Russian missiles kill seventeen souls

in Kyiv—we saw seven bodies still lying there, one

reporter says—the same day a progressive democrat

declares victory in a senate primary in Michigan,

the family of my daughter’s boyfriend joins us

for a game night. We’ve made brownies. They bring cookies,

peanut butter ones. Ice cream chills in the freezer.

The whole gang comes: mother, father, sister and her boyfriend

(who went to high school with my boys), younger cousin,

and the boyfriend himself, it goes without saying.

We sit in a circle in the family room like a shape poem,

our names prosodic when spoken,

the consonance of the v’s and m’s, hard g’s beat--

boxing; two r’s waltz together sweetly.

The game is one in which you prompt your teammates

to guess a word, but there are several you can’t say.

My word is banana, and five more are forbidden me:

fruit, peel, yellow, split, and bread. I make

banana bread whenever a family member returns home,

from college, say, or from a trip away

(something dead citizens of Kyiv will never do again).

“Welcome Home Banana Bread,” we’ve named it

in the family cookbook, and three bananas

are browning in the kitchen now, waiting to be smashed

into pancake batter. My teammates know none of this.

I yearn to say peel yellow fruit, and time runs out.

I alone decline crumbed cookie between my brownie

and ice cream, and while we spoon dessert

into our mouths, no one dares to speak

of the widening fiasco in the Middle East or allude

to human remains strewn among the streets of that great city,

its Golden Gate immortalized by Mussorgsky.

No one says, Thank God the centrist lost.

But you don’t mention these things, of course you don’t,

not when your families are gaming together for the first time—

you don’t. More ice cream, anyone?

 

L. Roger Owens teaches spirituality, ministry, and creative writing at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary. He is an MFA student at Ashland University.

WE WON

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

“Dwindling Munitions” by Nick Anderson

 a cento of public quotes from President Donald Trump in roughly chronological order

 

"The United States military, together with the wonderful Israeli partners, 

continues to totally demolish the enemy far ahead of schedule 

and at levels that people have never seen before. 

Well, I think we've accomplished more in one week 

than anyone thought possible. We're winning the war by a lot. 

We've decimated their whole evil empire.

 

It'll continue, I'm sure, for a little while.  

Let me tell you, we've won. 

You know, you never like to say too early you won. 

We won. We won the bet. In the first hour, it was over. 

It's an excursion that will keep us out of war.

 

The war is very complete, pretty much. 

If you look, they have nothing left. 

There's nothing left in a military sense.

 

We've essentially defeated Iran. 

Uh, I guess they can have a little bit of fight back, but not much. 

Not much.  

We'll be leaving in pretty much the very near future. 

Iran is close to demolished. The only thing is the strait.

 

We are getting very close to meeting our objectives as we consider winding down. 

We're doing a five-day period. We'll see how that goes. 

And if it goes well, we're going to end up with settling this. 

Otherwise, we'll just keep bombing our little hearts out.

 

Iran is begging to work out a deal. 

I don't know if we'll be able to do that. 

I don't know if we're willing to do that. 

I think we'll make a deal with them. 

Pretty sure. But it's possible we won't.

 

We are on track to complete all of America's military objectives shortly, very shortly. 

We're going to hit them extremely hard over the next two to three weeks. 

We're going to bring them back to the Stone Ages, where they belong.

 

MAKE A DEAL or OPEN UP THE HORMUZ STRAIT. 

Time is running out—48 hours before all Hell will reign down on them. 

Glory be to GOD! 

Open the Fuckin' Strait, you crazy bastards, or you'll be living in Hell. 

JUST WATCH! 

Praise be to Allah. 

A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again. 

I don't want that to happen, but it probably will.

 

We're going to hit them very hard tonight. 

We're going to hit them hard tomorrow. 

We're going to hit them really hard the night after. 

Next week gets really bad for them 

because next week comes the power plants, 

next week comes the bridges. 

We're going to knock out all their power plants. 

We're going to knock out all their bridges 

unless they get to the table and negotiate.

 

The war in Iran is going along swimmingly. 

We can do whatever we want. 

And it should be, it should be ending pretty soon. 

It was perfect. I mean it's perfect. 

The Strait of Hormuz is completely open and ready for business and full passage. 

We are winning big in Iran, 

and you will see the fruits of that labor very, very shortly."

 

 

I was the only president in modern history who did not have any new wars.

                                                      Donald Trump, 2023

 

I will not send you to fight and die in a foolish, never-ending war.

                                                      Donald Trump, 2024

 

                                    I didn't guarantee no war.

                                                                                          Donald Trump, 2026

Ed Gold has three chapbooks including Sundown (2023) and Loveship (2025) from Finishing Line Press. His poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Think, In These Times, Passager, Kakalak, and others. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with my wife Amy and  dog Edie, and he coordinates the Skylark poetry contest for SC high school students. Ed is lucky to be working with Richard Garcia and the Long Table Poets.

I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW

by Sally Mills

That if I ever need to be flown out

of Turkey, under threat of attack

by Iran in response to a war

that I started, I may hide

in an airport catering container

if that is what I need to do, but

what I will not do, I promise, is

leave you on the old Air Force One

as a decoy. That is the depth

of affection I have for you

and you can take that to the bank.

xoxo

Sally Mills is a poet and attorney from Downeast Maine.  She studied the Russian Silver Age poets and holds an MPhil on the works of Anna Akhmatova.  Her work has appeared in The New Verse News and is forthcoming in Rat’s Ass Review.  When not writing poetry or practicing law, Sally performs with The Damn, Girls! — Hancock County’s premier country-western girl band.

LIVING WITH MA NATURE

by Lenora Rain-Lee Good

Wildfires surround my town

air quality goes from green to red

 

my sister’s town is burning

her air quality is purple

 

I wear mask when outside

would wear it inside, but 

 

they are paper and dissolve 

in my cup of coffee, so I run

 

my air cleaner. Perfumes, smoke,

pollen, dust, anything to irritate

 

my larynx and my voice goes

or I sound like a pubescent boy

 

either was fine when my kids 

were young and full of laughter

 

they have more sympathy now

I wish Ma Nature did.

 

Lenora Rain-Lee Good lives near the Columbia River in Kennewick, WA. Her latest chapbook is Saying Goodbye to Thomas published by Finishing Line Press. She writes fiction, radio dramas, and poetry. Her words have appeared in online and print magazines and anthologies, including Quill and Parchment, Ekphrastic Review, and Notes of Light and Dark: Southwestern Aubades and Nocturnes. Her favorite poetical quote: “A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.” —Robert Heinlein

PRIVATE ALTAR TRUMPS

by J. Alan Nelson

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

 

You can buy one for the mantel
or the corner of the kitchen table
where the bills used to go.

 

A golden Trump, small enough
to fit in the palm,
heavy enough to feel like something
earned.

 

For those who have decided
science is a rumor
and most other people
are an inconvenience,
except the ones who write checks
large enough to keep the foundries running,
the molds poured, the gilt applied.

 

Facts are only obstacles
on the way to the next order.
Denmark is a minor interruption
between here and Greenland.
Democracy is a temporary arrangement
that can be redirected,
like a pension check,
toward the manufacture of more golden figures
for the home altar, the office shrine.

 

Iran will be humiliated
in the proper sequence,
and a prize for peace
will follow as naturally
as the next shipment arrives.

 

Women and children may speak,
but their voices do not alter
the shine on the hair,
the tilt of the chin,
the fixed, triumphant gaze.

 

Place him where the light hits.
He does not require belief,
only space.

J. Alan Nelson is a poet, journalist, lawyer, actor, and nominee for a Pushcart Prize, Best of Net and Best Microfiction. He played the lead in the viral video “Does This Cake Make Me Look Gay,” the verbose “Silent Al” in HBO’s Emmy-winning SXSWestworld, and narrated New York Times videos on AIDS programs in Africa.

ENABLERS

by Elizabeth Kerlikowske

 

If you let your sons win at card games,          they will never learn strategy.

If you talk down to them using simple baby words,       they won't understand complexity.

Because you don’t want them to fail,                   you don’t make them do anything hard.

You accept every lie because it is easier   and more comfortable than checking up.

If your son is always where the trouble is,       your son is the trouble.

Your son knows you will bail him out,     make the excuse, buy him another car.

Hell, you might even buy him the gun          he uses to murder a man and then

kill himself.                     Your love knows no bounds.

Author’s note: I saw something like this play out in my own life when my stepmother did provide the gun my brother used at the end of the poem because she could not say no to him.

Elizabeth Kerlikowske teaches ekphrastic writing at the Kalamazoo Institute of Art and volunteers at an alternative high school. 

INSOMNIA CHRONICLES LIX

by Erin Murphy

The night is full of insomniacs googling insomnia. When I hear contempt, I think contretemps. Instead of raging hatred, I see mild embarrassment, two girls showing up at prom in the same dress. Better yet, contra dance: two lines of partnerless dancers, a caller announcing moves to the beat of fiddles and mandolins. Years ago, a contra dancing club met Mondays in a local barn. Members brought potluck meals they kept warm under tea towels. Or so I imagine. I never went but was intrigued by the small ads in the weekly paper. All welcome, bring a dish. How did we find out about anything back then? No internet, no cell phones. If I were dropped in the middle of 1990, could I find my way home? The past is a foreign country, someone once said. Lately, so is this moment. During the pandemic, one house on our block had a Trust Dr. Fauci banner on the front porch. Across the street, neighbors planted a Fauci is a Liar lawn sign. My friend Joan says it’s everyone’s first time being a person. Most of us are personing the best we can. We try, try, stumble, try. Contra dancers weave in and out of other bodies, wipe brows with damp bandanas, grant grace for missed cues. Look each other in the eye.

Erin Murphy is the author or editor of sixteen books, most recently Swoon: New and Selected Poems (Grayson Books, 2026).