TheNewVerse.News
Today's News . . . Today's Poem
The New Verse News
presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.
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Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com.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.
Saturday, August 08, 2026
AMERICAN SNAPSHOT
FIRE THIS TIME
this time
like any other time
like no other time
our time.
Now I understand,
we’re disposable.
After a long life,
tasting the wind
from all directions
I get it.
Fires in Europe,
Canadian forests ablaze,
drought and floods,
we reach into the night
asking consciousness to save us.
The great beast of us
wheels and turns
desire in every hand.
Exploit and plunder marches on.
We could have,
we should have done something yesterday.
I know, I know
it will be different this time.
If I were a giant, I might pick up Congress
and shake it until the rats fall out
but I wouldn’t mess
with the janitors and secretaries.
I go to the river in the evening
to watch it flow through town.
I don’t want to drink it
but I do.
Friday, August 07, 2026
DELETE AFTER READING
Don’t text your political poems.
You know we can’t have those on our phones.
Those Monsters Under the Bed do exist
and have crawled off the white spaces.
And now they lurk.
Waiting. Watching.
Listening to our conversations.
Recording.
Keep those words hidden.
Under cover
But I can’t.
I’m afraid.
I’m not the MAGA Dream Girl, you know.
I’m just an ordinary citizen—
ten fingers, no illusions about me…
I haven’t been to D.C. for a long time,
so, no that wasn’t me trailing my hand
through the algae-green water of the Reflecting Pool.
If I were there, I wouldn’t be able to see my reflection anyway—
the water clouded with bacteria,
and green scum rising to the top…
obscuring my view.
I’m too afraid to look…
Yesterday I pulled $70 out of my wallet
just to fill the tank,
even though I can’t really go anywhere anymore.
Who wants to face the airport check-in desk
and wind up on the floor, guns pointing at you,
for the chance to sit on a boat and watch
the icebergs calve and collapse into a warming Disenchantment Bay?
Cracking, thundering, echoing across the water
as they melt, sending waves skyward
while the tourists clap and cheer—
even though the earth is screaming at us
to bring down the heat.
Everything will be okay, because a deal with Iran
Is “imminent”, “close”, “finalized”.
Promised and promised…
At least forty times so far.
I’m not feeling it.
So, go back to being afraid.
Does that work for you?
Did it work in East Germany under Stasi?
Where an unfamiliar car parked nearby,
made you pull 1984 off your shelves.
Where neighbors would dig through your trash
searching for forensic evidence—
contraband chocolate wrappers from the West,
discarded letters or carbon paper
snatched up and pasted back together.
Evidence of thinking.
Where even a child’s birthday card
was ripped open before reaching its destination
No. It didn’t work.
And Leni’s footage?
The kids, clad in uniforms,
stiff with creases,
climbing flagpoles just to glimpse The Fuhrer.
Cheering, whistling as though he were a rock star.
Children reporting their parents’ dinner conversations—
Complaints of bread and potatoes again.
The long lines, the lack of butter.
The radio dial tuned in, low, listening to the BBC,
listening for the real truth of the world
through forbidden airwaves.
Those kids were patriots.
Where was I?
Oh. I’m still here. Stuck.
Staring at a screen where I delete my own words.
Do I dare to press send?
Will those agents be knocking on my door?
Scrolling through my phone?
Scrutinizing my computer files?
I’m almost at the end of my poem,
but I can’t send it to my friends.
I don’t want the border guards to deny anyone entry,
Or to detain people just trying to see their aging parents.
I guess I will send the poem out into the world.
To a writer. A poet.
Someone who knows the power of words.
Someone who provides a platform
for those of us who need it.
Especially need it.
Today.
Now.
More than ever.
Thursday, August 06, 2026
THE LAND REMEMBERS THEIR NAMES
by Ahmed Dremly
The ground was silent that morning.
Not empty—
silent.
It carried beneath its chest
the weight of a family,
the dreams of children,
the hands of mothers,
the footsteps of those
who once walked upon it.
The sky stood above Gaza,
wide and uncertain,
as if even the heavens
did not know where to place their grief.
After one thousand and ninety-nine days,
the earth opened her hands.
Not to take them,
but to return them.
One hundred and twelve souls
from the Abu Sharia family
rose from beneath the rubble—
doctors,
engineers,
mothers,
fathers,
children,
infants.
A whole family
written back into the memory of the land.
Gaza did not receive bodies that day.
She received names.
A mother of five stood on a rooftop,
holding flowers,
candies,
and the tears she could not hide.
She called to the sky:
Long live the martyrs.
A child who lost both parents
looked through a broken window.
The world was shattered before his eyes,
yet his voice remained:
For you, Palestine.
A man who survived
the death of everyone he loved
carried the remains of his family—
bones, photographs, memories.
He carried a universe
inside his wounded hands.
And he said:
The martyrs do not die.
An uncle who buried fifteen hearts
raised his voice:
Allah Akbar.
Not as a farewell,
but as a promise.
This land knows our footsteps.
This soil knows our names.
We live here.
We die here.
The streets of Gaza filled again.
Not only with mourning,
but with thousands of hands
reaching for the flag-covered bodies,
fighting for the honor
of carrying those
who carried Gaza before them.
Coffee was poured beside graves.
Stories were shared beside ruins.
And every wound
opened another memory.
Today,
the rubble has finally spoken.
It returned the last words
of those who rested beneath it.
Those who protected the earth,
and were protected by it.
Today, Gaza wears her grief
like an ancient dress.
And the land whispers:
They were never buried beneath me.
They were planted.
And I will remember their names.
Author’s note: The poem was inspired by the funeral held today for 112 members of the Abu Sharia family in Gaza, whose remains were recovered from beneath the rubble more than two years after they were killed. 308 members of the family were killed, while the remains of only 112 have been recovered. They were my neighbors, and I knew many of them personally.
Ahmed Dremly is a journalist from Gaza whose writings have appeared in Middle East Eye, Mondoweiss, The Electronic Intifada, The Intercept, Al-Monitor, and other publications. He is currently studying in Italy after leaving Gaza in May 2026.
Wednesday, August 05, 2026
YELLOW FINCH
THE OLYMPICS OF TESTIMONY
with hungry litigants,
he pulls a timeline of horror
from under his fingernails,
pain mired in memory,
entertainment for the bloodthirsty.
and in front of home screens,
spectators judge the recounter
as he details the unforgiveable:
“They’re in the basement.”
he’s questioned over and over
until he's bloodied and defeated
and they are satisfied.
Tuesday, August 04, 2026
USED BOOKS FOR SALE
![]() |
| As developers race to build more powerful AI models, and lawsuits over copyright mount, a cottage industry has sprung up to supply them with millions of physical books that are stripped apart, scanned into training datasets, and discarded. —Yahoo! Finance, July 29, 2026. AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News. |
Soft, almost like felt,
worn down by so
many different thumbs.
Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.
A warm smell with
just a hint of must,
memories of comfort.
Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.
Words carefully arranged,
adjusted, revised just so,
telling a narrative.
Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.
Knowledge, hard won,
meant to be shared,
illustrated clearly.
Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.
Cultural threads woven
together to patch
gaps in society.
Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.
Lone voices calling
from the past, trying
to share themselves.
Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.
What cost will we pay
when the future devours
the past?
Slice. Scan. Destroy. Repeat.
Brydon Caldwell is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. He was recently named the winner of the 2026 Icelandic Festival of Manitoba Short Story Contest. His writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, The Fib Review, and the upcoming Fear Dealer, Opolis 2026, and Still From Somewhere anthologies.



