WHEN THE NEXT DELUGE COMES

by Debra Orben

When the water comes rushing, gushing down,

Where will you be?

 

Stranded by the side of a flooded road with limited visibility

By the ocean’s edge witnessing the newest high tide

On a mountain top watching the hillside give way to landslide

In a clear-cut forest, seeing newly planted seedlings uprooted

In a homeless encampment without shelter from the pelting

In an old tired house whose roof leaks and windows creak

Standing amid ruins of your former refuge, now burned home

Or helpless as water rises higher, reaching beyond the first floor.

 

Place matters, we can all shelter from the coming storms

But not all in one place and not all places are safe

Some will survive, but left without anchoring memories

No sanctuary from the coming days of floods and fires

No arks or promising rainbows on the horizon.

 

If only we could build bridges high enough and connections

Deep enough to withstand our climate’s growing heat and fury.

If only we could make sure no one is left to drown

Before the next deluge comes trying to wash us all away.

Debra Orben is a retired elementary teacher and Quaker activist who cares deeply about the natural world and the future of all children.  She is an aspiring poet whose poems have been published in several anthologies, including ICE Out by Moonstone Press and Pennsylvania Bards, Easter PA Poetry Review 2026  published by Local Gems Press.

IN GAZA, FLYING A KITE IS AN ACT OF WAR

by Claire Zoghb

With thanks to Murad and Mustafa at Wear The Peace for the beautiful T-shirt.  

Author’s note: On Monday, August 24, 2026, Israeli Defense Minister Israel Katz declared Palestinian children’s kite-flying “an act of war.” I couldn’t help but think of “If I Must Die” by Dr. Refaat Alareer, the prominent Gazan writer, poet, activist, and professor of English literature at the Islamic University in Gaza, who was targeted and assassinated in an Israeli airstrike on December 6, 2023. His poem was widely circulated after his killing and was translated into more than 250 languages.

Available at Wear the Peace

Claire Zoghb’s collections include Small House Breathing and the chapbooks Boundaries and Dispatches from Everest. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize and appear widely in print and online journals and anthologies. When not graphic designing, Claire may be found wandering among beach roses. 

THE KIBOSH

by Steve Straight

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

Something that serves as a check
or stop; to halt, squelch, or cancel;
to bring to a sudden end.

Example: “We put the kibosh on that
to prevent another tragedy.”

Whatever its origin––
Yiddish, Irish, Arabic,
or perhaps just the streets 
of 1830s London––, though,
kibosh is still just a word.

When I put the kibosh on something,
I want it to stay kiboshed.

I would prefer a kibosh
to be a giant winged creature
with long talons and fierce eyes,
a mythical creature come to life.

I’m thinking some kind of griffin,
capable of plucking a certain human
out of his bunker
before he reanimates again
and causes another disaster,
or maybe out in the open,
on a golf course, say.

The kibosh would simply spirit this human
away, some place isolated
and barren and far from civilization.

This needs to happen soon, 
because God knows I can’t wait
much longer to taste the champagne.

Steve Straight’s books include Affirmation (Grayson Books, 2022), which won the 2023 William Meredith Award for Poetry, The Almanac (Curbstone/Northwestern University Press, 2012), and The Water Carrier (Curbstone, 2002). He was professor of English and director of the poetry program at Manchester Community College, in Connecticut.

WHAT SETTLES WHEN WE LAY OUR BODIES DOWN TO REST

by Paula J. Lambert

Source: The New York Times

Really, it’s just the claggy kind of snot struggling

to decide if it wants to stay low in your chest—

 

where your heart beats and every breath passes

through—or if, rising, clinging to the last breath,

 

it has the strength to finally release itself

to the world. We know by now what can travel 

 

on the tiny particles of our gasping exhalations: 

disease, devotion, the promise that death is no end. 

 

We might wish otherwise, drifting in and out 

of these strange dreams of drowning. We know

 

what happened in Nepal, North Carolina, Texas. 

We all might be called mystics when, prone, 

 

our bodies wrestle with desire, each wobble of faith 

in our resolve to go on a little death of its own.  

Paula J. Lambert of Columbus, Ohio, has published eleven collections of poetry including Terms of Venery, Revised (Sheila-Na-Gig 2025) and Sinkhole (Bottlecap 2025). Her work has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, the Greater Columbus Arts Council, and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts.

THE TENDER THINGS

by Janette Schafer

after “We Have Not Long to Love” by Tennessee Williams 

The tender things are those we fold away. 

The lover who didn’t stay, would not say why.

The nephew who’d be the perfect son if only

he could stop drinking. A crow who eats berries

off your front porch until he doesn’t. A mother

who remembers the girl you were at 17, 

and only talks to that child even when she’s 53.

A sister who believes every cuss word is

a demon to cast out. A husband who thinks

every bad day at work is a reason to cheat. 

You’d like the world to try a little tenderness—

except that now Dolly Parton is dead, and today

you needed any ray of sunshine—

so you reach the end of a cassette, hit rewind.

Janette Schafer is a poet, photographer, playwright, and realtor living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Chatham University. She is the author of three collections of poetry and the chief editor of two poetry anthologies. Her writing and photographs have appeared in numerous journals, newspapers, and websites, including Vox Populi, The Missouri Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and SWWIM.  She is a winner of the Academy of American Poets Prize. 

(CAN WE PLEASE GO BACK IN TIME &) MAKE THE GREAT LAKES GREAT AGAIN

by Ron Riekki

For the longest time, the Great Lakes have been

Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, Superior, a bond

between US and Canada that affectionately became

abbreviated to H.O.M.E.S.  But now, to bend

that bond, eerily, the inferior (five-letter too) named

President wants to change it to Superior, Huron,

America, Michigan, Erie, which will from now on

link Trump to the new abbreviation: S.H.A.M.E.

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

TO FLY A KITE

by Lynn White

Cartoon by Kamal Sharaf.

The United Nations has condemned Israel’s threat to expel Palestinians from areas of the besieged Gaza Strip where kites were being flown by children... Israel warned Hamas on Sunday that it would intensify military operations if kites, drones or balloons continue, saying those responsible would be targeted... Several kites not carrying incendiary devices were reported to have drifted into southern Israeli communities over the last month... Gaza’s popular committees, coordinating with Hamas authorities, urged parents on Monday to stop children flying kites, saying they were acting “to protect their innocent lives”... “Every summer, my kid, Ahmed, and the kids in the street fly those kites to entertain themselves,” Umm Mohammed, a mother in Gaza City, told the Reuters news agency. “But [now] I will not allow him to—not any more.” —Aljazeera, August 26, 2026

The kites have fallen

down to earth

they lie on the ground

broken as a child

broken as a child in Gaza.

Go fly a kite, Israel.

Go fly a kite.

If only.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.

TREMONT, MAINE REVERSES 100-YEAR-OLD BAN ON DEER HUNTING

by Marianne Gambaro

The Maine Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Advisory Council (IFW) approved the Town of Tremont’s special deer hunt today despite one member hoping for written assurances from the Maine Attorney General’s office that the move is legal. Tremont will be the only town on Mount Desert Island where hunters can legally shoot deer. The deer hunt begins November 2026 and runs for three seasons. Any deer killed in the town will not count toward the hunter’s state bag limit. —Bar Harbor Story, August 11, 2026.

The rising sun casts a golden hue on two fawns and five does

who peacefully graze a meadow beside Blue Hill Bay unaware 

local humans deliberate their fate

with euphemisms like “balance habitat.”

 

Under July’s buck moon while male deer

grow new velvet-covered antlers

gardeners and farmers kvetch at the post office

about ornamentals leveled and crops decimated.

 

At dusk locals drive more cautiously expecting to encounter

one or more standing in the road around the next bend.

Proponents cite an increase in traffic accidents, ignoring

that it might be a function of the overall increase in traffic.

 

Seeing an upsurge at the local clinic,

the spike in Lyme disease is blamed

on the deer rather than white-footed mice,

the real culprits.

 

In August the Maine Inland Fisheries

and Wildlife Advisory Council

approved the execution order

to be carried out in November. 

Retired journalist Marianne Gambaro is a writer and cat enrichment volunteer who lives in Western Massachusetts. Her poems and essays have been published in numerous journals. She is the author of the chapbook, Do NOT Stop for Hitchhikers (Finishing Line Press), and an upcoming collection, Stuffed Monkeys (Kelsay Books).

HARD CANDY CHRISTMAS

by Deborah Bacharach

I do jazzercise, and I get the joke.

We did it to ourselves, all those neon yellow

faux sexy tights under high-cut leotards.

The frayed silk flowers.

 

And even as we get older and older, corporate 

still won’t leave us be. 

We have to bring our sweet familiar

step-together-step-hop to whatever’s 

climbing the pop chart. Except for

 

Christmas when we get to move

to Hard Candy Christmas.

 

I only know Dolly as a big-busted joke, 

cringe at her platinum wigs.

But when she sings

maybe I’ll dye my hair,

maybe I’ll lose some weight

 

each word is a piece of tinsel.

I feel part of something that matters—

hearing someone in pain,

not dancing away.

Deborah Bacharach is the author of Shake & Tremor (Grayson Books, 2021) and After I Stop Lying (Cherry Grove Collections, 2015). Her work has recently appeared in Poetry East, Last Syllable, Only Poems, and Grist among many other journals, and she has received a Pushcart prize honorable mention. She is a poetry reader for The American Journal of Nursing, SWWIM and Whale Road Review.

THE ROCKS HAVE MEMORIES

by Celeste DeSario
 

Chief Wallace, from the Unkechaug Indian Nation,
We came to your talk, enthusiastic,
Ready to roll up sleeves,
leave our cashmere sweaters home,
Ready to hike through the brambles
To learn about the Sacred Stones.
 
We arrived early to grab front- row seats,
Sipping coffee and sampling cookies,
Ready to learn
About a history we are finally ready to hear.
 
We hope you notice we are here,
Ready to help you.
Sorry for the past, we whisper,
But it was not our fault.
 
We pull out our notecards heavy with questions,
Pens ready to jot down names and places—
Where we can send our checks.
 
The Chief appears in front of us,
No magic there.
His voice soft.
People stand and demand he use the mic;
He pauses.
Looks over the crowd and begins.
“Your homes are built over my grandmother’s bones.
 
We shift in our seats, uncomfortable.
 
He says the stones are not relics.
Not artifacts, waiting to be harvested
Or displayed in a museum.
They are a bloodline.
A heritage.
They are his grandfathers, his grandmothers—
They are living, breathing entities,
Alive, present, watching, waiting.
Braiding our pasts and present.
 
The rocks have memories,
They know.
They have absorbed all the prayers,
Accepted a single stone added to the mound—
An acknowledgement of all those who walked this path before.
 
This is more like it.
This is why we are here.
Pens fly jotting down details.
People smile, showing Chief Wallace
We are happy to be here.
We are not our pasts.
 
He tells us the stones’ portals, align perfectly with the rising sun
Of the spring and autumn equinox,
On those two days— only those days—
The stones ask ancestral visitors for reflection:
The ones who whisper names to the morning wind,
The ones who pause for a moment of thanks,
Palms turned to catch the emerging warmth.
The recognition of a new season unfolding.
 
His people use the stones as calendars—
Telling them when to plant the corn,
When the Bluefish are running,
When the summer Fluke and Winter Flounder
Can be found in the muddy bottoms of bays,
When the Porgy will flood the shallow estuaries every spring.
 
We smile, encouraging him.
See? We are listening.
We are ready to help.
Can you see us sitting here?
 
He looks over his audience, then he looks right at us
“But I am not going to tell you where to find them.”
 
We are outsiders.
Undeserving.
 
 “You bulldoze our prayer sites,
building six bedrooms houses with three car garages.
The kids from those six-bedroom homes
tag the stones with offensive slurs, vulgarities
use Sharpie markers to scrawl “T + M” ‘26”,
Spray paint neon- green skulls and crossbones,
 
“My grandfather’s bones
Are embedded in these rocks—
His spirit
Still alive, still breathing, still present for me.”
 
Boys bent on destruction.
Sacred spaces made unholy by ignorant hands.
Boys who would become the men
who control the land that was not theirs—
the waters, the air.
 
“These stone structures are our churches.
Imagine— just imagine—if we pulled down your altars.
Ripped the cross from the ceiling.”
 
He has lost the thread.
He is losing his audience.
He has lost so much.
 
Now we are the ones who are angry.
Uncomfortable.
Put down that mirror.
That is not my face reflecting back to me.
 
The stones are not meant for those who carry hammers,
The stones are not meant for those who carry hatred,
The stones.
His stones.
 Are sacred.
His heritage.
His.
 
It’s not the talk we anticipated.
It’s not the talk we wanted.
We sit stunned into silence.
 
What now?
How do we move forward?
Are we too late?
 
Chief Wallace stands alone
the audience puts checkbooks back into pockets,
shuffling back to their pools, tennis courts, mahjong tables,
whispering that he has closed the door—
refusing to play by our rules.
Again.
 
Because, we cannot change.
And they cannot trust.
And neither can pretend
The past never happened.
 
 
Celeste DeSario writes poetry to process life’s events, and to try to make sense of them. Sometimes that actually happens.  Celeste’s poetry appears in The New Verse News, The SportsScribe Literary Magazine, The Changing Times, The Ekphrastic Review and The Dissident Voice. Celeste does not own any cashmere sweaters.

GRINDIN’ OUT A DEAL

by Rick Pongratz

After a public contract dispute that led an East Idaho hospital to become out of network with a major health insurer, the two businesses agreed to a contract. The deal brings Portneuf Medical Center in-network for Regence BlueShield of Idaho, according to a joint announcement made Saturday by the hospital and insurer. For two months, the hospital had been out of network for Regence, the insurer for state government employees and other private plans. —Idaho Capital Sun, August 18, 2026

You need to pray for the negotiators
to reach an agreement and resolve this.
Dan, my health insurance customer service rep,
tells me this over the phone.
 
I can’t see him.
I can’t see the words either,
but his voice and tone 
remind me of the youth pastors 
from when I was a kid. 
The ones that never studied 
at a seminary—but, by golly, 
they sure loved Jesus. 
 
My insurance company and my hospital refuse 
to agree on who gets most of my money. 
My doctor wants me to get x-rays 
for a bone spur under my toenail. 
It causes the nail to rise up—inflating 
is the word my insurance company uses 
for the prices of the hospital. 
And that nasty nail just won’t let go—greedy 
is the word my for-profit hospital uses 
for the insurance company 
that won’t agree to terms.
 
And this little toenail, 
it’s quite a small thing, 
but it’s holding a whole foot hostage. 
All the other toenails lie in their beds, 
just taking the space they need. 
They don’t hold out for a ransom, 
expecting a kick-back 
in exchange for not causing pain 
when I knock the soccer ball 
around with my kid.
 
But that’s toes for ya.
So this little fella needs 
to have a bit shaved 
off the top of that bone. 
But the doctor wants
to see what he’s looking at. 
And the hospital tells me my portion 
of the x-ray price is $293, up front. 
I tell the billing specialist 
that Dremels are on sale 
at Lowe’s for $39.98. 
I can buy seven Dremels to grind off 
my toenail, just like the doctor does,
and still have enough money
left over for ice cream. 
I show her the Lowe’s website on my phone. 
She says I’m wasting her time,
and it seems we are at an impasse,
so I call off negotiations. 
 
I go for the ice cream. 
I never was the best with delayed gratification. 
But it seems that sometimes miracles,
they do happen, 
and my hospital 
and my insurance company 
have agreed 
on how rich they should each get. 
 
I haven’t called to see how many 
Dremels the x-ray will cost now. 
I’ll probably just have to settle
for the words spoken
by youth pastor Dan 

and pray for the negotiators;

as I know they prey.

Rick Pongratz is a poet and mental health clinician. His writing appears in Rattle, Bellevue Literary Review, The New Verse News, Unbroken, and elsewhere. Rick specializes in ecotherapy and studies creative writing at Idaho State University. He currently resides in Idaho where he enjoys getting lost in the woods with his family and dog.

AMERICAN BEEF

by Darrell Petska

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

In the coming months, when you bite down on a government-subsidized burger made with meat of questionable origin, you’ll have Glorious Leader Donald J. Trump to thank. On Aug. 21, the president who loves to call other people communists enraged American cattle ranchers by announcing plans to “allow up to 300,000 metric tons of product for ground beef to be imported with no out of quota tariff. We have a commitment that this beef will be sold at 25 percent below current market prices.” Trump posted news of the deal on social media, but of course gave no specific details about who the deal is with, where the meat is coming from or why he’s suddenly admitting that waiving tariffs will, in fact, lower prices for consumers. It’s a turducken of hypocrisy. —Rex Huppke, USA Today, August 23, 2026

I sing burgers
made of American beef,
not of “mystery meat”
imported from Botswana or Brazil,
Namibia or the moon’s dark side.

I sing American cows
raised by hard-working ranchers
living just down the road.
Their methods and products
I can see and trust—

unlike Trump’s dubious meat
bound to depress prices paid
to American cattle growers
needing incentives to rebuild
drought-ravaged herds.

A Trump burger? No way.
There aren’t enough condiments
to mask the foul taste
of midterm connivery
tucked clumsily into a bun.

Darrell Petska grew up on a cattle farm bordering the Nebraska Sandhills, where ranching is a revered but increasingly threatened way of life. Prairie winds still strum his heartstrings, though he now lives and writes poetry in Wisconsin.