THE CANADIAN CURRY PEOPLE

by Ain Khan

I try to explain to my coworker

the concept of a Pakistani auntie—

an older woman in the community 

who knows everyone’s business,

opines on every right & wrong, 

wonders why you’re not married 

& whose sword of judgment 

can cause your extradition from society.

 

Jamil raises a hand to interrupt me.

Jamaicans have aunties too. Really, all cultures do.  

Auntie is not a person—it’s a state of mind,

attained by anyone, at any age.

 

I throw my head back in laughter. Victor settles

across us, sets down his warmed curry, scenting

the lunchroom. All the curry people at work—          

South Asians, Filipinos, Jamaicans & Trinis—

tried his Ghanaian goat curry last Christmas 

& GOATed it unanimously. He nods vehemently 

at Jamil’s definition of an auntie.

 

Around us, TV screens are blaring scenes 

from Minneapolis. Our all-glass building 

backs into the woods. Some days a doe emerges.

Today she steps close to the clear walls 

under the flurrying sky, the sun glinting

in her calm brown eyes, the fawn

brawn of her body soft in a state of repose –

a privilege to exist, knowing she is what she is,

knowing she is not hunted. 

Ain Khan is an emerging Pakistani-Canadian poet and writer based in Ottawa. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Thimble, DarkWinter Lit, Republic of Letters and is forthcoming in CV2.

WE CAN DO VERY LITTLE, BUT I WILL DO THIS

by Annie Stenzel

 

 

 

Starting now, I propose to use GOOD, instead

of good when I talk about a Good thing,

and to say PRETTI rather than pretty, when I am struck

by how pleasing something looks to me.

 

I want this murdered woman, that executed

man, to live on in my speech with their names

alive and visible, notwithstanding their absence from

what should be a Good world, where so much is Pretti.

 

I could do nothing to save them from the horror

of their deaths. Nor can I do anything

for their loved ones, or the people whose lives they graced

every day. Grief won’t allow me to turn back

 

the hands of time, restore someone who was Good

and someone who was Pretti to this frightening world.

 

 

Annie Stenzel (she/her) is a lesbian poet who was born in Illinois, but did not stay put. Her second full-length collection, Don’t misplace the moon, was published in 2024 by Kelsay Books. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in print and online journals in Canada, the U.S., and the U.K., including Action, Spectacle; Gavialidae; Innisfree Poetry Journal; Pine Hills Review; Rust + Moth; Sheila-na-Gig; SoFloPoJo; SWWIM; St, Katherine’s Review; Thimble Lit Mag; and Whale Road Review. A poetry editor for the online journals Right Hand Pointing and West Trestle Review, she lives on unceded Ohlone land within walking distance of the San Francisco Bay.

A VALENTINE FOR MINNEAPOLIS

by Lisa Shulman

 

I love the crunch of your boots in the icy streets,

the rhythmic beat of your mittened hands,

the steam of your breath and the heat of your words 

in this brutal cold and ice-clapped world.

I love the chapped red of your cheeks, your dripping nose

the ice crystals on your eyebrows, your hair,

as you carry signs and bags of food and offer your arm

to that woman on the ground.

I love the street medics with their packs,

the rolling neighborhood patrols,

and the cafes open for free soup and coffee.

I love your cousins in Chicago, Portland, L.A.

I love the way you bang on drums, on cans and dumpsters,

your raucous all-night singing,

your harmonies as you kneel on frozen sidewalks,

your whistles and car horns.

I love your walking school buses,

your inflatable frogs, and knit red hats.

I love the warm and flowing river of your bodies

pouring through your city—

blood pulsing through its veins.

I love your courage that ignites our own,

fire melting ice.

I love your heart.

 

 

Lisa Shulman is a poet, children’s book author, and teacher. Her poetry has appeared in Sheila-na-gig, About Place, Anacapa Review, Inkfish, Kitchen Table Quarterly, New Verse News, and elsewhere. Her new chapbook is Fragile Bones, Fierce Heart. A Pushcart nominee, Lisa teaches poetry with California Poets in the Schools, and workshops for women in recovery.

EQUITY AND TOLERANCE

FOR STONEWALL

by Roberta Batorsky

 

 

Three days after the Trump administration removed a Rainbow Flag from the Stonewall National Monument, defiant activists hoisted the Rainbow Flag once again in front of a jam-packed crowd of fed-up LGBTQ community members who flooded the area surrounding Christopher Park.  Photo by Donna Aceto. —Gay City News, February 12, 2026

Bury the flag of empathy,
it no longer belongs here.
Turn its rainbow black—
disavow the pride it gave
commemorating AIDS victims,
lives lost as in a war.
and it was a war, unended, unwon.
 
Pull the emblem of suffering
of men, women and children,
renew the prejudice that killed
Oscar*, Alan** and others,
deliver it with its own symbol
of derision and weakness.
 
It wasn’t Ellen D***. that convinced us,
Matt Shepard’s death didn’t convince us:
something fundamentally changed then.
Now bathroom jokes, lewdness, shame,
insinuation, guilt and closeting
all shift to the front burner.
 
Bury the flag of concern for people
deep in the heart of the heart of this country.
 
See us now, re-emerging, colors blazing,
in freedom’s garb,
to shake off erasure,
proclaiming our unity:
Our city, our flag.
 
 
*Oscar Wilde
** Alan Turing
*** Ellen Degeneres

 

 

Roberta Batorsky, a New Jersey poet, has published this month her first book of poetry, Perihelion.

TRUMP MAKES ME WISH

by Kevin Boyce

 

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

that superheroes were real. What if

Superman was on his way

to the White House from

the Fortress of Solitude,

 

or maybe

flying in from Metropolis after putting

in a long day at the Daily Planet.

 

Or perhaps,

he has already captured the President

using the Phantom Zone Projector,

committing him to this spectral prison along with

super-criminal, Lex Luthor.

 

Unlike other supervillains, Lex Luthor

does not possess superpowers. His evil stems

from his vast wealth and influence

over politics, science, and technology.

 

An ordinary human, but vengeful and driven by

an insatiable need for control, utterly devoid of ethics

—an unprincipled man.

 

I’m sure that Donald and Lex would find much to talk about

in this never-ending battle for truth, justice, and the American way.

 

            listen carefully

            and you can hear the fabric

                        of the flag ripping

Kevin Boyce is a poet, photographer, children’s book author, and lifelong resident of New England. He volunteers in his hometown, leading a community-sponsored contest and publication for emerging authors. 

FROM THE FIELDS OF MINNESOTA

by Mike Bayles

 

an old watercolor believed to be of Grand Marais, Minnesota

 

 

Each winter fields rested

and in spring they found

new life. My uncle raised

cattle and crops with pride.

 

News played on television

during simpler times

while families sat together

and talked at the dinner table.

 

We had our dreams

of going to the moon

and in quiet times

we looked into clear skies.

 

Buildings in downtown

Minneapolis glistened

our pride, a mecca for most

 

while in St. Paul

cattle displayed at the State Fair

won ribbons while young boys

learned to farm.

 

My cousin and I walked

through pastures and we said

our uncles would never die.

 

We talked of wars,

as soldiers fought

on the other side of the world.

Little did we know that they

would be fought on our streets

 

Back then a man dressed in a cape

could leap over the tallest building

with a single bound. I long

to hold onto that dream.

 

The farm where my cousin once lived

was torn up for a highway

and we’ve fallen out of touch.

Our fathers have died.

 

Now I cry for them

and innocence lost

when the news says

we are killing each other

on the streets I once loved.

Mike Bayles, a lifelong Midwest resident, is the author of seven books of poetry and fiction. His most recent book is The Siouxland and Other Dreams, with poems about Northwest and surrounding areas, and mythology of the land. His writing is informed by his travels when he worked as a flagger/traffic control for construction and utility crews. He is expecting to publish his next collection of poetry this spring.

IN THE PRESENCE OF PEACE

by Ron Shapiro

 

Photo by Ron Shapiro

On the Metro towards DC, I feel

a sense of excitement and anticipation,

a call for peace, an invitation to reflect,

to be mindful, to remember who we are.

 

Arriving at the Lincoln Memorial over

looking the Reflecting Pool, I notice

the always steadfast Washington Monument

while the Capitol seems smaller today.

 

From my history of anti-war protests

towards the government and its reckless

policies, I wanted to experience the antithesis

of such mass gatherings voiced with rage.

 

To witness people pausing their busy lives,

leaving behind their troubles and woes,

to assemble with the intention of offering

gratitude for these two dozen Tibetan monks

 

with a message of love, peace and kindness,

crossing borders of red and white states,

honoring this country’s dream of diversity,

equality and hope. Nothing magical about

 

their intention and effect on others. Just

like-minded people inhaling and exhaling

together in their presence, listening to words

of sacred communion uplifting the darkness

 

from this country and the world. Without

any mention of politics today, only signs of

peace, acceptance and kindness sauteed

with a joyful spirit reflected in smiles.

 

And rather than most everyone holding 

a phone, flowers grace their hands. 

though a large crowd, elbow-to-elbow,

thousands and thousands if I had to guess.

 

A stillness in the cool afternoon winter air

as the first monk appeared, walking barefoot,

smiling, his positive energy pulsating into

my chest. Was that a tear on my cheek?

 

Hands clasped, my fingers touching, offering

homage to their long journey of 2300 miles

over 15 weeks, rekindling a feeling of peace,

inviting the light of a new day into this land.

Ron Shapiro, an award-winning teacher, has published over 20 poems in publications including Nova Bards 24 & 25, Virginia Writers Project, The New Verse News, Poetry X Hunger, Minute Musings, Backchannels, Gezer Kibbutz Gallery, All Your Poems, Paper Cranes Literary Magazine, Zest of the Lemon and two chapbooks: Sacred Spaces, Wonderings and Understory, a collection of nature poetry.

BRANKS

by Julie Steiner

Images of Epstein victims as depicted in Feb. 8, 2026, Super Bowl ad. Image of branks from an oil painting by John Willie, pseudonym for John Alexander Scott Coutts, for Bizarre, a sadomasochism magazine published 1946–1959. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Brank/branks: A device formerly used to punish women judged to be noisy and quarrelsome, consisting of an iron curb for the tongue, held in place by a frame around the head. Also called a scold’s bridle.


You have to tell the truth, but tell it slant.
To lay it bare’s unbearable. You’ve tried.
You’d like to leave it buried, but you can’t.

Too few have cared to hear a woman rant
since Homer (“Sing, O Muse, of anger”) died.
You have to tell the truth; but tell it slant,

since, frankly, even Keats would have to grant
this truth’s no beauty. This, you’ve had to hide.
You’d like to leave it buried. But you can’t,

so Dickinson’s advice is relevant.
She’ll be your Virgil, your inferno-guide.
You have to “Tell [...] the truth, but tell it slant— ”

“Tell all the truth.” But don’t get adamant,
“Or every man be blind—,” she qualified.
You’d like to leave it bare. (Read: But you can’t.)

Loud girls get label-gagged: once, Termagant,

Virago, Shrew; now, Bitch. Take that in stride.

(You have, to tell the truth.) But tell it—slant

or no—you must. Omit the bitter. Scant
the pathos. Cut the caustic. Snip the snide.
(You’d like to leave it, buried.) But you can’t

accuse the rich of rape, or lawyers chant,

“No, he’s the victim! She’s a slut who lied.”

You have to tell the truth, but tell it slant.
You’d like to leave it buried. But you can’t.

Julie Steiner is a pseudonym in San Diego, California. Besides The New Verse News, recent venues in which Julie's poetry has appeared include the Ekphrastic Review, Light, Lighten Up Online, and Snakeskin. See more on her Substack, Off-Piste on Mount Parnassus.

A BLOT UPON THEE

by Zumwalt

 

 

 

 

"One prominent House Democrat, Rep. Jamie Raskin of Maryland, said Monday afternoon that he had reviewed the unredacted documents [of the Epstein files] and saw  'tons of completely unnecessary redactions... I saw the names of lots of people who were redacted for mysterious or baffling or inscrutable reasons,' Raskin said." —CNN, February 10, 2026

 

 

What Blindness now doth mark this stream of text,
Where Blame falls dark, and we are left perplexed.
The blurred distinction between right and wrong—
The weak are blistered by the brazen strong.
The blundered records, bleached of wealthy name
Won't bear the Guilt, now blotted free from shame,
While those who bled a trail of broken trust
Are bluntly bared, the others cloaked with dust.
What blatant gall to hide the rich man's Sin,
To shield in blacked-out lines the wolves within,
Now battered, those who bear no Stain at all—
What Blight is bred in this corrupted hall?
There is no Justice, just the shattered teen,
Her blank Betrayal b-l-i-n-k-i-n-g on our screen. 

 

 

Zumwalt's poetry feeds on alienation, shifting reality, and forced adaptation. Zumwalt is a proud repeat contributor to The New Verse News, and was recently nominated for Ink Sweat & Tears "Pick of the Month." 

FOR THE WATCHERS

by Greg Watson

 

 

Driving my daughter to school this morning, circling the block past the long line of buses, we notice again the parents and neighbors who now stand watch on each corner, braving the sub-zero St. Paul air like half-frozen shepherds, red hearts stitched to their bright yellow vests. Some wave, some sway from side to side in puffy down jackets and snowsuits, silver whistles dangling, as if this were a dance with music only they could hear. "I'm glad they're here," my daughter says. "But I wish they didn't have to be." I nod in agreement. I miss the fourth grade crossing guards, their orange plastic flags waving up and down in sync, laughing with each other, looking each way twice. Though they have not disappeared as the others have—Amalia, Valentina, Angeles, Santiago, Liam, Diego—stolen and flown by secrecy of night to a windowless room thirteen hundred miles away. Stolen by those who call themselves the law. Last night my daughter stayed up past bedtime reading a book about the Montana grizzly attacks of 1967. I asked if was too scary, too intense, and whether it might give her nightmares. "No," she said evenly, "wild animals don't scare me, or natural disasters. Only people sometimes. Only people."

Greg Watson's work has been featured in numerous literary journals and anthologies, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He is the author of eleven collections of poetry, most recently Stars Unseen (Holy Cow! Press). He is also co-editor of The Road by Heart: Poems of Fatherhood (Nodin Press). His forthcoming collection, The Shape of Your Absence, will be published by One Subject Press in April. 

A WHISTLE AND A HONK FOR OUR CITIES UNDER SIEGE

by Raymond Nat Turner

 

 

 

 

Exploding eyeballs of children in chokeholds. Shivering 

seniors drug out into teen temperatures in their underwear;

bloody faces of body-slammed elders, face prints in snow.

Packs of 250lb. fantasy football bettors/NFL-wannabes pile on.

Invasion of the body snatchers! Deputized traitors / MAGAt 

magicians disappearing loved ones. Boss Tweet’s bounty hunters—

$50,000 bonuses — body-slamming, beating down, choking and

Redacting 1st , 4th,  14th and other amendments—on our dime!

Home doors busted open like piñatas by battering ram-wielding

thugs. Shards of car window glass shower city streets with freezing

chaos and terror. 

Another US city’s under siege. Will the reign of ICE stall in snow?

Burrito shop hungry hardhats flooded for lunch; 

for strategy sessions; for 30 minute escapes into

sports sections folded up in sturdy denim back 

pockets: EMPTY.

Coffee shop where co-workers; old and new

neighbors and welcome visitors gathered to chat

over cappuccino, chai, mocha, Americano; or sat

journaling or answering messages: EMPTY.

Corner church swollen with Sunday harmonies 

with communion; with fellowship: EMPTY.

Neighborhood school’s steady stream of shrieking drop-offs 

and pickups ground to sudden halt.

Clinic’s steady stream of cold and flu sufferers: are missing

in action. Community life is strangled under brownshirt siege.

Recalling “No Kings” rally ‘eons ago.’ Signs reading: NO WAR BUT 

CLASS WAR! Recalling contagious rage against grifting Judas. And

feeling hopeful as hell. Remembering solidarity’s our silver lining

in swastika infused clouds … almost filling battleship gray skies...

 

 

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.