SONNETS LEANING LEFT, RIGHT

by Olga Livshin

Left-Leaning Sonnet

                           For Maria Gapotchenko

What can we do   WHAT CAN WE DO   We

can hide in a sonnet   Its milky worn 

warmth  You look hot in a sonnet 

Like a baby elephant  Pull the taffeta   

over your eyes  Turn off the news  

How to help from under a word comforter  

Stick out one hand   Poke the nearest sufferer

Hey fellow victim   Hola      Pryvit     How’s it all

hanging   Do you need anything

I know about tragedies  Can I write one about you

Or sing you into the velvet car of my ghazal  

Sell all my books and Venmo you a little sum

I would send a sun      or my hardy son   but 

don’t know  what am I doing   What have I done

Right-Leaning Sonnet

I say you can’t see borders from space  just fat land slices

and blue elixir  He chuckles When did that ever matter 

I say  You make money from different parts of the world

He talks about the history of empire

and dictators cycling like water   I say  Nature 

flits like pixies       Burning Siberian peat

brought Anchorage  soot He says  Sad Not 

your fault Enjoy your short life   I say I am  

enjoying my friendships in Lviv and Kharkiv  and 

want hamsters and parakeets to live on  He replies 

Arrive  Thirty-four years late  Better than never   

Look    The whole planet on your well-chosen plate

Sweet and staring at us both with disbelief

Docile and looking up with brilliant hope

Olga Livshin’s poetry recently appears in Poetry, The Southern Review, and AGNI. She is the author of A Life Replaced: Poems with Translations from Anna Akhmatova and Vladimir Gandelsman (Poets & Traitors Press, 2019) and translator of Today is a Different War by the Ukrainian poet Lyudmyla Khersonska (Arrowsmith Press, 2023). 

SUDANESE LAMENT

by Maia Justine Storm 

Escaping Darfur: Mothers face starvation under trees in Chad —Al Jazeera, June 26, 2026

i give her a breast

that is empty

 

a bowl 

that is broken

 

a cracked cup

 

i offer my daughter

weeds and leaves

 

crushed and boiled

 

but she 

is too hungry to eat them

and i am too sad 

to cry

Maia Justine Storm is a 78-year-old woman living in Kalamazoo, Michigan. She has been an immigration attorney for 25 years and has returned to her adolescent dream of being a poet. Most recently, she has been published in the Poetry Superhighway where she was a Poet of the Week, haikuniverse, Antifa Lit Journal, The Mersey Review, Shot Glass Journal, and forthcoming issues of several more journals.

EVACUATE, EVACUATE!!

by Dick Altman

in Northern New Mexico

Wildfire near Tres Piedras New Mexico grows to over 1,800 acres —Santa Fe New Mexican, June 28, 2026. U.S. Forest Service photo.

Firefighters Mourn 3 Fallen Comrades as Blazes Ravage Utah and Colorado. Fires are raging in the arid Southwest after a warm winter. Forecasters say the fires may grow rapidly, and parts of Colorado have been ordered to evacuate. —The New York Times, June 28, 2026

I feel the old anxiety,

my pulse rising,

as the season’s first fire

expresses an unbridled

appetite for destruction,

exploding in three days,

from thirty acres

to seven hundred,

and still uncontained.

Grab your things,

crews yell,

hammering

on the front door,

and get out now!

How many times,

I ask myself,

must this story

repeat itself.

I watch,

across the valley,

swathes of

tall pine,

go from years

of glorious growth,

to barren shiny char,

in a matter of hours.

It shatters my heart,

when I think

of how I devoted

so much of my spirit

to nurturing

a conifer forest

up here on my home’s

bluff.

And all of its beauty,

decades in the making,

lost forever,

in a single bolt

of predacious light.

Nightmares

of flame

plague my sleep,

whenever

a blaze begins

to devour

a nearby landscape.

Am I next,

repeats in my mind,

over and over.

Evacuate!

The word

riddles me

with fear

and helplessness.

Replant

my life,

as if a cindered

forest.

Could I summon

the strength.

Force myself

to forget the home

I built,

the arboreal

children

I rear

over decades.

Evacuate!

To a tomorrow,

unknown,

uncertain,

voracious,

I weep to myself,

beyond

all reckoning.

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, and others here and abroad.   Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 300 poems, published on four continents.

NOT TELLING IT SLANT

by Margit Berman

AI graphic by Nightcafé for The New Verse News

This poem went to the protest.

This poem went to the protest and was arrested.

It did nothing wrong.

Just stood and told the truth.

This poem has listened all day long to lies.

This poem's own mother called it evil right to its face

and it is not evil

even though sometimes it wishes it was.

This poem heard lies about zines

and the reflecting pool

and whether anyone needed a ride.

This poem is not evil

and always stands and tells the truth

and—tell the truth—that it why you hate it,

isn't it?

That is why they hanged this detained poem

without a trial

from the gallows

in the trees

until the protest signs

slipped from its hands and fell,

until the words convulsed,

ceased

in its broken neck.

Margit Berman is a writer, psychologist, artistic director of Jackson Street Arts in St. Paul, MN, and faculty at the University of Saint Thomas and the Geisel School of Medicine at Dartmouth. Her poetry has been published in If Poetry Magazine, The Quarry at Split This Rock, Foreign Policy in Focus, on the Mississippi Valley Poetry Walk, and in the anthology, Try to Have Your Writing Make Sense, among others. She has won poetry contests including at the Poetry Free for All, Garrison Keillor’s Green Light at the End of the Dock Poetry Festival, and from the League of Minnesota Poets.

THE CLIMATE SCIENTIST

by Ash M. Corvo

AI graphic by Nightcafé for The New Verse News

My morality is not pretty
Not gartered in roses or smelling like honey
It is iron and snapping teeth
Demanding and loud and spitting on money

And I'll be honest: I hate gilded pulpits and podiums
From where I should beseech gods or powers that be, giving tithe
My authority is nameless in the bitter autumn wind
I know spring blossoms follow the scythe

Look at me and judge: my nobility isn't an eagle, soaring
Even the vulture must eat
Head naked and bent over what is rotten
Clear-eyed, swallowing mouthfuls of pungent meat

They all argue, pen or sword? What does it matter?
I have written words for so long, there is a season for each
A time to inscribe law, a time to rend flesh
And a time for discretion to teach

So yes, my morality is hideous
I endeavor for factual hands to mold it
It does not promise flowery hymns, nor to caress the ear
And we have precious little time for bullshit

Ash M. Corvo is a novelist of dark adult fantasy and science fiction. She writes for readers who want stories to break them—and piece them back together. Her novels confront impossible moral dilemmas, conflicting loyalties, and the gruesome aspects of human nature we prefer not to examine too closely. She holds a Ph.D. in biology, and has seen firsthand the effects of humankind on the natural world.

HERE, NOW, ON WOBBLY LEGS

by Ronald J. Pelias

AI graphic by Nightcafé for The New Verse News

When our earth stands on its wobbly legs,

its ankles broken, knee ligaments torn,

its lungs black with soot and sorrow

 

when our chemicals pollute and poison,

our air and water contaminate our bodies,

and pandemics become commonplace

 

when the heat rises each day to record levels

and oceans rise above our frightened feet

faster than any barrier can be built

 

when fires eat the landscape, tornadoes

tear through our homes, and hurricanes

can’t be measured with current categories

 

when polar bears starve as the ice melts,

whales wash on shore with bellies filled

with plastic, and bees die from insecticide

 

when steadfast scientists, overwhelmed

by the enormity of earth’s physical deterioration,

insist on triage priority for our fading planet

 

when environmentalists warn and warn

and the politicians do nothing to change course,

to save, here and now, the blue ball we call home

 

when other celestial bodies are beyond

reach, dreams of a better future fade,

and hope washes away with the latest flood

 

when words fall on the deaf ears of deniers

and our earth collapses on its wobbly legs,

it might be helpful to offer a steadying hand.

Ronald J. Pelias has spent his career working with the fusion of performance, literature, and qualitative research methods. His most recent books are The Creative Qualitative Researcher (Routledge), Lessons on Aging and Dying (Routledge) and Writing and Other Familiar Things (Routledge).

NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS, HERE ARE THE SEX PISTOLS (XTRA PISTOLS, HOLD THE SEX)

by Steven Kent

“Heterosexual, sober men who marry girls and read Bibles, we’re the new punk rock!” the pastor Mark Driscoll [at Freedom Con] said in a fiery sermon that brought attendees to their feet. —The New York Times, June 26, 2026

"When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less" —Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

The Freedom Con is aptly named—it's bunk.

Until you've seen your options madly shrunk

And found yourself in nihilism sunk,

With friends and lovers hooked (or dead) on junk,

You cannot rightly call yourself a punk.

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

WHAT LIES ARE UP TO

by Virginia Aronson

Cartoon by Gary Huck

Trump claimed a saboteur with a box cutter damaged the Washington Reflecting Pool [with a 350-foot gash]. Coating manufacturer Rhino Linings described the issue as finish coat separation. The company’s statement did not mention vandalism or criminal activity related to the damage. —MeidasNews, June 26, 2026

Lies are bold, and so loud we think they must be facts.
They appeal to your vanity and assuage your fears. That's how they hook you.
Lies will lure you in with promises and sweet talk. 
They'll jump out at you shrieking wildly to drown out facts.
Lies lie around and snack on junk, they binge and swell, taking up all the room.
They sometimes cut one and stink up the room while you have to pretend not to notice.
Lies bulk up, bullying and sitting on facts to keep them quiet.
Lies act like they are super heroes—until facts challenge them to prove it.
Lies will backstab facts then look innocent after. There's rarely an investigation when lies are in charge.
Lies will drink and drive, then crash. They survive, often thriving while the damage to everything else is catastrophic.
Lies rise to the top like air bubbles or scum; only facts can get rid of them.
They will grab your savings, your home, your job, your spouse, your life—but only if you let them.
Lies will try to make you change your beliefs, your morals, your humanity. 
Lies will empty your bones and eat you alive, that's what lies are up to.

Virginia Aronson is a poet, novelist, and journalist who lives in the lush, lurid tropics. Her poetry collections include Collateral Damage, literary biographies of some of the troubled writers of the 20^th century (Clare Songbirds Publishing, 2025), as well as the chapbooks Hikikomori, Itako, and Tropical Diagnoses. Her most recent novel is Lazy Palms (Cyberwit, 2026) about a program for voluntary euthanasia in a Florida trailer park. 

T.P.S, T.P.S, T.P.S.

by Indran Amirthanayagam

No more mother of exiles.

No more hands outstretched

to the tired and poor, 

the huddled masses. 

No more strolling 

on the boardwalk

at Coney Island 

or by the Golden Gate

or on the cobblestoned

streets of the French Quarter,

where Americans gather.

No more Haitians 

fleeing gangs, rapists

and house burners.

No more Syrians

escape artists

from Assad father

and Assad son.

No more 

Allen Ginsberg

denouncing 

the damnations

of Moloch.  

But listen.

We accept mortality, 

that we are on earth 

a little space. But we 

are here now, 

and deportation orders,

we will challenge 

each one. Organize, 

Strategize. 

Hide our brothers 

and sisters. 

To the churches!

To the sanctuary cities! 

Distract and resist ICE.

Do not accept 

any supremacy

in the decision 

to deny Temporary 

Protected Status 

to Haitians 

and Syrians.

Indran Amirthanayagam writes a Substack. He has just published Isla itinerante ( Editorial Apogeo, Peru, 2025) and White Space Sonnets ( Sarasavi publishers, Sri Lanka, 2025). His other publications include El bosque de deleites fratricidas ( RIL Editores), Seer (Hanging Loose Press),The Runner's Almanac (Spuyten Duyvil), Powèt Nan Pò A: Poet of the Port (Mad Hat), and Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (Broadstone Books). He is the translator of Kenia Cano’s Animal For The Eyes (Dialogos Books) and Origami: Selected Poems of Manuel Ulacia (Dialogos Books). He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube, and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.

THE EXPERT SHOT

by Lynn White

Photograph: Nasser Ishtayeh/Sopa Images/Shutterstock

Dozens of Israelis from the country’s security, political and cultural elite have threatened legal action against their government over support for Jewish terrorism and an “ideology of ethnic cleansing” in the occupiedWest Bank, according to a leaked letter. —The Guardian, June 24, 2026

I’m an expert shot.

I can hit a child’s head 

every time

when I’m following orders

and sometimes

when I’m not.

I’m an expert shot.

I can hit a surgeon’s hand

every time

when I’m following orders

and sometimes

when I’m not.

I’m an expert shot.

I can hit a young man’s balls

every time

when I’m following orders

and sometimes

when I’m not.

I’m an expert shot.

I can hit a footballer’s foot

every time

when I’m following orders

and sometimes

when I’m not.

I can do other things as well

when I’m ordered

and even

when I’m not.

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

THE PEELING OF AMERICAN FLAG BLUE

by Celeste DeSario

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

“Multiple arrests,” Truth Social shrieks!
“People vandalizing the Reflecting Pool”
“Eco-Terrorists!”
 
David Hearn, the “eco-terrorist”
Aka former Olympic canoe racer
Stopping by the pool during a 64-mile bike ride.
Curious as to what is going on,
(These days we have to see for ourselves—
So much spin, so many lies.)
 
Curious, a regular citizen,
Reaching into pool to examine the peeling coating,
briefly touching a chunk on the side of the pool,
Letting go the moment a park worker tells him to.
Detained by National Guard troops for 5 hours before being released.
Because that’s what we have become:
fodder for an old man’s lies.
 
There. That takes care of all those doubting Dumb-a-Crats
Who keep asking why I spent $14-million- plus
Just to spruce up the green, algae -laden pool
For the nation’s 250th anniversary.
 
Backfired? Mistake?
Never admit to a mistake.
It’s Biden’s fault. It’s Obama’s fault.
 
American flag blue will cover up the Iran war, 

Why did we attack them again?
The Epstein files, 

Did you finish redacting any mention of my name yet?
The dismantling of the East Wing,
The dismantling of our democracy.
 
Throw in chemicals!
Kill the algae while I find the time to attach blame.
Drain the swamp!
Deflect it.
Shroud it.
  
The American Flag Blue lining peeling away
Beginning to fail,
Exposing the filth on the bottom.
You can only cover that up for so long.
 
And, here’s my question:
What do YOU see when you stand by the edge of that reflecting pool
And look into the green globs of phytoplankton, bacteria, green scum?
 
The water is “crystal clear.”
Believe me.
Just look away.
 
You, throwing insults and bombs
Retreating to your gilded office
To type out words you hope the world
Will believe.

Celeste DeSario taught English at Suffolk County Community College in Brentwood, New York for 37 years and received teaching honors from both SUNY and the University of Texas. Now focusing on creative writing, her recent poetry has appeared in The New Verse News, The Changing Times, The SportScribe Literary Magazine, The Ekphrastic Challenge of June 6 of Wenzel Hablick’s Utopian Buildings and The Ekphrastic Review’s July 6th online issue.