EXPECT GOOD NEWS

by Karen Warinsky

 

Bees are in trouble, this we know

but in Oregon no bees died

of pesticide in five years

and somewhere a teen rescued an elder

wandering in 103-degree heat,

a firefighter saved three kids from drowning 

on the Fourth of July

an African coral reef has returned to life,

the same life a tiny girl wants to give

to her big sister

by donating her bone marrow,

while a doctor repaired a man’s hands

through brain surgery,

as scientists discovered a frog bacteria

that can wipe out cancer tumors

and that magic mushrooms

sometimes bring back memories from dementia,

and all the while people pay their bills

donate to the homeless, to food banks,

to hurting people in war zones

and they return money, jewelry and wallets

found in cabs, on the beach,

take out ads and post it till someone calls

take no reward,

Paul and Ringo call each other

every week

and sugar has been found in the Milky Way.

 

Remember there is good news

and never give up, never quit

feed your mind,

look for sugar in the stars.

Best of the Net nominee and award-winning poet Karen Warinsky is the author of four collections including Dining with War  (Alien Buddha Press), and Beauty & Ashes (Kelsay Books).  A former finalist of the Montreal International Poetry Contest, Warinsky has published widely in lit mags and anthologies including Blue Heron,  Consilience, Silkworm, Wordpeace, Circumference, The Naugatuck River Review, and The New Verse News.

WHITE HOUSE CORRESPONDENTS DINNER

Dori Abele loves living close to the ocean in New England, enjoying the beautiful coastal history, nature, and wildlife. Many of her poems reflect themes from her surroundings. Dori’s poetry offers a unique way of looking at the world, insightful and unusual. Several of her poems were most recently published in Poets for Parkinson's and CT Bards Review 2026.  Insta account dori_abele_poems.

FUTILITY AND NEED

by Steve Bowman

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

I don’t have the courage of my friends

to post in protest of this tyrannical regime.

All day every day they’re writing

trump this trump that

all over social media. I tell myself

what’s the point?

A random post here and there

won’t change anything

it’s just a waste of time.

 

Truth is I’m scared.

Of who will respond.

Of not knowing enough to argue.

Of being shamed into silence again.

Of losing.

 

Maybe winning isn’t the point.

Maybe getting up the nerve is enough.

To say what’s wrong is wrong.

To show it’s possible to tell the truth.

To help others find their voice.

To speak with hope.

Steve Bowman’s work has appeared in multiple publications, including Last Leaves, Keeping the Flame Alive, Poets in the Pines, Mocking Owl Roost, Purple Aardvark, and Heart of Flesh. When not writing, Steve seeks inspiration with his little dog, Grummle, in the hills and leaves of Southern Indiana.

SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN

by Lynn White

A Scottish pro-Palestine activist is facing charges for “threatening and abusive behaviour” after reading a poem about children killed by Israel. Bill Williamson, 74, said he had been at a weekly Palestine vigil outside Dunoon Burgh Hall on July 4 when he was approached by a pair of police officers while he was reading out “Don’t Mention The Children” by the Jewish writer Michael Rosen through a megaphone. —The National (Scotland), July 19, 2026

Poets are dangerous.

Naming the dead 

leads to arrest.

The killing 

of some,

by some

is fine,

unlike

the threatening

nature

of reading a poem.

And the unmentionables,

the nameless

children,

must suffer silently.

Poets are ‘The Brave’

in Scotland today.

Poetry is dangerous.

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.

BORDERS

by Howie Good

Nature abhors borders. A smoky haze from Canadian wildfires blots out the sun in Columbus, Ohio. An earthquake under the Sea of Japan shakes skyscrapers in LA. The Earth shares one skin. Borders are human constructs, a kind of illusion, lines that appear on maps without appearing on corresponding landscapes. Governments speak of the sanctity of borders. The smoke from far up north has turned daylight where I live a ghostly amber. There are no borders, really, only fences and patrols and checkpoints as if there were. Men have died by the millions defending what doesn’t exist.

Howie Good's latest poetry collection True Crime was published by Sacred Parasite in Berlin this year.

$100 A BARREL

by Hassan Ismail Adekunle 

The market celebrates first.

Screens bloom green
while somewhere
another mother counts
the hours between explosions.

A barrel crosses
an invisible number
and suddenly
every analyst has a sentence,
every politician
a target,
every headline
a price.

No ticker records
the cost of a fisherman
who does not sail,
a child who learns
the grammar of sirens
before multiplication,
or the cashier
watching gasoline
rewrite this week’s grocery list.

They tell us
energy is security.

Yet the lamps
burn brightest
in boardrooms
far from the sea
where ships move
like nervous prayers
through narrowed water.

History has learned
to invoice grief.

It sends the bill
to those who never voted
for missiles,
never traded futures,
never owned
a single share
of tomorrow.

The market closes.

The sea
does not.

Hassan Ismail Adekunle is a Nigerian poet whose work explores contemporary life, politics, memory, and identity. His poems have appeared in Willy-Wash and other literary magazines. He lives in Nigeria.

WHAT HE DID FOR THEM

by Marge Piercy

Cartoon by Ben Jennings / The Guardian

The Epstein files reveal how

the very rich relate entirely

to each other. They live 

in hermetic opulence.

 

Epstein was not only pimp 

but connector. He gave

the rich and powerful what

they wanted, forbidden

 

sex, a sense of always

being in control, someone

they wanted to hang out

with: the connector.

 

We’re way beneath their

gaze, their understanding

any more than we know 

intricacies of ant life.

 

Too small for us to notice,

we step on them casually

as we go on our way, just

as the rich do to us.

Marge Piercy is the author of twenty one poetry collections and seventeen novels, including Woman at the Edge of Time and SEX WARS. A lifelong feminist, socialist, and anti-war activist, her writing has been exploring labor, environmental justice, and the struggle for a more equitable world over the last five decades. 

I MUST SAY SOMETHING

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

It seems necessary to say something

Just to keep our heads from exploding

The horrors Bibi and the Orange Idiot commit

Never stop

All unspeakably cruel

All that leave us at a loss for words

And yet we must say something

 

This morning I read 

That Israel bombed a home in Gaza

Where a family was asleep in their beds

Six people were burned alive

As they slept

I am at a loss for words

And yet I must stay something

 

This morning I read

That Donald Juniper Trump

Cut billions from a government food program

Meant to provide sustenance 

For the children of the poor

Many of whom will now experience extreme hunger

Many of whom will starve

I am at a loss for words

And yet I must say something

 

What shall I say?

Sorry family who were burned alive

Sorry starving children

How utterly inadequate the words seem

How pathetic in the face of the deaths

Being arrranged by the powerful

For the powerless

I will always be at a loss for words

When coming face-to-face

With the cruelty of the plutocrats

As they dance on the graves of the powerless

And pick the pennies from their pockets

And yet I must say something…

Buff Whitman-Bradley podcasts his poetry at thirdactpoems.podbean.com .

SLIMY GREEN CESSPOOL REFLECTING CAPITALIST RULE

by Raymond Nat Turner

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

Capitalism says corporations are people… It says,

Money’s speech… Buying, bossing, sock-puppet

politicians on Capitalist Hill; White Supreme Court; and

Offal Office’s corrupt cabinet of Epstein class War House.

Capitalism pulled One Big Beautiful Bank Job, stage whispering, 

DOGE really means Department Of Grifter Enrichment! Then,

boasted about looting fruits of our labor; while its Cruel Reich Cult 

casually kills on our streets and strolls unaccountable into the sunset.

Capitalism’s painting our streets crimson, killing class bothers and sisters 

San Diego to Maine. Turning cobwebbed warehouses into torture, murder,

Mengele Medicine hells. Bombing humble boats full of fish on the high seas.

Reducing apartment buildings, hospitals, schools teeming with dreams to rubble…

Capitalism crowned a chainsaw prancing prince of apartheid

First Techno-Fascist Trillionaire. And celebrated his warped

worldview of spastic stiff salutes and spit-shined jackboots—

Mirroring the stinky, slimy green, cesspool—reflecting capitalist rule.

The stinky, slimy green, cesspool—reflecting capitalist rule

Mirroring testosterone-intoxicated, pomade man, obeying orders 

of Captain Morgan, Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. Foolish Fox-box 

foot soldier lusting blood: Blowing up schoolchildren and teachers!

The stinky, slimy green, cesspool—reflecting capitalist rule

Algae attack, metaphor for war. Peeling paint, Pentagon pimps

shredding social safety net with looped, weapons-testing, wars

Horrific, eternal, trade shows of terror… 

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.

SEVEN-POINT-FIVE PERCENT

by Gale Naylor

after Jose Hernandez Diaz

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

Wearing a tie can reduce blood flow to the brain by seven-point-five percent. I’ve heard the percentage is higher if the tie is red. And long—with its triangular tip seeking a fly like the tongue of some metal-infatuated snake, while the tail tightens around a thick neck—carotid compression. Does lack of oxygen fill the brain’s airless void with dreams… of castles lined with gold; of consequences for thee, adoration for me? Seven-point-five percent. This one, simple fact explains so much: Why rich, suit-and-tie men still seek, long after they should be sated. Why heads—of state, of corporations, of patriarchal households—make decisions empty of heart. The simple cause: compression; the cascading effect: low brain blood-pressure, lack of oxygen, loss of compassion, community, empathy——who knew blood was so important! 

Poetry is how Gale Naylor makes sense of the world as a survivor of incest and sexual abuse; they hope their voice helps other survivors feel less alone. Gale's poems have appeared in Exposed Bone, Calliope-on-the-Web, S/He Speaks 4, Jupiter Review, The Ekphrastic Review, and the California Poet Laureate’s “Our California” website. Gale received an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles in 2026.

I DON’T GOT NOTHING. I DON’T GOT NOTHING

a collaborative poem 

by Amaré Fields and Ron Riekki

“I gotta run at eight.”  “So we got seventeen minutes to write this.”

“He gotta a gun and hate.”  “He’s seventeen years old bleeding to death.”

He was a kid. He could’ve been mine as me could have been yours.

We don’t have that kinda lingo in Seattle.  We have everywhere a battle.

With 9mm ruler sticks measuring out your lifespan.  Kadir Skinner,

19-years-old.  “We have a warning.  This video is difficult to watch.”

Have you seen Sinners?

Fourteen shots, 2 blocks ran. He was running.

How does someone defend themselves with their back turned?

Grey hoodie turned red with hate.  How does someone hear

Black words?  I’m not talking about the good cops.  We’re

talking about the bad cops.  We’re talking about black ops.

We’re talking about being hooded, dropped. “He was clearly

running away.” He has a gun he had a gun. The only gun

to his head pointed by the one with the blue

thread.  “I gotta run at eight.”  “So we got eleven minutes to write

this poem.” Cops protecting a land they not even

from. Drum bomb, Iran with a gun. 14 shots

10 blocks from the sun. You motherfucks

ain’t want this son. Honey bloody money

call for your mum.  We’re not talking about the Black cops,

we’re talking about the bad cops.  Bad cops

ain’t far from the good cops. 10 blocks

running from the blue opps.  Black bodies not far from

their homes.  Shot. Glock 19 MOS pistol

whipped car with lights too

bright. I can’t see.  Pissed writing this.  Resist.

I can’t see I can’t see. I. Can’t. See.

He was clearly running away.  Unarmed.

Unharmed?  Hell no.  Fuck the politicing

the hall of pity, shit ain’t witty.  Fuck the politicing

coming straight from the underground, a young brother

got it bad ‘cause he’s dead. Dead, honey. Dead,

you hear that. Dead.

You better start running now, motherfucker

We not talking about the Black cops,

the bad cops; shoot you down

front of your dad cops.

“Where’s your cousin?”

“He’s deceased.”

Body camera video of deadly police shooting released.

“I gotta run at eight.”  “We got three minutes to write this fucking poem.”

Ain’t bout the poem no more.

Words on a page

can’t hold this rage.

Please, don’t shoot.

I can’t see. Blood in my eyes

I can’t see.

I can’t sleep.

He can’t do anything except sleep.

If you held a microphone up to this brother

What would he say? 

Amaré, we got one more minute to write this poem:

what you got to say to the world?

Fuck the politicking this is real life.

Klu klux hold the world to a real knife.

Amaré Fields is a young Black and Japanese poet and scholar currently attending Yale University.

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