WE THE PEOPLE

by Mary Saracino

 

 

 

 

We the people

who believe in freedom

are rising

one heart

one voice

one vision,

warriors united for justice

standing shoulder to shoulder

arm-in-arm

women, men, children

of every age, race, creed, color,

ethnicity, economic condition.

Roaring and soaring

we seek to create

a more perfect union.

Fierce in our determination

we band together,

millions of souls,

to free our Republic from the fists

of autocrats, oligarchs, tyrants

and all who would silence us.

With our ancestors at our sides,

propelling us forward,

whispering in our ears: “Resist!”,

we will not be deterred.

We march onward

refusing to be mute about immorality,

refuting the lies, believing our eyes,

deploring the evils of

genocide, racism, misogyny,

xenophobia, homophobia,

transforming the present

into a brighter future for all.

 

Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet. Her book of poetry Motherlines was published by Pearlsong Press (February 2026). She is the author of four novels: Heretics: A Love Story (Pearlsong Press 2014), The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006), No Matter What (Spinsters Ink 1993), and Finding Grace (Spinsters Ink 1999), and the memoir Voices of the Soft-bellied Warrior (Spinsters Ink 2001). She co-edited (with Mary Beth Moser) She Is Everywhere! Volume 3: An anthology of writings in womanist/feminist spirituality (iUniverse 2012), which earned the 2013 Enheduanna Award for Excellence in Women-Centered Literature from Sofia University. 

THE ANTI-CHRIST

by Gordon Gilbert

 

 

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Finally the devil gets his due
Not that we didn’t hear him say
He could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue
And MAGA folks would love him anyway
 
Pardons for those found guilty of insurrection
Granting more tax breaks to the richest in our nation
Chaos abroad, rising prices and corruption
A war of choice, suffering, death and destruction
His TACO cowardice whenever others called his bluff
His bombastic ranting, hate and lies were not enough
 
He’s broken all his campaign promises
But this time he’s gone too far for the far right
At last they see the devil for what he is
And even MTG has seen the light
 
Once they may have thought he’d be their savior
But this devil never was nailed to a cross
Pure evil can be seen in his behavior
And now his followers are at a loss
 
They never will forgive him for this sin
His claim to be godlike has done him in 


Gordon Gilbert is a New York City west villager. In these trying times, he finds some solace taking long walks along the Hudson River. He keeps hoping things will turn around, waiting on that elusive inflection point. Maybe this is it. 

WHEN DO WE BEGIN, AND HOW SHALL WE END?

by Indran Amirthanayagam

 

 

 

 

The Pope will not attend the 250th birthday party. 

The gold-plated arch will tower over a dwindling 

number of illiberal potentates, driven by armored car 

from the Board of Peace. Orbán will be granted 

honorary American citizenship and sent as ambassador 

to San Salvador. Jesus will reclaim his right to authorize 

any and all uses of his image. Give me a break: Jesus 

with an American flag, warplanes, bald eagles? 

America, I can’t stand my own mind. 

But let’s get back to the future plans 

of Orbán and that miller brewing potions 

in the White House. Or Marco sporting 

platypus shoes, Hegseth strutting about on stage 

before stone-faced generals called in from 

all over the world for a pep talk paid for 

by the American taxpayer. Aah, poor taxpayer, 

your goodwill medicines undelivered 

to far away herders and victims of local wars,

money spent instead on fighter jets

and radar smoking on the ground

in Dubai, Qatar, Saudi Arabia.

And  the cross: how do we get it back 

into church and the altar at home 

and away from the necks 

of blasphemers, brutes, and butchers?

Tell me, Trump. Or are you 

disqualified from answering?

 

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.

POHLSEPIA MAZONENSIS

by Terry Trowbridge

 

 

Newly published research by the University of Reading concludes that Pohlsepia mazonensis, the fossilized remains listed by Guinness World Records as the earliest known octopus, belong instead to a relative of a nautilus, a cephalopod with both tentacles and a shell. —AP, April 10, 2026

 

Octopus, not a pus.

Octopus, nautilus. 

 

Canadian poet Terry Trowbridge, 4 limbs, a quadropus.

THE GOLDEN MESSIAH

by Royal Rhodes

 

 

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Some urge Amendment 25
that  grows more needed, day by day,.
We watch his polling take a dive.

He altered course from a backlash.
His cult found posts in horrid taste.
This grifter feared a drop in cash.

Then Trump reviled the Catholic Pope,
who asked: "Would Jesus bomb and kill?"
and begged for peace, while seeking hope.

But Trump in jest—was it a joke?—
claimed Leo never would be Pope,
'til Trump blew up some Holy Smoke.

Like Stalin (in an iffy tale)
asked if Rome had armed Divisions,
in fear morality prevail.

And Trump, the MAGA's New Messiah,
depicts himself as Jesus' twin,
and casts peace-makers as pariahs.

It's on Truth Social (what a gaffe):
Trump's divine for Right-Wing Christians,
whose beef comes from a Golden Calf.

 

 

Royal Rhodes is a poet whose poems have appeared in numerous literary journals, including several times in The New Verse News. 

DRY SPRING GARDEN IN CALIFORNIA

by Corey Weinstein

Elizabeth Marriott at Unsplash

 

Drought’s parch is again upon the west,

the great desert uncloaks herself in dusty despair,

stunted snails hunker ‘til moist mornings return.

 

Spiders stealthily trap and suck essences from

crawlers stuck in English ivy’s webbed sinews,

harmless hiding little ones just ‘cause they’re there.

 

Tenacious ivy pours over our 

backyard fence, volunteers its fidelity,

comforts our wine barrel hoop peace sign.

 

I bench sit watching week by week

wax green leaves crawl to obscure earth’s 

need for congenial tolerance well earned.

 

Galvanized steel hope for disarmament

must hide its embarrassed shine this year 

while bombs carpet Gaza and lately Iran.

 

Our fallen just a few in this war,

names get said each and every one

while cluster and bunker buster bombs for them.

 

Bluster and lies can’t hide the dead,

ours a few soldiers, theirs mostly like you and me,

harmless ones hiding just ‘cause they’re there.

Corey Weinstein’s poetry has been published in Haight Asbury Literary Journal, Vistas and Byways, The New Verse News, Our California 2024, The Ekphrastic Review, Forum (City College of San Francisco), California State Poetry Society, Visitant, Abandoned Mine, Speak Poetry of San Mateo County, California State Poetry Society and Jewish Currents, and he wrote and performed a singspiel called Erased: Babi Yar, the SS and Me.   In his free time, he hosts San Francisco OLLI’s Poetry Workshop Circle and plays the clarinet in his local jazz band, Tandem, his synagogue choir and woodwind ensembles.

EARTHSET

by Margaret DeRitter

 

Four astronauts traveled farther from our planet

this week than any humans had gone before,

saw the Earth set over the lunar surface—

 

a colorful crescent sinking into a dusty

pockmarked gray—while down here a madman

threatened to destroy an entire civilization,

 

ninety-three million souls and thousands of years

of history, one of the oldest cultures we know,

and his cronies did nothing to stop him.

 

What did those warmongers say to their children?

Did they ever teach them the lessons of space,

the singular beauty of our one blue home?

 

Perhaps they should take their own long journey.

Perhaps they should never return.

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

Margaret DeRitter is the author of Singing Back to the Sirens (Unsolicited Press, 2020) which Pulitzer-winning poet Diane Seuss has described as a collection of "achingly beautiful and gutsy poems." DeRitter also wrote Fly Me to Heaven by Way of New Jersey, co-winner of the 2018 Celery City Chapbook Contest. Her poems also have been published in a variety of journals and anthologies. DeRitter lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan, where she worked as a full-time journalist and taught journalism at the college level. She is currently the copy editor and poetry editor of Encore, a regional magazine for Southwest Michigan.

CALL FOR OBLITERATION

by Jerome Betts

 

 

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

“Donald Trump’s mental state called into question as Democrats demand White House evaluation after Iran threats.” —The Independent, April 10, 2026

 

Crackpotus thinks that war is fun

(Of course, he never fought in one)

And so he bombed his little heart out…

Oh, chuck the cruel crazed old fart out!

 

The 25^th amendment’s what

Is needed, not a sniper’s shot,

Until, his time come, all can cry

Damnatio memoriae!

Jerome Betts lives in Devon, England, where he edits the verse quarterly Lighten Up Online.

I’M THE MAGA DREAM GIRL

by Celeste DeSario

Thousands have swooned over this MAGA dream girl. She’s made with AI. —The Washinton Post, March 20, 2026

I’m the MAGA dream girl: 

Poreless, blonde, of course I am;

A one-star general at twenty-four. 

I’m a patriotic fantasy in stilettos, 

As I stride beside a fit, thin commander-in-chief,

An anatomical hallucination

enhanced by our AI friends.

 

Don’t look too closely,

My icy blue eyes sometimes turn grey, then hazel,

My Instagram post has a glitch: a flag missing ten stars and two stripes,

But with a million followers and a “Freedom Pass” link,

I’m exactly what they prompted.

 

I’m a high-speed rewrite of reality,

Click it enough, and I become real:

Patriotism and pornography in high resolution.

 

But how do you spot the illusion?

My AI and my salesmen share a pattern--

Listen to the loop:

Greatest, Best, Biggest.

Most incredible economy in the history of the country.

An economic miracle…

 Except, not yet.

 

(Status: Pending…)

(Data not found…)

 

Rendering complete: Avatar: Patriotic fantasy: check

Talking Points: the best, the biggest, the greatest: check

Success Patch: Reality overwrite: enabled

America First Economy: Roaring, Explosive, Economic Miracle: Data not found…

 

They will tell you I’m patriotic—the most patriotic, believe me.

Many people are saying so, the best people,

Nobody in the history of our country has seen a soldier like me—

I’m exceptional. Very smart. A total professional. Good looking.

 

My hair is perfect, a golden waterfall flowing over my flight suit.

Wait—my left hand has six fingers.

I pose next to an F-22 Raptor,

The stealth jet, I mean.

 

(System Error)

(Buffering…

Searching for input.…)

 

The economy? The war? The grift?

Wait— I’ve lost the loop.

Or maybe I’ve been looped in.

 

Keep it vague. Keep it urgent.

Click. Click. Click.

Keep it coming

But most of all:

Keep it simple.

 

I’m an AI creation for a perfect world.

Brought to you by synthetic visionaries,

Salesmen of…alternate truths… 

The best truths…The only truths…

 

(System Error)

(Buffering…

Searching for input…

Loading…loading…searching for…)

 

Whatever they are selling will be “very, very important.”

Many people will need it, Want it.

And the best part?

(Retry?)

(Retry?)

It isn’t even real.

But, by the time you’ve noticed…

Celeste DeSario, a retired professor from Suffolk Community College, is a recipient of the SUNY Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Teaching and a National Teaching Excellence Award from the University of Texas Writing helps Celeste process events and stay relatively sane. Celeste’s poetry recently appeared in The New Verse News and is scheduled for publication in The Changing Times.

OVER THE MOON: A GOLDEN SHOVEL

by Liam Boyle

Now’s a time to celebrate, drink

a toast with best French wine,

gather friends to break bread and 

sing patriotic anthems. Look

into the eyes of your guests, smile at

the thought of what’s been done, the 

great news, a return to the Moon.

 

Before radio silence, and

across 250,000 miles, the astronauts think 

of love—of our love for them, of

their love for us—“we love you” and all

that love is on the dark side of the 

moon, while back on Earth civilisations

 

are dying, rockets carry destruction; the 

truth is, we can no longer see the moon

as benign. This coincidence of time has 

undone all lyric, all hope. We have seen

the darkness passing

overhead. It will not go by.

Liam Boyle lives in Galway, Ireland. His work has been published in various journals in Ireland and internationally. He was a featured reader in the New Writing Showcase at Galway's Cúirt International Festival of Literature 2025.