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.

MY ISLAND

by Sally Mills

 

Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner's Indian Creek Island property with a curiously blue pool.

Ivanka and Jared live on an island.
Indian Creek Island.
It’s part of Miami.
Man-made.
Billionaire Bunker.
They gutted the home,
remodeled the neoclassical masterpiece
with a modern and lavish look.
Because Ivanka has impeccable taste.
They kept the double staircase,
but gave the rest—even the pool cabana out back —
a total makeover.
Ivanka hosted an event by the pool
for her friends:
an evening of reflection and mindfulness
led by her very own
transcendental meditation expert.
No wonder Ivanka is so serene.

Now they have another island—
Sazan Island
in Albania.
This one is private.
1400 hectares.
(What’s a hectare, exactly?)
Five miles of beachfront!
3,500 Soviet bunkers!
They discovered it while on
a friend’s boat.
They swam to it,
then hiked up a mountain,
barefoot.
They were captivated.
They developed the opportunity
to help realize its potential,
transform it.
With a lot of restraint and care.
It’s not even a business!
It’s more like a challenge.
A tangible manifestation of
how they want to live.

I would like to live on an island.
But you know, I wouldn’t transform it.
I would hole up in
one of the bunkers.
I would sit quietly with the
limestone cliffs,
the holm oak,
the flowering ash.
I would watch
the sun rise over the Adriatic.
I would leave the flamingos alone,
the sea turtles,
the eight species of bats,
the Balkan wall lizard.
Forty kinds of beetles.
I would give them the opportunity
to realize their potential.

 

AI gif created by Nightcafé Studio for The New Verse News.

Sally Mills is a poet based in Downeast Maine. She came to poetry through studying the Russian Silver Age poets. She has been writing poetry in private for most of her life.

SHORTAGE

by Tara Menon

The Boston Globe states
there’s a shortage of breast biopsy needles 
in the nation, the result of a recall.
Doctors need to conserve their supply.
Breast cancer diagnoses are delayed. 
 
We mustn’t sprout cancer cells 
at least until the end of March.
Better yet, we must remain healthy 
our entire lives while science
invents ways to cure or prevent diseases.
 
What do we do about shortages
when the Strait of Hormuz closes
or when nations hoard supplies as weapons of wars
or when global warming results in more pandemics,
overwhelming hospitals to prioritize surgeries,
or when doctors are forced to turn down patients
or when the cost of insurance swells to smother us?
What then?
 
None of those scenarios have to happen, you know.
The worst enemy is the shrug of shoulders.

Tara Menon is an Indian-American writer based in Lexington, Massachusetts. She is a two-time finalist for the Willow Run Poetry Book Award. Her latest poems are forthcoming or have appeared in AMPLIFY (Sheila-Na-Gig), The Sucharnochee Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Chaotic Merge Magazine, and Grey Sparrow Journal.

SENATOBIA, JUNE 2026

by Eric Goldfarb

SENATOBIA, Miss.—People scattered in a Walmart parking lot on [last] Tuesday as law enforcement officers, who were wearing gas masks and lined up under the store’s grocery-side entrance, unleashed tear gas on the crowd that had gathered to protest the police killing of 1-year-old Kohen Wiley [pictured above]. Two days earlier on June 14, the young Black child died after a Senatobia police officer fired into a moving car, killing him and injuring the driver. Officers, who had been responding to a call alleging that someone had tried to steal a box of diapers, claimed that the car was driving toward the officer when he fired—a claim that some witnesses have disputed. —Mississippi Free Press, June 17, 2026

The report said: one box of diapers.

The report said: they saw the child first.

The report did not say what diapers cost,

only who was made to pay.

Eric Goldfarb writes poems and essays about the quiet reinventions that shape a life. His work appears or is forthcoming in ONE ART, Hippocampus Magazine, Third Wednesday, Midsummer Dream House, Panorama, and elsewhere. After decades in technology and private equity, he returned to the page. He lives with his wife in Atlanta.

SO MAYBE / THAT’S THE METAPHOR THIS TIME

by Paula J. Lambert

It’s all just a little too on-the-nose. Today,  

the duckling floating in the reflecting pool—

 

as if the algae weren’t its own metaphor,

and the peeling paint, American Flag Blue. 

 

The memes came quickly, the Rothko references,

dark humor that, for us, lets off a little steam 

 

but does nothing for the actually dead duck

who had no way of knowing what an idiom is, 

 

the meaning of metaphor, the swampy weight

of prophecy. Lame duck. Sitting duck. 

 

Duck, dead in the brackish waters of ’Merica, 

the good ol’ US of A, a country of promises

 

never realized, not fully, a country never once

able to reflect on its faults. So maybe 

 

that’s the metaphor this time, refusing to see

what we really are: Ugly. Unwilling to change. 

Paula J. Lambert Paula J. Lambert has published five full-length poetry collections including Terms of Venery, Revised (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions 2025) and six chapbooks including Sinkhole (Bottlecap Press 2025). Her work has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, the Greater Columbus Arts Council, and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts, and her mentorship has been recognized by PEN America. A strong supporter of the intersection of poetry and science, she lives in Columbus with her husband Michael Perkins, a philosopher and technologist. 

MOMENT OF GLORY

by Susan Patton

Cartoon by Clay Jones

A fighter raised his hand in victory pose,

And for his spotlight moment he then chose

To yell “Michelle Obama is a man.”

A nation groaned to see his stupid plan.

He could have thanked his Savior and his God

And praised the freedom of the land he trod.

He could have given credit to his Maker

That he escaped once more the undertaker.

He could have wished his Prez a happy day.

From all the million things he chose to say-

“Remember me for spewing something vile.”

Joe Rogan stood beside him with a smile.

The people know that though true woman she is

She’ll always be a better man than he is.

The experiences that made Susan Patton who she is include a year as a VISTA volunteer on the Navajo reservation in 1969, a two month trip through Europe in 1969, a partnership in a travel agency which offered many travel opportunities, and 20 years as a children’s librarian in the public school system. She has a daughter, a grand-daughter, a husband of 59 years, and a cat. Susan has some wonderful friends who are kind enough to read some of my poems and country songs. She enjoys the discipline of the sonnet form which requires choosing the right words and discarding many favorites until it feels finished. 

MAJOR OAK

by Matthew Murrey

‘Most famous tree in the world’: Sherwood Forest’s 1,000-year-old Major oak dies —The Guardian, June 18, 2026. Photo by Mark Chelu via Shutterstock.

I hold a thousand years of rings—

laws turned crimes, outlaws

heroes: Robin Hood to Mangione.

I have remained here

as posts were sunk, fences strung,

and commons turned to cost.

I have known the sadness of air

heavy with smoke and all the burnings:

coal, humans, forests, oil and gas.

I know there are limits,

only so much time,

and all of us must perish.

I am stark. You can see

every gnarl, burr, split, and break

in the bark, scar in the wood.

I have not put forth one leaf

in this heat of twenty twenty-six.

You and I stand bare beneath the sky.

Matthew Murrey is the author of Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026) and Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019). He can be found on Bluesky and Instagram under the handle @mytwords.  

WORLD CUP

by Amy Jean Bailey

The stadium is filling with red

and white striped shirts, a swimming

zigzag. What was left of the potential

rain has melted now into pure light. 

Voices in unison singing 

Seven Nation Army 

by The White Stripes could be heard 

by a barista all the way in Lower

Queen Anne and I want so much

to love it here—the depth 

of our coffee, the sparkle in our sea. 

I want to point to the eagle’s nest 

by the walking path, maybe even have you 

over, where I’ll slide open the closet door

to display my colorful collection

of rainboots of varying heights,

before I gesture towards the Locks 

and explain how salmon 

swim upstream and might still make it—

as if they didn’t need a ladder,

as if we don’t.

Amy Jean Bailey is a poet and educator who has a PhD in anthropology from UCLA. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in The Timberline Review, Clockhouse, in the anthology The Sonoran Desert: A Literary Field Guide (University of Arizona Press), and elsewhere. Born and raised in Chicago, and then living all over the U.S., she now resides with her dog in Seattle, Washington.

THE DAY AFTER KC’S FIRST WORLD CUP GAME

by Al Ortolani

For a while at the farmer’s market

it was a happier America. People

were pleasant, shopping in the shade

under the awning. Multiple languages,

all shades of skin, Christians

and Jews and Muslims. Hindus

and Buddhists and Secular Humanists. 

I bought Hungarian paprika, local garlic,

Mennonite bread, a bouquet of flowers

for my wife from a woman 

who sold bok choi and radishes. 

For lunch there were vine ripened 

Arkansas tomatoes, chili peppers, 

and Mexican Coca Cola. I’m certain 

someone who had never 

watched soccer in their life 

went on and on about Messi’s Hat Trick.

Al Ortolani is a retired public school teacher in the Kansas City area. His poems have appeared widely. He learned the ins and outs of soccer by following his children and grandchildren through the magic of the sport, albeit often confused by the rules.

UPON THE BEAUTY OF COLOR

by Anne Herrick

Ducks Likely OK As Trump Admin Dumps Hydrogen Peroxide Into Green Reflecting Pool —HuffPost, June 19, 2026

Days after his administration claimed the pool was actually “crystal clear,” despite an unmistakably green hue, the US president acknowledged issues—and, without evidence, blamed foul play. —The Guardian, June 20, 2026

Who doesn’t agonize over color

for a kitchen, bathroom, house siding,

a fence, the front door? Or

even the color for a pool, to make

it bright, enticing, exciting.

So you try strolling down past doors

and walls in Ireland, Italy, Mexico,  

or find yellows in Van Gogh’s flowers

his blues in Starry Night, perhaps examine

the deep and bright reds of Kahlo,

or even view the wide selection

of Monet’s greens. Some study flags,

like the yellow and blue of Ukraine,

the red, white, and blue of the UK,

or, for that matter, of proudly independent

America—the blue perfect to highlight

a very long pool, a tourist attraction

feting a famous president,

and perfect, too, to invite the beauty

of algae, that emerald green 

celebrating warmth, humidity, and sun.

Yes—such is the power of summer energy,

it gifts green to water, and even peels

blue paint, encouraging new tourists, 

ducks, to fly in for a visit hoping it is a snack

of duckweed, while men and women 

in waders, scoop and scoop, day after day,

until the pool eventually becomes dry.

Until, in fact it will lie still in peace

in its comfortable century-old familiar

worn grey coat.

 

 

Anne Herrick has published a few poems and prose in the US and UK.