VANISHING ACT: ICE IN AMERICA

by Sarah M. Prindle

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

Pull a rabbit out of a hat,

pick a card,

levitate a large table.

Such magic tricks bring joy

and gasps of amazement.

But smoke and mirrors

can be deceptive,

engendering fear

of the unknown.

When harmless strangers

are distorted into threats,

magic takes a sinister turn.

Children playing at recess,

women behind the store’s counter,

men toiling in the field…

Poof! Gone.

Masked men swarm the area

and make them disappear,

a vanishing act that brings grief

instead of wonderment.

 

Sarah M. Prindle received an Associate in English from Northampton Community College. She loves reading everything from historical fiction and memoirs to poetry and mysteries. She hopes to someday publish her own novels and poetry collections and has already had her work published in several literary magazines and websites.

MASK

by James Penha

 

Foot-Combat Helm of Sir Giles Capel (1485–1556) - possibly British - The Metropolitan Museum of Art

 

 

Four years ago, I would have seen a mask

certain to prevent a virus from infiltrating.

Now we debate whether masks that can hide

the faces of criminals or immigrants should

be legal. But there are no such restrictions 

on the bullies in the region of this museum.

Sir Giles reincarnate, they take on all comers 

to this country. They pull brown deliverers out 

of their Uber Eats cars… they tackle innocents 

checking in at the courthouse… they wrestle 

workers from warehouses… and pound them 

down with their bulk into our halls and streets. 

Who are you? let an observer ask. The answer 

is the mask. Steeled as a weapon for white 

Christian nationalists, it will hear no objection

from the White House overseers of art. Indeed, 

I can imagine this helm set on a block of ice 

emblematic of our new divine right of kings.

James Penha hosts The New Verse News. His short story collection Queer As Folk Tales really needs good reviews at amazon but can be bought at non-bezos outlets as well.

THE CIRCUS COMES TO SAN DIEGO

by Steve Rodriguez

September 16, 2026

Someone whispers, the circus is in town.  A dark 
caravan is seen parading down the road. We might expect 
to see trained lions, and the trapeze artist;
death-defiers treading a tightrope balanced high above. 
 
Instead, we are treated to a disappearing act. Sheer scale of magic 
catches everyone by surprise. Scary clowns, wearing olive drab
outfits – complete with black masks, helmets, ICE cool military swag—
pour out of their armored vehicles. Under a big top canopy
 
of blue coastal skies, they form three-ring spectacles
in front of restaurants, Home Depot lots, and apartment complexes. 
Resembling Death Star troopers arriving far too late
for this year’s Comic Con, they begin disappearing humans
 
like strong-armed, Kevlar-vested magicians shoving rabbits 
in and out of a top hat. Citizens observe the action. 
Poof!  Another body vanishes into the transfer portal.
What did these people ever do, a bystander protests?     
 
Murders and rapists, one costumed joker responds, adding
gang member as an afterthought.  Nothing slick about 
these clowns-slash-illusionists. No smooth sleight of hand.
More like a fight card of UFC brawlers employing muscle
 
and well-rehearsed intimidating stares that peek out 
from above the masks. We in the crowd feel helpless,
unable to stop this performance gone horribly awry, 
all the while insisting the ringmaster answer for his debacle.
 
From a distance, however, indeed going all the way back 
to Pennsylvania Avenue, the orange impresario can be heard hawking,
“Step right up and observe the greatest show on earth”
as another human—heart beating like a rabbit—
magically evaporates into thin coastal air.     

Author’s Gloss:

Circus—
1.     a travelling company of acrobats, clowns, and other entertainers which gives performances, typically in a large tent, in a series of different places.
2.     a public scene of frenetic, noisy, or confused activity.

Steve Rodriguez is a retired U.S. Marine Corps officer and a retired high school English teacher. He resides in San Diego, CA. His poetry has recently appeared in several local anthologies, as well as The New Verse News and Beatnik Cowboy. One of his poems was recognized at the 2025 National Baseball Poetry Festival.  

THANK GAWD MARIA

an abcedarian

by Susan Vespoli

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

answered her phone

because I had texted

Can you come help me

do my yard?

every day 

for a week. She and her husband and son are

godsends to me. Saints

hauling clippers and blowers and rakes

in the back of their old red truck,

January to December, this 

kind crew shows up, whistling as they

lop off tree branches,

machete oleanders,

neaten bougainvillea, trim vines

overhanging block walls and dangling car-

port. Prompt responders to my 

queries for ten-plus years – and so, no

response rallied my anxiety,

spurred my dread, amped my

trepidation amidst in-

undation of news reports of

vile ICE squads

whisking away humans. Oh, let them be okay, I

eXclaim to myself over and over—and then they are.

Yes, Maria laughs. Text broke, only voice works on her

zonked phone. This morning they arrive, wave Hola!

Zip their magic.

Susan Vespoli believes in the power of writing to stay sane.

THE RISING DARK

by June Hall McCash

In the cold morning, the invaded city

muffles the sound of scuffles in the night.

Traffic drowns the echoes carried by the wind,

cries of the seized and of the children

left behind in empty halls and alleyways.

With the early light, night still casts 

empty shadows left by the unrelenting 

attack on innocence and guilt alike, 

by faces marked with terror 

at the approaching sound of heavy boots 

echoing through the streets, 

of masked and mirthless specters 

with glass-fixed eyes, armed with

guns, tasers, and new electric gloves, 

with violence and cruel indifference.

There is, there was no retreat, no justice,

no escape from lost identity, snatched away

without recourse and chained to a ruthless fate.

 

When all true judges have been replaced 

by sycophants, will we then grasp

that we too are among the fearful, waiting 

in the shadows? Will we know that our time 

too may come, when promises no longer keep,

when pledges and oaths are but empty words

and that the looming shadow can also reach out

to seize upon our weakness—yours and mine? 

Will we recognize it then as the beast it is,

reborn from that cruel phoenix 

we thought our fathers had destroyed 

in the wars of earlier generations? 

Will we concede that evil is perennial, 

relentless as crabgrass in our human soil 

as it invades our city streets and creeps 

its way into our unwary countryside?

 

We have learned already that hope, good will,

and even laws are but fragile ramparts 

against the terror of a tyranny ready to rise 

the moment we let down our guard.

Brave speech flames out when justice dies. 

Already, we can hear the terrible silence.

June Hall McCash is the author of fifteen books of nonfiction and historical fiction, and one book of poetry. She has been twice named Georgia Author of the Year for her novels. Another of her books of historical fiction won first place in the Chaucer competition for Early Historical Fiction, one of the Chanticleer International Book Awards. Now a retired university professor, McCash holds a Ph.D. in comparative literature from Emory University. She divides her time between homes on a Georgia sea island and in Tennessee. 

A CURRENT EVENT

by Cecil Morris

On last night’s news, the demonstrations

of officers with their newest “tool”:

the electric shock glove, a low-voltage stunner

that makes their pretend “criminals” drop

to their knees, agonized. They promise that,

this “tool” will cause no permanent harm,

will not leave a mark, and I think about

the old beatings—Jim Crow days—that left

no marks, about unsworn officers of abuse

with the shock gloves to keep their wives—

or husbands—or kids or dogs in line,

about encouraging compliance with

velvet gloves. I think about poor Midas

and his golden touch, about that episode

of Cheers when know-it-all postman Cliff

in avoidance therapy begins to shock

himself. I think of just desserts,

of what goes around comes around,

of ICE officers shocking each other

or themselves by accident

or having to don shock-proof rubber sleeves,

maybe whole wet suits as prophylactics,

the newest body armor by Body Glove,

and non-compliant protesters dressed

like frogmen, too.

Cecil Morris, a retired high school English teacher, has poems appearing in The 2River View, the Common Ground Review, The New Verse News, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. His debut poetry collection At Work in the Garden of Possibilities (Main Street Rag) came out in 2025. His second collection, Daughter Lost and Found and Lost, will come out from Kelsay Books in 2027.  He and his wife, mother of their children, divide their year between the cool coast of Oregon and the relatively hot Central Valley of California.

NEW YORK CITY, 7 AM, SUNDAY, 2026

by Naomi Pliskow

Fat pigeons peck hopefully

at Saturday night’s scat–

tickets, receipts, ketchup-stained napkins–

dotting grey cement as though they were 

the leaves of autumn.

 

The Saturday night squawks and judders, 

the clangs and gulps and sighs,

are replaced by an echoing quiet,

as though covered by a layer of soft cotton

intruded on only by pigeon murmurs and 

the petulant honk 

of a single metal beast on rubber legs

piloted by some human who didn’t   

make it home last night.

 

The smell of sweat and alcohol

from a hooded passerby  

interrupts the aroma   

of bread baked at four this morning

when the baker’s dark hands grasped soft white dough 

trying to hold on to these islands 

for just a little while longer

before being forced to return  

to his ravaged own,

where people peck for leavings

like hopeful morning pigeons

and bake bitterness into 

every scarce loaf.

Naomi Pliskow published her first poetry collection in a three-ring binder at age eight. She recently returned to writing poetry after a long hiatus. Her poems have been published in One Art, Adanna, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Canary, and several anthologies. Her satirical song lyrics were published in The New York Times in 2024. Her chapbook Entering the Water will be released in September of 2026. She is editor of the Philadelphia Mad Poets Society newsletter.

DELETE AFTER READING

by Celeste DeSario 

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

My friends say,
Don’t text your political poems.
You know we can’t have those on our phones.

Those Monsters Under the Bed do exist 
and have crawled off the white spaces.
And now they lurk.
Waiting. Watching. 
Listening to our conversations.
Recording.
Keep those words hidden.
Under cover 

But I can’t. 
I’m afraid.
I’m not the MAGA Dream Girl, you know.
I’m just an ordinary citizen— 
ten fingers, no illusions about me…

I haven’t been to D.C. for a long time,
so, no that wasn’t me trailing my hand 
through the algae-green water of the Reflecting Pool.
If I were there, I wouldn’t be able to see my reflection anyway—
the water clouded with bacteria,
and green scum rising to the top…
obscuring my view. 
I’m too afraid to look…

Yesterday I pulled $70 out of my wallet 
just to fill the tank, 
even though I can’t really go anywhere anymore.

Who wants to face the airport check-in desk
and wind up on the floor, guns pointing at you,
for the chance to sit on a boat and watch 
the icebergs calve and collapse into a warming Disenchantment Bay?

Cracking, thundering, echoing across the water
as they melt, sending waves skyward
while the tourists clap and cheer—
even though the earth is screaming at us
to bring down the heat.

Everything will be okay, because a deal with Iran
Is “imminent”, “close”, “finalized”.
Promised and promised…
At least forty times so far.
I’m not feeling it.
So, go back to being afraid.
Does that work for you?

Did it work in East Germany under Stasi?
Where an unfamiliar car parked nearby,
made you pull 1984 off your shelves.
Where neighbors would dig through your trash
searching for forensic evidence—
contraband chocolate wrappers from the West,
discarded letters or carbon paper
snatched up and pasted back together.
Evidence of thinking.
Where even a child’s birthday card 
was ripped open before reaching its destination

No. It didn’t work.

And Leni’s footage?
The kids, clad in uniforms, 
stiff with creases,
climbing flagpoles just to glimpse The Fuhrer.
Cheering, whistling as though he were a rock star.
Children reporting their parents’ dinner conversations—
Complaints of bread and potatoes again. 
The long lines, the lack of butter. 
The radio dial tuned in, low, listening to the BBC,
listening for the real truth of the world
through forbidden airwaves.

Those kids were patriots.

Where was I?
Oh. I’m still here. Stuck.
Staring at a screen where I delete my own words.
Do I dare to press send?
Will those agents be knocking on my door?
Scrolling through my phone?
Scrutinizing my computer files?
I’m almost at the end of my poem,
but I can’t send it to my friends.
I don’t want the border guards to deny anyone entry,
Or to detain people just trying to see their aging parents.

I guess I will send the poem out into the world.
To a writer.  A poet.
Someone who knows the power of words.
Someone who provides a platform 
for those of us who need it. 

Especially need it.
Today.
Now.

More than ever.

Celeste DeSario enjoys breaking down big political illusions while also writing about personal grit and artistic passion. Her recent work appears in The New Verse News, The Dissident Voice, The Changing Times, The SportScribe, and The Ekphrastic Review. This portfolio includes sharp political satires like “There are Monsters Under My Bed”, "I’m the MAGA Dream Girl”, "The Peeling of American Flag Blue," and “I Ran,” alongside reflective pieces like "Bridging and Grappling," "A Leap of Affirmation,” and “Gaudi's Unbending Vision".

AT THE VIGIL

by Jac-Lynn Stark 

On an evening when dark clouds 

forming overhead threaten to release 

their tears down to this world

I venture out to Lynn District Court

to gather with others who care about people 

of this city abducted at traffic stops 

on their way to work or in 

some other every day situation that 

most of us don’t have to fear

at least not yet

 

Earlier that day I lurked in courthouse hallways

observing two men who looked oh so ordinary

in their jeans and khakis, t-shirts, sneakers

but we know who they work for and why they are here

we know their license plates and their objectives

we know the violence within them 

that I watched on recordings a woman I met showed me

 

Now groups of us gather under gloomy skies

a mix of skin color and languages

of ages and experiences 

from a variety of neighborhoods

 

A long table holds photographs of men 

whose wives are now alone

whose children miss their fathers

candles and flowers adorn this table of sorrow

as we witness people telling their stories

 

One young woman gets up to speak

two children holding her hands

her pink-clad daughter hides shyly behind her

her 11-year-old son strong and serious next to her

in his white t-shirt that says Let’s Taco About It

he takes the microphone and talks about his father

how much he misses him

how worried he is

he thanks us for being there

 

Oh young warrior, only 11, but not afraid to speak up

I think of my grandparents leaving Poland

I think of the poem on the Statue of Liberty:

“give me your tired, your poor,

your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

I think of these lines from Warsan Shire: 

“no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark”

 

Oh America, what have we become?

 

 

Jac-Lynn Stark was born in the Bronx and lives north of Boston where she enjoys pondering life either from near the ocean or in the woods. She recently retired from 14 years of teaching English at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston. Her work has been published in Maintenant 19, A Journal of Dada Writing and Art; Orange is not a colour, Poems against totalitarianism; American Graveyard, calls to end gun violence, and others. She is a proud granddaughter of immigrants and a volunteer with LUCE Immigrant Justice Network of Massachusetts.

ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE OLD WEST

by Gale Naylor

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

ice melting at the poles was our nightmare scenario—still is—but now it’s interrupted by ICE in masks, killing legal immigrants (and whoever gets in their way) like it’s eighteen-seventy-five—but here in twenty-twenty-six, it’s the lawmen who kill/terrorize/strut through the center of town—camo peacocks, daring the town folk to speak or act—but the peacocks forgot: bad guys wear masks, and that’s how you know this is more bad LSD trip than Sergio Leone or John Ford movie with a scripted ending—oh, no, we’re crowd-sourcing these final moments, and I hope in this film the town ejects the masked bandits, and the woman who runs the general store is persuaded to lead—though she only accepts if everyone pitches in—because this is when we live our Sunday best, this is when we can return to solving the bigger problems, this version is when we have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding a lasting solution to ice.

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.