WHITEWASH

by Kay White Drew

“President Donald Trump ordered his administration Friday to install signs in front of the Smithsonian Institution’s U.S. History museum telling visitors that some of the exhibits are inaccurate, his latest move to reshape how the story of the United States is told.” —AP, July 24, 2026

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” —James Baldwin

 

To paint over all our contradictions and ambiguities,

   pain and suffering, with a topcoat of “patriotism.”

To leave an entire people ignorant

   of the truth of our origins.

To erase whole populations whose very existence

   seems to offend him.

To pretend that all the theft and rape and slaughter

   was in self-defense/for a good cause/never happened.

To feed us fractured fairy tales that dismiss and distort,

   turn our history into a children’s recess war game.

To ignore our differences, discount the ways

   we treated each other in the past and to this day.

To rob us of our adulthood: our ability to apologize

   and forgive, to extend compassion and mercy.

To trim the corners, smooth the rough edges,

   obliterate the grain of the wood is no less than

To utterly destroy its character.

Kay White Drew is a retired physician whose poems appear in various anthologies and print & internet outlets including Gargoyle, The New Verse News, and Second Coming. She’s also published short stories and several essays, one of which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and a memoir, Stress Test. She lives in Rockville, MD with her husband. Reading and spending time in nature keep her sane(ish) in these difficult times.

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.

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.

MISDEAL

by W. Barrett Munn

Cartoon by Clay Jones

Once there was a leader who wasn’t ready

for the effects his warring caused.

He tried to create an army out of blather,

and ordered his followers to blather, too.

He’d drawn a line in the sand

and crossed it off his to-Bi list,

having placed his faith in himself

to prevent missteps—

The people got pissed.

Terrified of losing control, the man in charge

sold his soul to the same devil

he’d been embellishing as a threat.

The leader swore

on a gold bar that sat on top a Bible

that his soul had always been hidden

inside a sack full of cash. A deal was struck—

The enemy got to win the war,

got all the cash, and all the rockets

as long as they promised—which they did—

while keeping their fingers crossed.

Winston Munn writes as W. Barrett Munn because initially he thought that sounded cooler and he had been named after Elizabeth Barrett, later Browning, his mother's favorite poet. He's been fortunate to have been selected before for The New Verse News along with a number of other publications. He lives in Oklahoma and rarely comes up for air as in Oklahoma it's always open season on progressives.

I, SYCOPHANT

by Pepper Trail

Cartoon by JD Crowe

You ask “How can you?”

You ask “Have you no pride?”

 

That just shows your ignorance, and you don’t even know it.

The first rule, of course, is never to ask a question.

 

The name and face of Our President deserves to be on every government building and document.

 

A Mixed Martial Arts cage fight on the White House lawn is a beautiful celebration of America.

 

A gilded triumphal arch is the perfect expression of our nation’s democratic ideals.

 

President Trump is the greatest peacemaker this nation has ever known.

 

There are those, maybe, who say these things but don’t believe them.

They are beneath contempt.

 

I do believe. Every day, more.  

Every day, I forget more that embarassment, my former self.

 

I was never the best.

Now, in His eyes, I am.  Or, I can be.

 

No one but President Trump could have saved us from the invasion of immigrant rapists.

                                                                                             from transgender girls playing sports.

                                                                            from electric cars.

                                                                         from Iran.

 

The perfection we see everywhere around us is all due to You and your wise leadership.

Everything I say is just a way of saying, God bless you, Mr. President.

Without You, I am only what I was before.  

Nothing.

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

BOOING BOSS TWEET’S CRUEL REICH CULT WHEREVER THEY GO

by Raymond Nat Turner

Rise Up, Sing Out: Watch from Home

The boos are growing stronger 

The boos are lasting longer…

Crescendoing class-war bugle calls—

thundering tsunamis—

from factory floors, from stadiums, from arenas, from 

concert halls, bouncing off white supremacist border walls

The boos are growing stronger 

The boos are lasting longer…

Lions and elephants roaring, rejecting orange ICE Age rampage. Rejecting bassackwards 

Wayback Machine Making America Grate again. Splitting families up in profit-driven 

torture centers. Rejecting double-dipping, rights-stripping, grifting, gerrymandered Jim Crow

$campaigns and $elections turning our sweat beads, blisters, callouses into their personal ATMs.

The boos are growing stronger 

The boos are lasting longer…

Background vocals for SNAP songs stolen from babies’ growling bellies.

Harmonies for cancer patients’ plug-pulling laments

and dirges of screaming farmers fucked by their Tariff Sheriff arresting

our development at 2 bags of groceries for the price of 6…

The boos are growing stronger 

The boos are lasting longer…

Foghorns warning fishing boats ‘bout mass murder on high seas and 

War Of The Week. Warning of walking waste, fraud and abuse by 

2,000 lb. bomb-worshippers—

Department of Class War on working-class—home and abroad.

The boos are growing stronger 

The boos are lasting longer…

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.

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.

A PRESIDENT SO VILE

by James Penha

The New Yorker, July 20, 2020

"The Trump administration is trying to block billions of dollars for states to conduct testing and contact tracing in the upcoming coronavirus relief bill, people involved in the talks said Saturday." —The Washington Post, July 19, 2020

“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” —Sherlock Holmes

If America were ever
to have a President so
vile and blasphemous

to his oath—to preserve

and protect—he’d seek

at every turn of a poll

by means unfair and foul 

to dwindle rival voters

especially those of color…

should a pandemic come

to rage, like him, against

minorities and raze the poor

particularly, might he not ignore

or even encourage a plague

he deems allied to his future?

James Penha edits TheNewVerse.News .

A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE ANTI-MASK MOVEMENT

by Andrew Frisardi

Abbott Collection 27-KITSCH-WB-155 Sm Trump Bust Water Globe-3" H, Small, Multicolor

When pixel storms had snowed their mind
And crystal balls had gone opaque,
A kitschy star so brightly shined
Its fascination made them blind.

Reality itself was fake,
And every breath they took would bind
And spread a virulent mistake,
When getting duped had left its ache.

Andrew Frisardi’s new books, published or about to be published this year, are a poetry collection The Harvest and the Lamp (Franciscan University Press) and a prose book Love’s Scribe: Reading Dante in the Book of Creation (Angelico Press). Originally from Boston, he lives in central Italy.

HOW TO

by Bonnie Naradzay

"Zeus the Blind Owl" The original watercolor painting is by Artist Sinclair Stratton.

This morning we loaded cardboard boxes of vegetables
into the trunks of cars. In each box, we put a card:
"How to: Broccoli," in tiny print, one side in Spanish.
How to choose fresh broccoli. But it had been chosen.

Families stayed in cars for hours in July's fierce heat.
In church we have prayed for the virus to go away.
You can buy human remains pouches on Amazon.
The zipper locks are guaranteed to keep the liquid in.

A man in the car line going up the hill stood outside,
bent over his battered Dodge Caravan, hood up, trunk held
in place with Bungee cords. Steam rose from the radiator.
The Great Pretender said he'd save the statue of Christ in Rio.

Last week, no form, no advice on Broccoli. Today,
to receive the USDA box, they must fill out a form:
name, address, the number in each family group.
The rule: one box per family, no matter how many.

How to eat it raw with a dip, how to stir fry, steam.
But we have seven in our family, one man pleaded.
Our group gave him two. A small boy waved at us
from the back seat.  I saw the careful handwriting,

apartments disclosed, streets, so painstakingly done,
 all for a box of surplus white mushrooms, broccoli,
head of iceberg lettuce.... Some boxes sagged.
There’s a Gaelic name for victims of bubonic plague

entombed in an Irish burial mound.  A plague hill.
Who sees the forms? One woman said, "We are illegal.
We don't want to put our names down on anything."
The young man in the passenger seat looked ahead.

In church we now regard the virus as a wake-up call.
I nodded, put two boxes in the trunk of her small blue car
that sputtered, set to break down.  Mute me on Zoom.
The Pharisees held out for handwashing, we were told.

The virus wants our lungs. Hart Island is our Potters Field.
Camus said we are owls blinded by too much light.
She told us the truth, and the truth will set us free.
Then my eyes stung; I could hardly see.

Bonnie Naradzay’s poems have appeared most recently in American Journal of Poetry, New Letters (Pushcart nomination), Kenyon Review Online, RHINO, EPOCH, The Tampa Review, Tar River Poetry, TheNewVerse.News, Ekphrastic Review, One; and poems are slated to appear later this year in AGNI and others.  In 2017 she graduated from St John’s College (the Graduate Institute), in Annapolis, Maryland.  For many years she has led poetry workshops at a day shelter for the homeless (Miriam’s Kitchen) and at a retirement center, both in Washington, DC.

LAST WORDS

by Joan Mazza

Without TV, I turn to the Internet to see
videos of crowds rushed by the police
with shields and full riot gear as they push
back protestors. Tear gas and smoke,
shouting, chanting one man’s name,
his last words an echo of another’s—

I can’t breathe.

So many people pushed together, crowds
breathing each other’s breaths, droplets
of anger and outrage pooling to form
a stream, a river, an ocean of grief,
hundreds of years of slave masters
and tyrants, bullies and dictators.

I can’t breathe.

Gowned and masked, medical workers
adjust tubing and drips, hear last gasps
of the those dying alone. No visitors
allowed. We’re socially distant, isolated,
afraid of friends and family who have
marched to say no to brutality.

I can’t breathe.

George Floyd, your name enters
the litany with Philando Castile, Sandra
Bland, Michael Brown, Eric Garner.
White, armed protestors who threaten
the Wisconsin governor’s life are met
with hard stares, not tear gas.

I can’t breathe.

I’m coughing. My throat is sore. My eyes
hurt, joints ache. Ticks and pollen
are thick this year. The news is muddy.
Our president is no leader, no comfort.
He threatens more beatings, promises
shooting will reign supreme.

I can’t breathe.


Joan Mazza worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops on dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self, and her work has appeared in Italian Americana, Poet Lore, The MacGuffin, Prairie Schooner, and The Nation.

THE TRIED-AND-TRUE

by Richard Meyer




’Tis magic, magic that hath ravished me.
            — from Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe


Place your faith on the tried-and-true,
the wisdom that our forebears knew.
It worked for them in times before.

Nail a horseshoe to your door,
paint the lintel and the jamb
with blood of slaughtered goat or lamb.

Salt the threshold twice a day                      
to keep the pestilence at bay.
Hang up a cross and pentagram.                  

Burn sage and myrrh to cleanse the air,
light a candle, say a prayer.
Use magic to protect yourself.

Put amulets on every shelf:                                    
a hamsa hand, a Wiccan moon,
the Eye of Horus, Viking rune,

a witch’s knot, a scarab stone,
a totem turtle carved from bone.
Don’t trust in science coming through                                

to save the day and rescue you.
Keep superstition by your side.
The paranormal will provide.

Richard Meyer, a former English and humanities teacher, lives in Mankato, MN. He was awarded the 2012 Robert Frost Farm Prize for his poem “Fieldstone” and was the recipient of the 2014 String Poet Prize for his poem “The Autumn Way.” A book of his collected poems, Orbital Paths, was a silver medalist winner in the 2016 IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards.

ONE BORN EVERY MINUTE

by Mark Spicknall

The carny artist makes black scribbles,
laughing, a good game, a show.
He can do us in a minute,
the fastest ever, he says,
his lines a rusty sideshow ride
careening through funnel cake fog.
We are there somewhere,
points on a line we’ve fallen into,
rising, screaming, then falling
into a bell-shaped dead silence.

     He laughs and laughs.

Author’s note:  On the feeling that too often creeps in watching the daily White House coronavirus briefings.


Mark Spicknall is a manufacturing and business consultant, a sailor settled in the mountains, who writes to try to make sense of the tides, the climbs, storms and the stars.

WHEN WE DEAD AWAKEN

by Howie Good

Punk musicians who overdosed in flophouses,
and child refugees who died in the camps,

and American soldiers killed in Afghanistan,
they pass each other on the worm-eaten staircase,

some shambling along, others racing up the steps,
but just about all of them sneakily whispering,

“Has anyone found T***p’s soul? Anyone?”

Howie Good is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

ON BARS

by DeWitt Henry

Source: Cagle

A.G. Bill Barr
should be disbarred
and/or spend time
behind bars or
drinking at them,
both earnest and glib.
doing biddings of
our worst President,
bar none.

For lack of Barack,
step up, be heard;
raise the bar of expectations.
Climb the barricades.
High jump, pole-jump:
clear the bar.
Cross the bar.

Nearly half of us
fear barbarian hordes,
beards and all (unless
us is them).  Seek to
bar the gate, build barriers.
Keep us over barrels, where
barrels are meant for
storing and protecting,
e.g. over Niagara;
or for shooting fish,
or empty ones for noise.

The BAR man sights down
his ungainly weapon
(though Browning Automatic Rifle
has nothing to do with “baros,”
Greek for weight).

Bars of gold, candy, or soap.
Bars of music and rank.
Barcode.  Bar-
gain.  Crow, salad,
barbell and barometer.
Stars and bars forever.

Barbed.  Barred.

Democracy amok.

DeWitt Henry’s most recent prose collection is Sweet Marjoram: Notes and Essays (MadHat, 2018).  A new collection, Endings and Beginnings: Family Essays, is scheduled for 2020 from MadHat.  Poems have appeared in Ibbetson Street, On the Seawall, Plume, Muddy River Poetry Review, Constellations, and Woven Tale Press.  Henry was the founding editor of Ploughshares and is Prof. Emeritus at Emerson College.

THESE FRAGMENTS I HAVE SHORED AGAINST THE VIRUS

by Eric Weil


 

with apologies to T. S. Eliot

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is a viral month, breeding
Contagion out of the air, mixing
Distance and desire, streaming
Dull shows with spring pollen.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.


II. A Game of Chess

The Lectern he stands at, like a burnished throne,
Glows in TV lights, where the ass
Between the flags flings his fruited lies
While gilded sycophants peep out
(And Fauci hides his eyes behind his wing),
Doubles the flames of narcissistic rage.


III. The Fire Sermon

The hospitals are broken, the last surgical masks
Fray and sink into wet piles.

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug

So rudely forc’d.


IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Epidemiologist, a fortnight dead,
Has missed the nurses’ cries, ironic memes,
Corpses lain in reefer trucks.

O you unmasked who shop and cough to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once healthy and hale as you.


V. What the Thunder Said

After the ICU lights on sweaty faces
After the agony in sterile places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and hospital hall
They who were living now are dead
We who are living now are dying
With a little patience
Shantih   shantih shantih

Eric Weil stays inside in Raleigh, NC. He's a retired English prof who has three chapbooks in print: A Horse at the Hirshhorn, Returning from Mars, and Ten Years In. Other poems have recently appeared or will soon appear in Red Planet Review, Free State Review, Pinesong, Kakalak, and Ponder Review.