FIRE THIS TIME

by Gary Lark

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

This time 
this time
like any other time
like no other time
our time.

Now I understand,
we’re disposable.
After a long life,
tasting the wind 
from all directions
I get it.

Fires in Europe,
Canadian forests ablaze,
drought and floods,
we reach into the night
asking consciousness to save us.
The great beast of us
wheels and turns
desire in every hand.

Exploit and plunder marches on.
We could have,
we should have done something yesterday.
I know, I know
it will be different this time.

If I were a giant, I might pick up Congress
and shake it until the rats fall out
but I wouldn’t mess 
with the janitors and secretaries.

I go to the river in the evening
to watch it flow through town.
I don’t want to drink it
but I do.

Gary Lark’s most recent collections are “Coming Down the Mountain,” “Easter Creek,” and “Daybreak on the Water,” His work has appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, Catamaran, and Rattle. Gary and his wife Dorothy live in Oregon's Rogue Valley.

TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM

by Laurie Kuntz 

As Air Force Maj. Jason Watson ascended the Capitol steps last week wearing his military uniform and armed with one protest sign, he knew the risks and was prepared for the consequences, no matter how severe. —Military Times, July 9, 2026

Under July's brazen sun,

independently standing on Capitol steps

one would expect this uniformed man to be waving a flag

instead of 3 words etched on cardboard -- 

The truths that weave a country's fabric

stipulate the deeper cut of accusation

and the absence of a moral center.

A country watches a man in medaled attire

being cuffed and  led away 

surrounded by the silence of the timid 

too afraid to speak:

Impeach

Convict

Remove.

Laurie Kuntz is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee and two-time Best of the Net Nominee. In 2024, she won a Pushcart Prize. Her 8th poetry book Shelter In Place is published by Shanti Arts Press. She holds an MFA in poetry from Vermont College. Her work has been published in Gyroscope Review, Roanoke Review, Third Wednesday, One Art, Sheila Na Gig, SWWIM, and other journals and anthologies. Her themes stem from working with Southeast Asian refugees, living as an expatriate in Japan, the Philippines, Thailand, Brazil, and raising a husband and son.

DEMOCRACY WITH SCISSORS AND LOOPHOLES

by David Lee

Original cartoon of "The Gerry-Mander.” This is the political cartoon that led to the coining of the term “gerrymander.” The district depicted in the cartoon was created to favor the incumbent Democratic-Republican party candidates of Governor Elbridge Gerry over the Federalists in 1812. Public Domain. —Wikipedia

They call it redistricting,
like moving furniture for better feng shui.
But the map on the table
looks like it’s been drawn by a toddler with a sugar high
and an eraser for a conscience.

The district snakes down one block
just to loop around a donor’s backyard.
Three neighborhoods vanish into
a comma-shaped voting island
where ballots get counted
only if the tide’s out.

Meanwhile, in the Capitol,
the same lawmakers who swear
the system is “by the people”
are day-trading defense stocks
before breakfast,
and exempting themselves
from every law they praise in speeches.

When asked why the rules don’t apply to them,
one Congressman grins like a cat on a warm hood
and says,
“Well, the pen is mightier than the ballot box,
especially if you own the pen.”

David Lee is a physician, poet, and occasional troublemaker who moonlights as a satirical commentator on the absurdities of modern politics and culture. His poems have been called “provocative, playful, and just unsettling enough to make you think twice before laughing a third time.”

THE NEIGHBOR

by Corley Norman

It is near twilight and the man next door is mowing his yard.
I am fighting my impulse to go over there, pull him away and shout
What are you doing? No one mows at night!
It defies all common sense! Stop right now!
 
I would catch him off-guard, unnerve him with my unneighborly outburst.
I wouldn’t be mad enough to shoot him or anything. I don't own a gun.
But I'm pretty sure I wouldn't shoot him even if I did own a gun.
I suddenly realize he might own a gun and enjoy shooting.
 
What is on my mind is that today many mothers were crying
As they held signs and yearned to be heard by men whose deafness did not know sign language.
Mothers wailing with the cries of their crooked-toothed, messy-haired children:
Hear us! Help us! Like me, they did not want to be shot.
 
Maybe their sounds just ricocheted like bullets off the fine marble walls of the Capitol.
Maybe it felt wise and just to the quasi-lawmakers to tune out the inconvenient citizenry.
Maybe they were thinking of things they had to do. Urgent things.
Like: I think I’ll mow the yard this weekend. 

Corley Norman is a writer living in Nashville , Tennessee. She has spent most of her life in the field of dramatic literature where she picked the wildflowers of Shakespeare to inspire her.She has an MFA from the Univ. of Tennessee.

I AM ALWAYS PROUD... AFTER ALL

by Nan Ottenritter

 

I am always proud when I exit my private polling booth.

To get there, I walk between candidates’ signs,

show I.D., fill out a ballot, watch my paper ballot 

slide into the machine, await its successfully recorded

message, slap an I Voted! decal onto my vest, 

lift my head high, and walk out.

 

After all... so many worked and died for this democracy.

They work still and will believe until the end.

After all... so many throughout the world cannot

do what I just did.

After all... my father landed on Omaha Beach for this.

After all... forces are at play to bring Ukraine to its knees,

Navalny to his death, and democracy to ruin.

 

I still believe in us.

 

After all the many young and spiteful congressmen and women

walk our Capitol’s halls, spewing hate, sucking up greed.

After all profess to understand government, yet have no clue

about how it works, nor possess a will to learn.

After all the verbiage they shout through speeches, they

lack a critical gene that helps them to be critical and think.

They lack a will to listen, a drive to understand, compassion to act.

 

After all that has been done for me, for us.

After all the forces set upon us to destroy,

how can I not cast my vote, lift my head high,

and think, It doesn’t get any better than this.

Nan Ottenritter is a poet and musician who lives in Richmond, VA. Her works have appeared in the TheNewVerse.News, Still Point Arts Quarterly, Artemis Journals, Poets Reading the News, Life in 10 Minutes, Poetry Society of Virginia Anthologies, and As You Were: The Military Review. Her 2021 chapbook Eleanor, Speak is available through Finishing Line Press and Amazon. Nan teaches writing, performs, and is a member of the Poetry Society of Virginia. She voted in Virginia on Tuesday.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE...

by Darcy Grabenstein

 

They plastered their hate-filled propaganda
on walls, on posts, anywhere, everywhere
They started with boycotts of businesses
They isolated us, segregated in ghettos
They labeled us with yellow patches
They pilfered property, possessions
They ruthlessly humiliated us
They herded us like cattle
to concentration camps
Working us mercilessly
through illness, hunger
The cruelly conducted
medical experiments
They implemented
the ”Final Solution”
Until we could not
gasp for breath.
They attempt coups at the Capitol
and across the pond in Germany
 
They slaughter innocents
in nightclubs
synagogues
mosques
churches
 
They ban books
they ban choices
they ban love
 
They’re just warming up.
 
And that chills me to my bones.

Always a lover of words, Darcy Grabenstein started her career in journalism. Now a marketing writer by profession, she turns to poetry as a creative outlet. Darcy is a contributing writer for the thINKingDANCE. She has had works published on RitualWell.org and in the Chicken Soup for the Soul series.

THE HEART OF IT ALL

by Bradley McIlwain

Whitman—

I hear the chains

Across N. America

At Capitol Hill

Where we’ve all become 

Capital—

Loose change

In the pockets 

Of pirate politicians

We elected 

To change—

Only to decline it; 

False prophets 

Who paid God 

To burn Sodom & Gommorah 

But they can’t kill my pride 

The way they put a bullet 

In Bonnie & Clyde.

People are still dying—

Trayvon. Floyd. Till—

Still, they shot Lewis in bed

Like Billy the Kid 

20—unarmed 

Dreams spilling out onto the sheets.

Ohio weeps in the streets.

Neil Young heard the drums;

Police are cutting us down—

What’s at the heart of it all?

You abolish slavery,

But commercialize prisons;

One shackle for another, 

Brother divided by brother

Under the foot 

Of the blood spangled banner

Still soaked in the soil

Of migrant workers

From the states to the border 

Across bus stops and shelters—

The buck doesn’t stop

At Roe v. Wade

When in a state of insanity 

Some judge decides 

In a state of supremacy

That women no longer 

Have control 

Over their bodies?

Over… my… dead… body

It’s time

To untuck injustice where it lies

Unbury the dead

And loosen their tongues

So we can unlearn

The things our fathers 

Have done—and do.

I no longer trust in God

The way I trusted in you.

The all seeing eye 

Has lost its shine 

And I see you

In tent cities

Crying out for food—

Whitman, 

Our people yearn. 

We are the choir 

Of others raging 

For freedom across the voiceless night, 

Rattling the chains for change.

Bradley McIlwain works as a Teacher-Librarian, where he strives to provide meaningful and inclusive spaces for knowledge exchange and advocacy. He believes that poems and poets can be agents for social change. Bradley’s latest book, Dear Emily, was published by Roasted Poet Press in July.

THE NEW NOVEMBER

by Jan Steckel

for Garrett Murphy

 

Late October is the New November,

the nova ember, when all slates

are made new. Ladybug, ladybug,

fly away home, your statehouse is on fire.

If you can’t vote the bastards out, 

drag along your electoral hammers,

spousal skull-crushers. Surveil those 

ballot boxes through the sights 

of your AR13s, only wear masks 

when you’re Ku Klux Klanning.

Proud Boys will be bashers.

It’s the ballot-harvesting festival,

so let’s go smashing pumpkins.

MAGA MAGA make it rain, it’s

lefty-hunting season again.

Kristallnacht’s in fashie-fashion.

Jack-o-Lannister, slide down

the Capitol bannister.

Olly olly oxen free!

Open season/no more reason:

civil discourse is passé,

democracy’s so yesterday.

Grab your billyclubs, shillaleghs, 

flagpoles, sheriff’s star,

little red baseball cap.

It’s mass grave o’clock, wake up, 

smell the decomposing bodies.

Get up off your brass knuckles—

Let the midterms begin!

Jan Steckel’s book Like Flesh Covers Bone (Zeitgeist Press, 2018) won Rainbow Awards for LGBT Poetry and Best Bisexual Book. Her poetry book The Horizontal Poet (Zeitgeist Press, 2011) won a Lambda Literary Award. Her fiction chapbook Mixing Tracks (Gertrude Press, 2009) and poetry chapbook The Underwater Hospital (Zeitgeist Press, 2006) also won awards. She lives in Oakland, California. 

ON CASSIDY’S COATTAILS

by Indran Amirthanayagam

You have affirmed my faith Cassidy Hutchinson
in telling the truth, in speaking it openly before
the camera, in real time, before Congress, before
history and its judgments, before the criminal
watching from his Mar a Lago mansion, before
my children, before all people interested
in seeing the line that cannot and will not
be crossed no matter how many tantrums,
and lunges for the clavicle, and requests
to overturn an election fairly won come down
from the boss, the besotted and dangerous fool
who took control of the powers of state and sought
to make them serve himself first, his acolytes second,
and damn the people, his charge. Damn even
the deranged, armed with rifles, handguns,
spears and flagpoles and bear spray who marched
to stop certification of the US election. Amazing

that we saw this defacement, as Cassidy said,
of our Capitol. Amazing that we got through
that plunder, and are still living and loving
and moving about our United States. We were
driven to the brink. And the violation of 
women’s rights called Dobbs, and the approval
to carry guns in public, and I don’t know what
else, will come out of that radicalized building
on 1^st Street NE, but let me speak for the not
silent majority. No more. We will not allow
Januuary 6^th to happen again. Not in one day.

Not incrementally with elimination of
our human rights. There is a new day
in America charged, recharged, driven
by ethics, faith in the republic, in
undeniable rights. Morning again
I call it, for the mother and father
of all marches, in America. Not
on the Capitol, but in the conscience
of all our people. for truth, for justice,
for liberty. for the American way
not the highway, not the forked
road, not the Kool aid served
by the deluded prophet in a MAGA hat.

Indran Amirthanayagam's newest book is Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (BroadstoneBooks). Recently published is Blue Window (Ventana Azul), translated by Jennifer Rathbun.(Dialogos Books). In 2020, Indran produced a “world" record by publishing three new poetry books written in three languages: The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, New York), Sur l'île nostalgique (L’Harmattan, Paris) and Lírica a tiempo (Mesa Redonda, Lima). He writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese, Haitian Creole and has twenty poetry books as well as a music album Rankont Dout. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly and helps curate Ablucionistas. He won the Paterson Prize and received fellowships from The Foundation for the Contemporary Arts, New York Foundation for the Arts, US/Mexico Fund For Culture, and the MacDowell Colony. He hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.

THE SADDEST DAY OF MY LIFE: JANUARY 6, 2021

by Nan Ottenritter

on the eve of the January 6 hearings

Television crews and technicians prepare for Thursday night's hearing by the House select committee investigating the Jan. 6, 2021, attack at the Capitol, on June 7. (J. Scott Applewhite/AP via The Washington Post)

I want to say my saddest moment of my life

was when my first love left me, my father died, or

when we pulled the plug on my terminally ill brother.

 

I want to say the saddest day of my life

was a missed job opportunity, a miscarriage,

a failed novel.

 

But truth be told, it was seeing

our stormed Capitol on January 6, 2021.

The cracked glass, ransacked desks.

 

Hearing screams of trapped Capitol Police,

chants of hanging Mike Pence,

the hubris of those unquestioning, disrespectful

 

of all I have come to regard as second only to god,

sacred as only sacred in a secular sense can be.

How can you not appreciate our American democracy?

 

This democracy is the only life I know.

Please don’t take it away from me, from us.

Let me talk to you of miracles,

 

moments of shame and victory,

moments shared and shattered,

moments that are, like it or not, our collective lives.

 

I want to remain with you.

And you?

Nan Ottenritter lives and writes in Richmond, VA. Her first chapbook Eleanor, Speak is available from Finishing Line Press.

JANUARY COUP

by Mark Danowsky

J.D. Crowe | jdcrowe@al.com

Vulgar 45, self-chosen wunder-king Insists he can take a life with a 45 Fifth Ave, broad daylight No one stops him Ha, as if he would stop himself Hang any henchmen Who defy a single wicked whim He begs you call him a joker A clown, a magician He calls himself master Of misdirection, of monopoly A game, he jests That one about life Behemoth of rage & spite Batter truth with lies Until truth cowers in a corner Smirk of feckless beast Mirror, mirror, what of this hair Send a few minions Storm the Capitol Torch the word of fair Suit of Big Mac & Diet Coke Asks only the McPoem be gilded 45 laughs & laughs Knowing a loss will be refused As only a loser can lose False god of the not unforsaken majority False demon elite who preys on the powerless He who claims to love what he loathes He who cannot sanitize what he is He who lets disease run rampant To disenfranchise those already wronged He who barks orders at the grotesque To carry out the obscene He who breaks the back of a thousand innocents To grease his palms in 18 holes Let us hope, yes, let us hope Some few brainwashed undrink the Kool-Aid There is no time like the present to accept Our past is full of atrocity And yes we can choose a new path Back towards democracy

Mark Danowsky is Editor-in-Chief of ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Senior Editor for Schuylkill Valley Journal, Poetry Craft Essays Editor for Cleaver Magazine, and a Regular Contributor for Versification. He is author of the poetry collection As Falls Trees (NightBallet Press) and JAWN forthcoming from Moonstone Press.

SURELY NO REVELATION IS AT HAND

by David L Williams

While sitting on the back step all looked fine,

but that rope ladder dangling down the trunk

reminded me how freedom’s in decline,

assaulted by minorities of bunk.

Angered, along these lines, as I sat out,

I shook my head and struggled to make sense

of turncoat madness, but my turn to shout,

madly across the lawn and through the fence

fell short of any Capitol to breach,

and any insurrection I might mount

would hardly climb a ladder with the reach

to trip up emissaries of false doubt.

The challenge, tangled in their ropes of lies:

Unseat them calmly, before freedom dies.

David L Williams is recently retired from 34 years teaching high school English in Lincoln, Nebraska, his primary residence since he went to college there in the 80s. His poetry has mostly been written since May of 2021, and he has only recently started trying to publish. For inspiration, he enjoys sitting on the two steps leading to their patio and looking out back.

A LESSON IN PASSIVE VOICE

by Lauren Haynes

The Capitol was breached while I  

taught preteens the art of  

language, to bend and  

provoke, to  

evade and  

slice.  

The order of a sentence and its  

implications. The difference between  

“The letter was mailed to me by my grandparents.” and  

“My grandparents mailed the letter to me.”  

Inconsequential until remote learning tabs to  

the real world.  

Miss, they say,  

the offices of high-ranking members  

of Congress were entered.  

Miss, they say,  

the American flag was removed and replaced:  

MAKE AMERICA                              AGAIN.  

A bomb was planted.  

A coup was staged.  

Where is the subject?  

Miss, they say,  

Who is doing the action?  

Lauren Haynes holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Western Kentucky University and has been an English teacher for years.

SELECT COMMITTEE

by Claude Clayton Smith

Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi announces her appointments to a new select committee to investigate the violent Jan. 6 insurrection at the Capitol, on Capitol Hill in Washington, July 1, 2021. From left are Rep. Elaine Luria, Rep. Jamie Raskin, Rep. Stephanie Murphy, Rep. Pete Aguilar, Rep. Adam Schiff, Rep. Zoe Lofgren and Rep. Bennie Thompson. Rep. Liz Cheney also accepted Pelosi's invitation to join the committee. Credit: J. Scott Applewhite/AP via abc news.

A singularity occurs but once in time

and space: the Big Bang, for instance;

 

or at a point of infinite mass density

where gravity distorts such time and space

into the final state of matter as it’s

black hole bound;

.

or when the derivative of a given function

of a complex variable does not exist, but

every neighborhood of which contains points

for which the variable does exist.

 

And now comes a new singularity:

a select committee to investigate

whether a house divided against itself

can stand, or if the point at which all

concepts that give life meaning

become irrelevant.

 

Professor Emeritus of English at Ohio Northern University, Claude Clayton Smith is the author of eight books and co-editor/translator of four others. His own books have been translated into five languages, including Russian and Chinese.

ATMOSPHERIC RIVER

by Cathleen Calbert

Source: University of Wisconsin

or narrow corridor 

a filament of concentrated moisture

            (like a fire faerie’s little vag)

 

like Lilith, with so many titles:

tropical connection, tropical plume, moisture plume,

(which I believe was indeed a feminine protection 

            product from the 1970’s),

 

water vapor surge—I can feel that for sure,

cloud band (the most lightweight heavy metal)

            river in the sky and moody to boot apparently.

 

whatever. words are fun

until they’re not anymore

            (insurgents stormed the capitol

            and my heart froze over—how’s that

            for wording).

 

now the country is supposed to forget

what we heard, what we saw. 

we’re onto weather:

 

unusually huge plops of snow 

fall on poor Chicago

while back at home

the Pacific Coast Highway fell

down the mountainside

 

as if the dreams of a little MG,

a bottle of wine, rock and rolling 

through the turns in Big Sur

meant nothing. You should know:

 

when the atmospheric river makes landfall

it releases and transforms

into something we can

touch and call

another name

if we want to.

Cathleen Calbert’s writing has appeared in Ms., The Nation, The New York Times, The Paris Review, Poetry, and elsewhere. She is the author of four books of poems: Lessons in Space, Bad Judgment, Sleeping with a Famous Poet, and The Afflicted Girls. Her awards include the 92ndStreet Y Discovery Poetry Prize, a Pushcart Prize, the Sheila Motton Book Prize, and the Mary Tucker Thorp Professorship at Rhode Island College.

FLORIDA MAN AT THE CAPITOL

by Mickey J. Corrigan

Cartoon by Andy Marlette.

On the same marble floor

where legislation is passed

and the invaders broke in

on January 6th

Florida Man held contests

for scoring with aides.

In this historic building

where laws fail to pass

for equal rights 

for all 

Florida Man lit up

donned a gas mask

during session.

From this legendary building

where flags became weapons

the mob broke down doors

looted rooms, beat cops

Florida Man made dates

online, young girls

hired and seduced

by his political clout.

Outside this same building

in the early spring sunlight

yet another cop killed

the violence continuing

while Florida Man 

FOX-faces us all

proclaiming his innocence

in all things unseemly.

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes tropical noir with a dark humor. Novels include Project XX about a school shooting (Salt Publishing, UK, 2017) and What I Did for Love, a spoof of Lolita (Bloodhound Books, UK, 2019). In 2020, Grandma Moses Press released the poetry micro-chapbook Florida Man. The Physics of Grief puts the fun back in funerals while taking a serious look at the process of mourning (QuoScript, UK, April 2021). 

SKUNK HOUR

by Martin H. Levinson

 

His lawyers inept,

meandering, defending

the indefensible dimly

and dully, doing everything

they can but talk about the

constitutional question of

whether an out of office

president can be tried for

inciting insurrection, as the

Senators sitting in judgment

suffer their ambling, rambling

arguments made in response

to the House Managers logical,

precedent-based contentions

that a carny US Chief-of-State

can be punished for stirring up

mob violence and an invasion

of the Capitol that a video

montage has detailed in all

its nauseating horror.

Martin H. Levinson is a member of the Authors Guild, National Book Critics Circle, PEN America; the book review editor for ETC: A Review of General Semantics, and a contributing editor to The Satirist. He has published nine books and numerous articles and poems.

JANUARY SIXTH

by Diane Vogel Ferri

The Jan. 6 rally of Trump supporters before the assault on the Capitol.Credit: Nina Berman/NOOR/Redux via The New York Times.

Let us not forget 

how we heard the crack of the breach

in every state, the unholy war

with bloated flags waving

dishonorably, whipping

in the felonious wind

Let us not forget

the terrorism of groupthink

the righteous pounding and shattering

the victims in their glory

holding blue-line banners

while violating blue lives

Let us not forget 

what we saw in real-time

the slurs we heard

the trashing of Jesus

of our tax dollars

our house a crime scene

Let us not forget

the present disremembering

of the big lie

how it is in the past now

consequences suffered only

by the dead

Diane Vogel Ferri is a teacher, poet, and writer living in Solon, Ohio. Her essays have been published in Scene Magazine, Cleveland Stories, Yellow Arrow Journal, and Good Works Review among others. Her poems can be found in numerous journals such as Plainsongs, Rubbertop Review, and Poet Lore. Her previous publications are Liquid Rubies (poetry), The Volume of Our Incongruity (poetry), The Desire Path (novel) and her newest novel No Life But This: A Novel of Emily Warren Roebling.