ODE TO BLAZING INFERNO

by Clara Altfeld 

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

O America, I too fear my own demise.

I thought nothing was so permanent 

that it could never be undone, 

but in you, constants shift 

and movement stills.

I swore before God in a city you promised to love

that I would honestly demean myself

that I would support the Constitution 

of the United States—that sickened poem

written in praise to itself.

Attorney comes from an Old French word

meaning to turn to. And if I had not sworn myself

to your wretched service, America, I would turn 

away and away and away.

And in the turn: a shift, a settling, and the past, 

silky and surreal, would come rewinding back. 

The hearing, unheard. No judge, no gavel,

no order of removal for the mother and daughter

I had promised to protect. 

We walk backwards out from the courtroom,

Wrinkle our suits and hang them in the closet

Unwrite, undemand, unmove the pleasure of the court.

Become strangers again, part ways.

I, reversed to my little luxuries, spinning in place. 

Mother and daughter, to unend their journey,

undo footprints in the desert, the jungle.

Leave the sand unmarked, the Darien Gap uncrossed.

Let the boat rise from the waters

like the dawning sun. Water will expel 

from lungs. Eyes will unclose.

Husband and four children will unsleep 

their watery sleep. Shelter from demons

as a family. Oh, America, 

haven’t you always been this way?

Under the shine and sparkle, 

hollow and hostile and unholy?

Buried beneath the bones and rot

of bodies once loved?

Oh, America, let me write you 

a beating heart.

Bring yourself back to life so I can see you

in the firelight.

Clara Altfeld is a lawyer in Houston, Texas. She hopes to own a cat one day. This poem was written in workshop with KT Herr.

LETTER FOM A BESEIGED CITY IN AMERICA

by Margaret Hasse

So alone, each of hundreds in our north

star state––beings sniffed out, run 

down, dragged, tied up, shoved 

in, head-cracked, driven, dumped 

in dark places, disappeared.

So alone, the rest of us snugged at home 

hearing news of atrocities, watching 

videos of masked men in our home-

town toting machine-like guns, grabbing, 

kicking, shooting, and we who knew

not or actually knew the taken, first feel 

unbelief, numbing fear, geysers of inward 

anger and sorrow for the numberless hurt 

and the named dead.

We became roused and risen to 

outward acts: deliver food, guard 

school children, record kidnappings with 

eyes and cameras as on the boy in 

a blue bunny hat, send money, join

groups, trail black cars, shriek alerts

with whistles, light vigil candles, wield signs, 

march, lay flowers on the bloody snow, say no.

A whole community besieged becomes 

a whole community of care, protest and 

resistance, a testing ground for whether 

kindness and the Constitution can hold up

against the battering ram of govern-

ment run amok as we gather in our cold time,

our beautiful city under attack, to hold 

hands with neighbors whether citizens or 

citizens-to-be while spokespeople for

the outrage name-call and hob-gobble truth.

We here know what we saw and see, 

and gradually then all at once, people 

across the country are paying attention, 

posting their support, writing the wrongs 

to their leaders while Springsteen 

sings his “Streets of Minneapolis,” a song 

like a flag to carry, and Judge Biery near

the southern border in the lone star state

frees from detention a man and his young 

son stolen from Minnesota, noting in 

his order that “the case has its genesis 

in the ill-conceived and incompetently-

implemented government pursuit

of daily deportation quotas... ”–– all 

just and sympathetic action from all

over the country eases our city’s 

isolation and bolsters hope 

our democracy will endure. 

Margaret Hasse is a poet living and working in the Twin Cities. She has published nine books of poetry, and has received many honors, such as a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.

INCENDIARY SONG

by Matthew King

Art by Clay Jones

Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’m setting you on fire
You no longer represent me
I’m immediate desire
Our constitution is suspended
on a fence of barbed wire
Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’m setting you on fire

I’ve cancelled your election
I’ve exposed your fatal flaw
Trapped in your reflection
we argued to a draw
The people want perfection
they love to be in awe
Baby you’re the Reichstag
my will is the law

Our union needs annulment
our wedding was a sham
The preacher stole the word of God
now he’s on the lam
He said he’d bless the devil
he didn’t give a damn
Baby you’re the Reichstag
who do you think I am

Like lightning this befell me
not you but I self-crowned
No court can now compel me
my power is unbound
I dare you try to tell me
my methods are unsound
Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’ll burn you to the ground

I’m rounding up your lovers
each one of them a liar
They tell me they don’t know you
say it’s me they most admire
Now I alone can save them
or throw them on the pyre
Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’m setting you on fire


Author's note: Many, not on only one side of the political divide, have been watching for a "Reichstag Fire moment." The thing about historical echoes is you're never sure what you're hearing is exactly what it sounds like, but with some things sounding like them at all is bad enough. A hat tip to Leonard Cohen, whose shade I seem to be channelling in this poem, and who would have turned 91 on Sept. 21. Leonard! thou shouldst be living at this hour; lucky for you you're not, I guess.


Matthew King used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto; he now lives in what Al Purdy called "the country north of Belleville," where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighboring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry. His photos and links to his poems can be found at birdsandbeesandblooms.com.

I HEAR AMERICA CRYING

by Judy Trupin

holding in their fingers the shreds of constitution
tattered perhaps beyond repair
The insurrectionists running free, absolved
I hear America crying
the carpenter and the mason being dragged away
by the chilling iceman
their families slipping on their tears
and murmuring to each other
What is this land in which we dwell?
A boatman turned pilot ferries them away to 
prisons in countries unknown
I hear America crying
as judges erase the law of the land
another pilot does not cry but grits his teeth
as he drops his bombs
preserving his president’s honor but nothing else
I hear America reeling as yes becomes no
and truth morphs into lies
I hear America whispering
too afraid to sing
to afraid to shout
huddling in their homes
uncertain what the night will bring
or when the night will end
and if they will sing 
and if they will sing
again.

Judy Trupin lives, writes, and thinks in Pittsburgh, PA. Walking, teaching and practicing yoga and singing to her plants keeps her sane.

FOR NOW

by Pepper Trail

—The New York Times, May 30, 2025

For now, strip a half-million refugees of any illusion of safety or mercy

Allow honorably-serving transgender troops to be expelled from the military, for now

For now, okay the use of the 1798 Alien Enemies Act against Venezulean immigrants

Condone the termination of awarded grants that promote diversity and tolerance, for now

 

Do not get excited.

This is not the end of democracy.

This is “for now.”

Someday, we, the Justices of the Supreme Court, might stand up.

Might defend the Constitution, could uphold the separation of powers.

May act, at last, as a check upon an utterly lawless and corrupt regime.

 

Not today.

But perhaps, someday.

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.

SPRING (RUDE) AWAKENING

or HANDS OFF MY SHOWERHEAD

President Trump, who has waged a long-running battle against low water pressure, signed an executive order that redefined a common bathroom fixture. —The New York Times, April 10, 2025

by Ann Weil

after Louise Glück’s “October (section I)”
 

Is it Spring again, is it green again,
aren’t we a field of four-leaf clover,
aren’t we coming up posies, 
 
weren't we promised,
aren’t we deserving,
aren’t we special, 
 
wasn’t he strong,
tougher than bullets,
 
didn’t he vow a phoenix nation,
to clean the shop
of waste and scum,
isn’t he bold, isn’t he clever, not telling
the half of his plans 
for ’25—
 
I remember our weakness, our shameful
kindness, our brotherly love, our lead-by-example,
didn’t those values drag us down,
drown us in our Gulf of America,
 
I can’t remember 
which government bloat 
I’m supposed to hate more—
park rangers or cancer researchers,
 
I no longer care
about clean air and healthcare, 
but, man, those egg prices
keep me up at night—
 
who needs allies, free-trade, or 401Ks,
who needs hurricane warnings
or Judy Blume books, 
 
down with DEI, up with ICE,
when was I young there were no illegals, 
no signs in Spanish, my grandparents spoke
only English, swept their Yiddish 
under the rug,
 
when did the taco trucks takeover
and bubble-tea shops spread like a rash,
when did a skirt 
give a guy a free pass
to the ladies room—
a scourge more worrisome 
than measly measles,
 
I blame the Fathers’ faulty foundation—
the Constitution’s lunatic creed,
 
didn’t we thrive without due process, 
without free-speech and fair elections,
 
wasn’t it great
when we were subjects
subject to
the whims of a king,
 
didn’t so-called progress
lead us to this towering cliff,
 
aren’t we jumping, won’t we bounce,
bounce back better like he said,
 
yes, we’re jumping,
isn’t it Spring?  
Yes, it’s Spring, 2025.

Ann Weil is the author of Lifecycle of a Beautiful Woman (Yellow Arrow Publishing, 2023) and Blue Dog Road Trip (Gnashing Teeth Publishing, 2024). Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Best New Poets 2024, Pedestal Magazine, RHINO, Chestnut Review, DMQ Review, Maudlin House, 3Elements Review, and elsewhere. A four-time Pushcart nominee, Weil lives with her husband in Ann Arbor, MI, and Key West, FL.

ON THE AFTERMATH OF A CONSEQUENTIAL ELECTION

by Peter Nohrnberg

Art by Soybeing at Michael Moore Substack

Outraged and exhausted, we make our choice
guided by billions that masquerade as voice.
Like good consumers, we were well apprised; 
knew the cost of eggs, if not of lies.
Fever dreams of unruly immigration 
return to T---p the frayed reigns of the nation.
Sworn in under the Capitol’s Rotunda—
a cold snap turns DC to arctic tundra—
the colossus takes his oath on Lincoln’s Bible.
(Who but Abe or Jesus can claim libel?) 
Fearing his dark promise of retribution 
Silicon Valley makes a contribution. 
Bureaucrats begin to take their leave 
as Musk and DOGE descend like drones on Kyiv.
Among those given the algorithmic axe:
employees who fend off nuclear attacks. 
Less government reform than “shock and awe,” 
cutting of red tape, and rule of law. 
T---p wields his blunt Sharpie like a machete,
shreds the Constitution to confetti.
Vital public info goes up in smoke,
sacrificed on the altar of “anti-woke.”
An able four-star general gets the sack,
replaced by one with three-stars who’s not black.  
POTUS’s pen claims there’s but two genders;
and those born intersex? return to sender!
Like King David who forgave his half-brother, 
Trump pardons both rioter and traitor. 
The Senate coddles his menagerie of weasels 
while unvaxed kids in Texas contract measles.  
The keys to New York City pass to ICE
while Don Junior cavorts on Greenland’s ice.
Deported “illegals” are dealt a dismal fate:
and on the return flight? The brothers Tate. 
Statecraft becomes T---p’s Art of the Self-Deal,
while folks in Gaza scavenge for a meal. 
(One day they’ll all be served a ten-course feast 
at the “Riviera of the Middle East”;
but first they must go on a long vacation 
while Gaza undergoes renovation). 
Back in the Oval Office on his knees 
Zelenskyy begs, but stops at “pretty please”:
desperately in need of guns and tanks,  
dressed down for not dressing up, not saying “thanks.” 
 
Does the arc of history bend toward justice;
Or does history simply bend and break us? 
Does democracy die in darkness, or blinding light? 
How should we view this spectacle, our plight? 
Will art and culture help us ride out the storm,
or did they bring about this new abnorm?  
Did treating blue collar folks as ignore-ables 
help gather MAGA’s “basket of deplorables”?
Or were their grievances, self-pity
what drove them to become so proudly sh---y? 
Perhaps there’s something deep within us all 
that answers to the con man’s siren call.   
Devotion to another’s certainty 
distracts us from the world’s contingency.  
How easy to blame DEI, the border;
easier still to make disorder out of order.
 
When power controls the future and the past, 
can even the written word persist, outlast?  
Yet words, like insects tend to stick around;
gone for years, they emerge from underground:
can sting or float, be bee or butterfly,
little strong things to pinch an ugly lie.   

A poet, cultural critic, and a scholar of literary modernism, Peter Nohrnberg has had his poetry published by Southwest Review, Notre Dame Review, The Wisconsin Review, and Oxford Poetry, among other journals. His poem “Pantoum After a School Shooting” was awarded second place in the 2020 Morton Marr Poetry Prize. 

TORN

by Thomas R. Smith

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

Though our little lives go on, we’re aware
of a massive tearing—a fabric
we’d thought sturdy is being ripped by
unseen hands, cruel, immensely powerful.
This was not supposed to happen in our
country. The rent is pulling apart
the graves of those who died for a proud
ideal. My high school Memorial Days
in the band playing trombone at the cemetery
are torn down the middle, every
school morning that began with the Pledge
of Allegiance in shreds, and the history
book pages of our defeat of fascism
fallen to the ground like shotgunned birds.
Sit with it a moment and you’ll hear it
loud and close, a chainsaw biting into
our soul. Where are our old Scout masters,
our civics teachers who elevated
the virtues of our form of government? 
Where are the leaders we were taught to respect?
Where are the generals sworn to uphold
the Constitution while the demented
king wages war on his own people? Where
is Betsy Ross with her needle to drive
into the hole in our nation’s heart
and stitch back together this wounded cloth?

Thomas R. Smith’s recent books are a poetry collection Medicine Year (Paris Morning Publications) and a prose work Poetry on the Side of Nature: Writing the Nature Poem as an Act of Survival (Red Dragonfly Press). He lives in western Wisconsin near the Kinnickinnic River.

MY HOUSE, YOUR HOUSE, AND THE PEOPLE’S HOUSE

by William Palmer

AI-generated graphic created by Nightcafé for The New Verse News.

Evil can be “defined most simply as the use of political power to destroy others for the purpose of defending or preserving the integrity of one’s sick self.”

M. Scott Peck, The People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Human Evil  

 

 

At home I hear a muffled buzz

then press my ear to a wall—

it feels soft

enough to push

my finger through. 

 

I cut out a square

and find a mass

of larvae squirming

in the light, eating

the backing—

 

a replica of the Constitution.

 

I hire an exterminator.

 

Sorry, but you have an infestation.

See the sawdust—they’re gnawing 2-by-4s.

 

They’re even going after steel beams.

Look at the tiny shavings.

 

There is no guarantee we can eradicate

what’s happening.

 

Please do what you can, I say.

 

Each day I listen for the lies.

William Palmer’s poetry has appeared in Ecotone, JAMA, On the Seawall, One Art, The New Verse News, and elsewhere. A retired professor of English at Alma College, he lives in Traverse City, Michigan.