CATALOGUING OUR NAMES

by Karen Marker

 

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Homeland Security Wants Social Media Sites to Expose Anti-ICE Accounts. —The New York Times, February 13, 2026


Still in the down of the dream world a text 
comes from Mona that says you are so brave
which means she must have seen my Facebook post 
about ICE and knows of the threats made 
about collecting names. I also named 
the commandment from Exodus about how 
we should treat the stranger. 

Such a long list of us, once strangers ourselves. 
Will they record our names, imprison all of us, 
including the thirteen-year-old who read the torah portion 
and the rabbi who said all who want to take a stand rise
and come up for the blessings?  No one was left in their seats.  
We were packed so tight together, all of us touching 
someone who was touching the parchment, another name 
for light holding the words like a mother. Like the mother 
who stood beside me holding her child 

with deep brown eyes staring straight into my eyes.
She didn’t look away from my tearing up 
like I can’t look away from what keeps me awake 
at night thinking of the children in the prison camps,
the names I need to speak so I won’t forget.
Receiving blessings, touching light, 
we were one breathing body.  

What can I text Mona that will soothe her fear
for the dark skin she got from her Indian Hindu 
father, her Mizrachi Jewish mother?  Even 
with her credentials that made her a top doctor
specialist, gave her a beautiful suburban life, 
she’s still afraid for her son and tells me she couldn’t 
survive without her medicines, not one day 
in that prison camp and I admit I’m just as scared 
of being sent away. It’s all that’s unhealed 

that makes us even more afraid.  It is the cage,
the chains, the clanging doors of our brains, 
how the past climbs back up and casts us out. 
But now Mona is calling, telling me how
everyone’s been working so hard in Ohio, like one
family.  At least for today there’s a stay by the judge, 
the Haitians in Springfield are safe.

    
Karen Marker is an Oakland, CA. poet activist and retired school psychologist whose poetry of protest and hope in response to the news will be coming out as a book in the coming year.  Her poetry has appeared in NVN and various other journals including The MacGuffin, The Monterey Poetry Review, the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Slant, and WordPeace. Her book of flash memoir and poetry Beneath the Blue Umbrella is available through Finishing Line Press and explores resilience in face of family trauma.  

SCULPTURE

by Jan Chronister

In Duluth, Minnesota

a well-known snow sculptor

crafts a car on his front lawn—

Honda Pilot with smiling driver,

arm hanging out. 

He adds a sign that says,

“I’m not mad at you.”

Someone places flowers

on the white canvas.

A photo of the sculpture on Facebook

draws close to one hundred hateful comments,

some even rejoicing at her death.

It’s going to be cold in Minnesota—

wind chills as low as -60.

The snow car and driver

will be around a long time.

Perhaps long enough

for the haters to find 

their humanity.

Jan Chronister is a retired educator who splits her year between the extremes of northern Wisconsin (by Lake Superior) and southern Georgia. She has authored three full-length poetry collections and twelve chapbooks. Jan edits and publishes the work of fellow poets under the imprint of Poetry Harbor.

HOW TO SPOT A FASCIST

by Helen Jones

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

Don’t think they come with jackboots in the dawn
Or kick your door in on a freezing night.
Now fascists take control with Facebook ads
And Tik-Tok videos to make you laugh,
Let you believe that facts can just be changed,
Decide reality is just a trick.
 
Then suddenly your job has disappeared
Raw work-experience kids have wiped you out,
Universities are threatened, books are banned,
Medicaid blown apart and foreigners locked up,
Poor people die and old alliances break.
 
          Fascists begin with elections
          When you are not paying attention.

Helen Jones was born in Chester, U.K. She gained a degree in English, many years ago from University College London and later an M.Ed. from the University of Liverpool. She is now happily retired and spends a lot of her time writing and making a new garden. Her poetry has been published in several journals in the U.K., and she is currently working on a novel set in fifth century Deva.

WE STILL CALL IT FREEDOM

by Phyllis Frakt

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Do you still believe 
your world is real?
How medieval! So passé!
Abandon all hope,
enter our new reality—
facts are what we say.
 
We control the news,
can change it at our whim.
Technology will comply,
repeat the truth of every lie
in a thick mix of duplicity
on Fox, Facebook, X, AI.
 
We flood the zone,
you can't catch up.
Chaos is our game!
We still call it freedom.
But when something goes awry,
Joe Biden is to blame.

Phyllis Frakt writes poetry in New Jersey. She has published six previous poems in The New Verse News.

WAY TO START THE DAY

by Jim Murdoch

This artwork was created with the help of Artificial Intelligence using NightCafe Creator.

My Facebook feed is

full of AI’d jpegs of

Scarlett Johansson.

 

There are worse things to

wake up to in the morning.

So. Many. Worse. Things.

Jim Murdoch lives down the road from where they filmed Gregory’s Girl which, for some odd reason, pleases him no end. He’s been writing poetry for fifty years for which he blames Larkin. Who probably blamed Hardy. Jim has published two books of poetry, a short story collection and four novels.

SEARCHING

by Karen Warinsky

I type “Is Bisan” in the search bar

and the next two words appear automatically

with their furtive question mark, “still alive?”

 

Bisan, a Palestinian journalist popped into my Facebook feed

one morning during this latest Mideast roil,

her fresh, round face full of promise 

her troubled brown eyes alert as she posted

cell phone videos of the wreckage of Palestine, the slaughter of the people.

The videos are raw, wound the eyes, sear the soul.

She posts each time she must flee, relocate,

so many displacements now she’s lost count.

One day she shows us her favorite flower

the passionate poppy, Hannoun, red, alive

pushing forth in the spring air,

another day she videos a small boy selling homemade potato chips.

“Delicious, tasty!” she says, almost smiling,

boys flying kites on the beach behind her.  

These moments are her sustenance 

as she shares pictures of her home in the Gaza ruins,

a video of the day a bomb at Al-Shifa hospital just missed her

by two minutes,

her refugee life in Rafah,

stories of others spit out by this war

hundreds of thousands with no safe place to go,

their way home stalled, like the peace talks.

 

Bisan is 27.

She is forthright, emotional, outraged, 

bewildered.

She wonders, "Where is help?  Why is this allowed to go on?"  

Seven months now.

 

She looks into the phone’s lens. Begs, “Don’t get used to

what is happening in Gaza!”

She is searching for rationality, for assistance.

I will keep searching for her, 

pray she can send more videos of children flying their kites, 

sending up wishes,

pray that those wishes get answered.

Karen Warinsky is the author of three collections: Gold in Autumn (2020), Sunrise Ruby (2022 Human Error Publishing), and Dining with War (2023 Alien Buddha Press); a former finalist of the Montreal International Poetry Contest; a Best of the Net nominee; and runs Poets at Large.

FORCED REALITY

by Lylanne Musselman 

The morning Facebook went down,

is a testament to the world we live in,

your first thoughts: someone hacked me—

your account is gone, the photos you trust

will always be there forever, deleted.

A life lived on social media, Instagram and

Threads vanished. You're not allowed to log in.

Wrong password. You know it’s correct,

but conditioned you change your password.

The platforms won’t let you. You’ve been shut out.

Meta doesn’t believe it’s you. How do you prove

you’re you to software programs that don’t

recognize passwords, or codes sent

directly to your phone to verify your identity?

Finally, you hear others are having issues

logging into Facebook and all related platforms.

Your next thought—we’re under attack.

Some nefarious group or country has taken control—

then like a miracle, we’re allowed back in.

It’s as if nothing happened at all, no real harm.

Except how pathetic we are

when we collectively have a panic attack

over social media, forcing us to face reality—

we rely too much on Meta to connect.

Lylanne Musselman is an award-winning poet, playwright, and visual artist. Her work has appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, Poetry Breakfast, and The Ekphrastic Review, among many others, in addition to many anthologies. Her seventh chapbook Staring Dementia in the Face (Finishing Line Press) became available in 2023.

WHAT THEY TRIED IN MY SMALL TOWN

by Chad Parenteau

Glenn set a car on fire.
Surprisingly stuck around 
until the police arrived. 
 
Jesse got his girl pregnant.
Denied it. His family told hers
never contact him again. 
 
Tim’s Dad shot my aunt’s cat
from his window, kept guns
Tim grabbed from drawers.
 
Brian and James tried college.
Drank their first night. Thought 
licorice would conceal breath.
 
Some trolled on Facebook when 
Trump lost, angry that our world 
was bigger than where they lived.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston's long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His latest collection is The Collapsed Bookshelf. His poetry has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, Nixes Mate Review, and the anthology Reimagine America from Vagabond Books. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine.

THE FLORIDA CASE BEFORE THE ELECTORAL COMMISSION

by Lavinia Kumar

Cornelia Adele Fassett (1831-1898), Florida Case Before the Electoral Commission

                  

If Cornelia Fassett were here today,

she’d have painted a disputed election even larger.

 

The piece would have Facebook friends and tweets,

shown her Supreme Court chamber streamed live to millions.

 

Samuel Tilden won many more votes

but Rutherford Hayes fought the Electoral tally—

with twenty Electoral votes too short

he claimed voter intimidation and all sorts of fraud.

 

A Commission stood to create a miracle,

and debated nine days about voters in four states.

 

And, lo, they sought and found the needed,

which switched the Electoral College to Republican.

 

Ah, yes, it is said that history repeats,

but ghosts will tell that is not true of miracles.

Lavinia Kumar is currently interested in writing of unsung women of the past, Her poetry has appeared in US, Irish, & UK publications. Her books include Hear Ye, Hear Ye: Women, Women: Soldiers, Spies of Revolutionary and Civil Wars and No Longer Silent Women: the Silk and Iron of Women Scientists.

FACEBOOK ENABLED A CROOK

by Kathleen Murphey

Facebook enabled a Crook, 

amplified his lies, 

enhanced his stance, 

bated Americans with hate, 

feed Republicans with greed, 

regressed our progress, 

seeded unrest and distrust. 

 

Facebook enabled a Crook, 

not aspiration but aberration, 

not with grace but disgrace, 

no constraint or restraint, 

all dire ire and hellfire, 

a wholesale diabolical fail, 

a criminal unethical snail. 

 

Facebook enabled a Crook, 

a hysterical, mercurial, tyrannical, 

a disdaining lamebrain, 

an inane, vain, scatterbrain, 

an American charlatan, 

a Ku Klux Klan journeyman, 

a Republican madman. 

 

Facebook enabled a Crook, 

a Promethean vulgarian, 

an unrestrained birdbrain, 

a rank, crank prank, 

a foulplay melee, 

a foray in disarray, 

an American pathway astray. 

 

Facebook enabled a Crook, 

a rampage of outrage, 

backstage plunderage, 

an idiot ideograph, 

a grafting personage, 

a forsaking snake, 

a blackjack egomaniac. 

 

Facebook enabled a Crook, 

a megalomaniac quack, 

a throwback battle ax, 

a death-dance petulance, 

a ranting, ignorant adulterant, 

a thunderclap mishap,  

a plump mugwumpy T***p. 

Editor’s Note: Full disclosure: We had decided to post this poem hours before, unaccountably, Facebook suspended our News Verse News Facebook page. Was it because we had previously criticized the network and its founder? Well, here we go again.

Kathleen Murphey is an associate professor of English at Community College of Philadelphia. She has been writing fiction lately, both poetry and short stories.

WHAT DID YOU LEARN FROM THE PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE?

by Joan Mazza

If you were raised by and/or married to an abuser,

I know you are suffering tonight. I see you. I feel you.

We are going to rise up and take the mf down.

      —Pam Houston, public Facebook post, Sept. 29, 2020

Didn’t watch, didn’t listen. I went to bed early,

held on to the clarity earned by a day of writing,

reading, an online poetry class. I drank a lot

of water, pondered what I’ll eat for my next meal,

folded clean sheets, made notes for poems. I wasn’t

online during the chaos and shouting, refuse to expose

myself to a bully’s tactics of distraction and lies—

dominance devices with attacks on the other’s

character that show the lack of dignity and inability

to reason. In the morning, I watch one clip before

I’m fully awake, read Facebook full of horror

at this clown of hokum who signals to racists, white

supremacists, and the Proud Boys to be ready to foment

a civil war. Sometimes it takes only one morsel of food

to know it’s poison. Sometimes one sentence makes you

back away and lock the doors of your heart and head. 

In peace and security, ten days ago I voted.

Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist and psychotherapist, and has taught workshops nationally with a focus on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam), and her poetry appears in Rattle, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, The MacGuffin, and The Nation. She lives and isolates in rural central Virginia.

FACEBOOK FOLLY

by Casey Aimer

Stop Hate For Profit

i am slowly destroying my social media.

manually for hours, months, deleting
individual likes, comments, memories.

i believed if my life was not shared
existence would be the tree no one heard.
i wrote to take that wood and give it voice.

this deleting myself—call it revolution.

we chambered our own minds
letting them echo in petri dishes.
placing past and present inside
digital safes for our future
we offered that up too.

i kept my sites so long
knowing memory lapses but
i’d rather forget than be paraded

this is me redrawing.


Editor's Note: The editor recognizes his hypocrisy in arguing and lobbying against Facebook even while TheNewVerse.News maintains a Facebook page. But he hopes the Facebook voice of TheNewVerse.News remains virtuous and valuable. Contrary opinions are welcome... at our Facebook page.

Casey Aimer holds an MFA in poetry from Texas State and a bachelor’s in prose from Texas A&M University. He was born and raised in Central Texas, and advocates for honest questions expressed in unconventional styles. A devoted anarchist, he hopes to escape the United States soon.

52 LIES

by Julia Marsiglio

On social media I see the thunderous applause
for crushing bones under buildings
for bullets that close the eyes of children
forever—whose last words are unspoken
replaced with a cacophony of heavy
artillery, and the screams of mothers who hold them
under the rain of hellfire, and instead of running
count their eyelashes, one by one, and join
the dust, brought in rolling out from under tanks
manned by twitter fingered horsemen
who expected seas of sand but instead
colored the mountains with bright red blood.

The domes are imploding under 52 lies
all written by 45.
The explosions started at home—
on Facebook. Tic Toc. They don’t stop.
They are ours, but we don’t own them.
We watch them, like fireworks and we clap.
As flesh parts from flesh
mother from child
child from life—
we yawn
and we laugh.

Julia Marsiglio is a writer currently located in Montréal, Québec, who has been writing poetry and fiction since she was a child. She graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in Spanish language and literature from the University of Alberta in 2011. Her work has previously appeared in Montréal Writes.

YOU MAY IGNORE THE DUPLICATE REQUEST TO FRIEND ME

by Devon Balwit

not that it was from a bot; it was not,
but from me after I unfriended you. (It’s true.)
Working the warp and weft of us left
me stressed. I thought it best to regress
to solitary, me alone already more than I
can handle. You (and other yous) weighed
in on myriad matters—I wanted my view
unskewed. So, rather rude than band-wagoned,
I un-cliqued. Now, riddled with regrets,
I suspect there might have been another way
to maintain center. But thus it ever is—
the act, the doubt, the retraction, the plow
of one’s furrowed brow into whether.


Devon Balwit has six chapbooks and three collections out in the world. Her individual poems can be found here or are forthcoming in journals such as The Cincinnati Review, apt, Posit, Cultural Weekly, Triggerfish, Fifth Wednesday, The Free State Review, Rattle, Poets Reading the News, etc.

ON FACEBOOK

by Anton Yakovlev

On Facebook, cats have been deemphasized.

We only see them from our closest friends.

You think they swarm you, but you’d be surprised:

on Facebook, cats have been deemphasized.

The bots climb trends. Cambridge has analyzed

our timelines dry. Here come the flaming hands.

Where are the cats? They’ve been deemphasized.

O, let me see them. Let them be my friends.

Anton Yakovlev is from New Jersey. His latest poetry collection is Ordinary Impalers (Kelsay Books, 2017). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Hopkins Review, Amarillo Bay, Prelude, Measure, and elsewhere. The Last Poet of the Village, a book of translations of poetry by Sergei Esenin, is forthcoming from Sensitive Skin Books.

OPERATION SARAH

by Matt Witt

LONDON — Facebook was hit with the maximum possible fine in Britain for allowing the political consulting firm Cambridge Analytica to harvest the information of millions of people without their consent, in what amounts to the social network’s first financial penalty since the data leak was revealed. The fine of 500,000 pounds, or about $660,000, represents a tiny sum for Facebook, which brings in billions of dollars in revenue every year. But it is the largest fine that can be levied by the British Information Commissioner’s Office, an independent government agency that enforces the country’s data-protection laws. —The New York Times, July 10, 2018. Photo via MadhouseNews.

I asked Facebook
for the key words
they have been selling
to anyone who wanted to
target me
for any purpose.

There were 139 words or phrases.

This data about a person’s interests
is valuable
to help someone to
sell you a product,
decide whether to hire you,
rent to you,
accept you as a student,
or disrupt your community group
or social movement.

Many were accurate about me,
or I’d like them to be.

“Fine-art photography.”
“Hiking.”
“Lakes.”
“Community organizing.”
“Working families.”
“Racial equality.”
“Feminism.”
“Climate change.”

But bots are only human.
So Facebook was also selling
fake news
about me
with irrelevant words
out of the blue.

“Lotus Cars.”
“Salerno.”
“Beetroot.”
“Pro-Ject.”
“Bible.”

And “Sarah.”

Maybe because I have 16 Facebook friends named Sarah.
A community organizer now on the city council.
A muckraking journalist.
A longtime neighbor.
A local painter.
And a dozen more.

Or maybe the same bot
that mistakenly included “Bible”
thought I might be a student of
Sarah, biblical wife of Abraham,
who at the age of 90
gave birth to Isaac,
and lived to be 127.

Last night I dreamed that
all two billion Facebook users
started occasionally “liking” things we don’t like,
commenting about topics of no interest,
inserting random words into posts,
forming strange sounding groups.

Since we were all doing it from time to time
our “friends” were not confused,
but, together,
we made Facebook’s data worthless
so no one would buy it.

In my dream, we called it “Operation Sarah.”

Matt Witt is a writer and photographer who lives in Talent, Oregon. He was recently selected a Writer in Residence at Mesa Refuge in California and has been selected an Artist in Residence at Crater Lake National Park, John Day Fossil Beds National Monument, Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument, and PLAYA in Summer Lake, Oregon. His writing has been published in the Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, New York Times, the literary journal Cirque, and many other publications.

THE SORRY STATE WE'RE IN

by Julie Steiner

Apologies this week abounded.
Coffeehouses said, “We’re grounded!”
Starbucks got de-albatrossed.
(Astronomical, the cost.)

Apologies were everyplace
while Facebook went on saving face.
That launched a thousand ads. (Relation-
ships were shown. And desperation.)

Apologies came thick and fast:
“That reckless stage of ours is past.
We’ve reined it in,” proclaimed Wells Fargo;
Disney let a lowered Barr go.

Apologies were this week’s style.
Uber overcame denial.
Since perverts squeezed their bottom line,
they're preaching, "To forgive’s divine."

Apologies, though très en vogue,
are clothes one emperor-slash-rogue
won’t deign to don. He shuns contrition:
bare-faced lies draw less suspicion.


Julie Steiner gets snarky in San Diego.

SOMEWHERE THERE IS AN ALGORITHM FOR US

by Lauren Wellman

Cartoon by Joe Dator

In a recent blog post, Facebook's vice president for ads, Rob Goldman, argues his platform's users aren't its product. Even though Facebook primarily makes money by selling targeted ads based on what it knows about you, Goldman says that the real product is the ability to connect people—ads merely exist to "fund that experience." —Louise Matsakis, “Facebook’s Targeted Ads Are More Complex Than It Lets, On,” Wired, April 25, 2018

Leverage my every click Facebook, stalk me
Through the virtual world, tangled up in social
bots. I don’t want to disappear and I want
To disappear. You get me, you got me. I’m yours.


Do you know me better than I know myself?
Do you detect my every dopamine shift and predict,
My hungry clicker is ready for a gambling binge
in Vegas? Right now, interjects dope man, fly for $149!


This is how we roll, oh, nerd daddy, it’s on--invisible
soothsayer, insomniac confessor, my dealer.
You know what I like (thumbs up!). That’s why we stay,
candyboy, on good terms. My soul, among billions

of users, a digital refugee spilling its whispers
to data miners for pesos on the bitcoin.


Currently based in Oaxaca, Mexico, Lauren Wellman is a scrivener at Bland Alchemy, Inc.

BETRAYAL

by Beth McKim

by EvanOfTheYukon at Reddit.

To think I trusted you all that time.
From the first, I revealed intimacies:
what I ate (and with whom), where I went

(and with whom), my sacred political views,
the deaths of my parents, birthday greetings,
family photographs, reunions with friends,
exotic travel plans. In other words, touts

of the good parts of my life. You seemed
to be my friend, asked only for a personality
test, occasionally, to display my narcissism.

You were sterling, helped me renew friendships,
introduce beloved newborns to our world,
confirm my wit and smarts to everyone.
Now I am shocked, baffled by your betrayal

of my love. You apparently sought the money,
sold my secrets to the most lucrative bidder,
placed my finances in jeopardy,  traitorously

sabotaged a presidential election, made fools
of us all. And suddenly, you want me to pay
for protection against thieves.  Not on your
life.  I’ll miss you the way we miss habits

thwarted . But I won’t have the pressure to record
my life for the world to admire. You’ll never know I’m
gone. Goodbye Facebook, my unfaithful friend.


Beth McKim is a writer and actress. Her poetry, essays, and  short stories have been widely published in anthologies and literary magazines.

SO TWO GOATS WERE STUCK ON A BEAM UNDER A BRIDGE

by Jill Crainshaw

Amidst a turbulent week on Wall Street, two goats were found stranded on a bridge beam in western Pennsylvania on Tuesday. Goat photo source: Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission via NPR.

stormy

with a chance of thundersnow

these are the headlines we are living in

curators clamoring for credibility on facebook fake newsfeeds

talking heads trading on trending turbulence

the bald eagle has landed—on the mariners shoulder—looking for bears

hugging the life out of

fragile economies

while easter bunnies on the loose quadruple a towns investment

a teenagers hair creates a buzz breaking into the prophetic sound of her silence

as bells toll to remember the king who had a dream that one day—one day—

and a presidents goldilocks

blow in the

wind

Jill Crainshaw is a professor at Wake Forest University School of Divinity in Winston-Salem, NC.