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".

THE PEELING OF AMERICAN FLAG BLUE

by Celeste DeSario

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

“Multiple arrests,” Truth Social shrieks!
“People vandalizing the Reflecting Pool”
“Eco-Terrorists!”
 
David Hearn, the “eco-terrorist”
Aka former Olympic canoe racer
Stopping by the pool during a 64-mile bike ride.
Curious as to what is going on,
(These days we have to see for ourselves—
So much spin, so many lies.)
 
Curious, a regular citizen,
Reaching into pool to examine the peeling coating,
briefly touching a chunk on the side of the pool,
Letting go the moment a park worker tells him to.
Detained by National Guard troops for 5 hours before being released.
Because that’s what we have become:
fodder for an old man’s lies.
 
There. That takes care of all those doubting Dumb-a-Crats
Who keep asking why I spent $14-million- plus
Just to spruce up the green, algae -laden pool
For the nation’s 250th anniversary.
 
Backfired? Mistake?
Never admit to a mistake.
It’s Biden’s fault. It’s Obama’s fault.
 
American flag blue will cover up the Iran war, 

Why did we attack them again?
The Epstein files, 

Did you finish redacting any mention of my name yet?
The dismantling of the East Wing,
The dismantling of our democracy.
 
Throw in chemicals!
Kill the algae while I find the time to attach blame.
Drain the swamp!
Deflect it.
Shroud it.
  
The American Flag Blue lining peeling away
Beginning to fail,
Exposing the filth on the bottom.
You can only cover that up for so long.
 
And, here’s my question:
What do YOU see when you stand by the edge of that reflecting pool
And look into the green globs of phytoplankton, bacteria, green scum?
 
The water is “crystal clear.”
Believe me.
Just look away.
 
You, throwing insults and bombs
Retreating to your gilded office
To type out words you hope the world
Will believe.

Celeste DeSario taught English at Suffolk County Community College in Brentwood, New York for 37 years and received teaching honors from both SUNY and the University of Texas. Now focusing on creative writing, her recent poetry has appeared in The New Verse News, The Changing Times, The SportScribe Literary Magazine, The Ekphrastic Challenge of June 6 of Wenzel Hablick’s Utopian Buildings and The Ekphrastic Review’s July 6th online issue.

HOW TO MAKE THE RICH EVEN RICHER

an American Senryu

by William Aarnes

The companies making billions from the Iran war. —BBC, May 8, 2026

Declare war (well, don’t).  

Declare doubtful cease-fire deals.  

Declare losses wins.

William Aarnes lives in Manhattan.

A BRIDGE TOO FAR

by Karen Warinsky

A protestor entered his fourth day atop the Frederick Douglass Memorial Bridge. Guido Reichstadter remained on top of the bridge as of 4:35 p.m. Monday and told WUSA9 that he would spend another night there. He also indicated that he ran out of food on Saturday and water on Monday morning.

If you shout your sorrow

from a mountain top 

will the wind take your voice

throw it into empty caves

through the standing trees?

 

If you climb a high bridge

cast a symbol of that sorrow

from the crown

a black cloth 

flying in protest

saying, “not in my name”

to war

to inhumanity

to school girls obliterated at their desks

to a president’s threat to 

annihilate an ancient civilization,

to the locomotive of AI 

tearing across the land,

will anyone hear?

 

May Day.  May Day.

 

The protester speaks of conscience, soul and duty

but the MAGA reporter in her blood red dress

counters with the evils of Iran;

how they murder their own citizens

have killed Americans.

He agrees, “It’s awful,”

but she is incredulous

at his desire for peaceful change

barks questions through crimson lips

as night surrounds him

a thousand feet in the air

his answers delayed by the wind

buffeted back by her commitment 

to make him wrong

make him look crazy

her commitment to more war.

Karen Warinsky, Best of the Net Nominee and Coordinator of Poets at Large, is the author of four collections including Dining with War and Beauty & Ashes.

THE COST OF CAUTION

by Peter Witt

 

Malaysia's Karex Bhd, the world's top condom producer, plans to raise prices by 20% to 30% and possibly further if supply chain disruptions drag on due to the Iran War, its chief executive said on ‌Tuesday. —Reuters, April 21, 2026 

 

 

Safe sex just got more expensive,
the price of latex climbing like a fever.
There’s an oversupply of children on the horizon,
a tidal wave of toddlers waiting to break.

It starts with the fuel, the heavy scent of diesel
rising in cost, slowing the world to a crawl.
Then the cold creeps in. In northern towns,
people turn the heat down, then cuddle 

for warmth under quilts heavy as lead,
and you know what happens next.

In the tropics, the AC hums a frantic tune,
while lovers move in the artificial chill
like dancers in a refrigerated dream.
With the cost of flight soaring high as a hawk,
the world settles for staycations, 
quiet afternoons where the bedroom door
becomes the only destination left.

Without protection, the "frolic" turns to fate.
Be prepared: nine to twelve months from now,
the world may explode with new life,
a sudden reversal of the long decline.,

And while Iran guards its humming centrifuges,
and the nuclear material sits heavy and silent,
Trump stands at the podium, grinning at the chaos,
explaining to the cameras that the crying in the cradles
was all just part of the plan.

 

 

The Trump administration, dominated by religious anti-abortion conservatives and reeling in money from a new wave of pronatalist tech reactionaries, has long been considering ways to persuade, pressure and cajole women into having more babies. —The Guardian, April 14, 2026

Peter A. Witt by chance lives in Texas and is a recovering university professor who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for the Best of the Net award and has appeared in a variety of online and print publications. He also writes family history.  His book about his aunt was published by the Texas A&M University Press (Edith's War: Writings of a Red Cross Worker and Lifelong Champion of Social Justice). He is also an avid birder and wildlife photographer.