GAMBLING MAN

by Raymond Nat Turner

 

Even though the table’s tilted; the dice are loaded;

and the cards are marked; even though light-fingered

double-dealers declare that we “don’t have the cards;”

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on The People

everyday.

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on The People

everyday.

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on Everyday People

everyday.

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on Everyday People

everyday.

Betting on ordinary ones

doing extraordinary, all hands on deck, things.

Doing disbanding circular firing squad things.

I’m a gambling man.

Betting on ordinary ones doing extraordinary things—

magic—magic that made Mrs. Marcos flee the Philippines

leaving behind hundreds of pairs of her pricey shoes.

Magic that lifted The Shah from peacock throne and made 

Mobutu, Batista, Baby Doc, The Samosas and Assad… disappear…

 

 

 

 

 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.

DROP THE MIC

by Steven Kent

 

 

 

"U.S. defense spending would rise $445B under Trump budget plan, with steep cuts elsewhere." —The Guardian, April 3, 2026

A budget written by a nutter
Favors guns instead of butter.
Starve the people, stoke the power?
No, said Mr. Eisenhower.

 

 

Steven Kent is the poetic alter ego of writer and musician Kent Burnside. His work appears in 251, Asses of Parnassus, The Dirigible Balloon, Light, Lighten Up Online, The Lyric, New Verse News, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Philosophy Now, The Pierian, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry, Snakeskin, and Well Read. His collections I Tried (And Other Poems, Too) (2023) and Home at Last (2025) are published by Kelsay Books. 

LUNCHTIME FOR BILLIONAIRES

by Karen Warinsky

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

President Trump is rolling back anticorruption efforts and ethical standards for himself and allies like Elon Musk. —The New York Times, February 12, 2025

 
The millennial check-out clerk
holds my 50 toward the florescent light,
squints hard to find a fake
which is harder by the day 
with so much fakery about,
and I wonder
who will exchange those phony notes
along with those played for the crowd 
at rallies and events?
 
Who will teach the young
the dimensions of truth;
how large, how important it really is,
how to hold assertions to the light,
see if they are real?
 
Hot with anger I ponder
what will be left after
the stuffing’s been kicked
the juice squeezed 
as billionaires slice us thin
try to make grinders
of us all,
garnished with dollar bills.
 
Will they realize in time
that people are worth more 
than money,
and will we do whatever it takes
to keep from being
eaten alive?

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

Karen Warinsky is a former finalist of the Montreal International Poetry Contest and a 2023 Best of the Net Nominee. She is widely published in anthologies, journals and E-zines. Her books are Gold in Autumn (2020), Sunrise Ruby, (2022) (both from Human Error Publishing), and Dining with War (2023, Alien Buddha Press). Warinsky coordinates poetry readings under the name Poets at Large in CT and MA.

INDESTRUCTIBLE NARRATIVE

by Peter F. Crowley

An aerial photograph taken by a drone shows displaced Palestinians returning to Rafah, a day after the ceasefire deal between Israel and Hamas came into effect, Gaza Strip, Monday, Jan. 20, 2025. (AP Photo/Mohammad Abu Samra)

Trump Plan for Gaza “Worse Than Ethnic Cleansing,” Says UN Human Rights Expert: Unlawful deportation or transfer of a population constitutes both a war crime and a crime against humanity. —Truthout, February 9, 2025

The usurper grinned,
broad-brimmed sunbeam hat, squinted eyes
while folding a pair of old,
torn jeans and stuffing them 
into a Goodwill bag
muttering to himself, 

“What was before never was.
What is now is the beginning.
Plow the forest, melt the trees,
farm the virgin land 
and let grass grow over villages.
We will soon forget what never was.”

From a rip in the Goodwill bag, 
a jeans leg fell out.

No matter how deep you bury,
No matter how many villages are liquidated,
You cannot kill the narrative of those
who were there before.


As a prolific author from the Boston area, Peter F. Crowley writes in various forms, including short fiction, op-eds, poetry and academic essays. His writing can be found in 34th Parallel, Pif Magazine, Galway Review, Digging the Fat, Adelaide’s Short Story and Poetry Award anthologies (finalist in both) and The Opiate. He is the author of the poetry books Those Who Hold Up the Earth and Empire’s End, and the short fiction collection That Night and Other Stories.

GOOGLE EARTH GAZA

by Robinson Terry

Before:
Bright white roofs greet the camera.
Square irises shaped like a city,
orderly rows of houses, 
neat columns of streets, and 
thin shadows that hug the edges of so many homes. 
Green trees scattered about
in no particular pattern—
though there are parks
just as surely as there are people—
even if the picture can’t catch or corroborate their existence,
they exist. 
 
After: 
leveled earth 
devoid of shape and structure
every building reduced to a basement
every basement staring up
at a sky that will never reach down far enough 
to grant them light 
fat shadows like a smattering of so much blood 
no design to the destruction
label it hazardous and call it a target
to justify wiping it from the surface:
a target has no depth 
a target is always flat 
a target only exists on a screen
no—human beings were not the targets—
a target can only be a building
not who built the building
they are not on the screen
they are not seen—
never were 

Robinson Terry is an English teacher living in Syracuse, NY. He has previously been published in Better Than Starbucks and The Broadkill Review. 

THIS IS NOT THE ISRAEL OF OLD

by Gordon Gilbert

in the Israel of ancient times,

prophets were revered

and even kings

(often reluctantly)

would allow them voice

knowing

they must be heard

even when (especially when)

they came to denounce

the actions or inaction

of the king

because all knew they were

both messengers from God

and the voice of the people

and as such

prophets must be given audience

 

some kings even listened

some even changed their ways

 

but this is not the Israel of old

and “King” Bibi chooses to kill

he does not listen 

not to those who prophetize 

nor to the voice of the people

and the anger grows on all sides

as former friends of Israel fall away

 

no

this is not the Israel of old

this king ignores the prophets

this king must go

NOW

if Israel is to survive

Author's Note:

My father was a minister. 

Not the kind who preached fire and brimstone.

He preached God’s love and forgiveness. 

But sometimes his sermons served to educate the congregation

about one or another of the Old Testament prophets

and why he thought them important. 

Gordon Gilbert is a resident of the West Village in NYC who got through the pandemic taking long walks along the Hudson River.

NATIONS REBORN ON THE SALISH SEA

by Alfredo Quarto

                   

My sleep awoke in me last night a vision

that warrior clans returned to Puget Sound.

I dreamt that cedar canoes once more

plied upon steel waters

wooden vessels hewn by hand…

the head of deer carved upon each bow

bounding through the waves

propelled by the flat ends of many legged oars

ruminant hooves slapping against

            the wizened face of sea.

 

Something was reborn when the paddlers pulled again

their oars like tense wings fashioned

from the inner strength of the yew tree…

revival was at hand as a coastal people

once more walked upon the waters

each pull of oar one step in two directions

linking the severed past with future.

 

Deep within the red earth

remnant roots are recalled

as an old people revive

feel their pliant pulse range once more

along the arterials from the breasts of mountains

to the beat of the heart of the sea…

new life may grow from the same soil

            that buries us after all.

 

From the arching stern the captain

steers with eyes fixed towards home

his rhythmic song in the ancient tongue

sets our pace as old wisdom is rediscovered.

Near the shore a lone deer swims

holds its antlered mantle above cold water

behind him, steepled conifers climb green hills

rise to where sea gulls glide and scream

in great excitement, as if proclaiming

            the People have returned.

Alfredo Quarto is an environmental activist and poet living on an organic farm in the foothills of the Olympic Mountains in Washington.  He’s been published in numerous poetry publications including Poetry Seattle, Catalyst, Raindance Journal, Piedmont Review, Haiku Zashi Zo,  Paperbag Poems, Seattle Arts, Spindrift, Arts Focus, Arnazella, Dan River Anthology, Amelia, Americas Review, Vox, Middle House Review, The Closed Eye Open, Elevation Review, Montana Mouthful, Tidepools, and Wild Roof.