TO ALL THE IMPRISONED CHILDREN

by Julie Weiss

Hold on. You´re a rabbit, clever

and bold, galloping free through

tomorrow´s boundless grasslands.

Hold on. You´re the most extraordinary

lotus, blooming through cracks

in your country´s polar ice caps.

Hold on. They may have grounded

your body, but your mind

can fly a thousand glorious kites

in the rising winds of resistance.

Your will, sharp enough to slice

a prison guard´s insults into fluff.

Hold on. Right now, you may feel

more like a beetle climbing

a mountain under a crush of boots

than anything human, but you´re not

alone. You´re the song we sing

when the notes in our throat

have lumped impossibly together.

You´re the rainbow colors we use

to airbrush our hope across the sky.

You’re the poem we bellow at every

demonstration. Imagine! Your beauty

flowing in epic proportions.

You´re our brightest star, the one

that anchors us to our place

in the universe. Hold on. Without you,

we´d all be hurled deep into space.

Julie Weiss (she/her) is the author of The Places We Empty, her debut collection, and two chapbooks, The Jolt and Breath Ablaze: Twenty-One Love Poems in Homage to Adrienne Rich, Volumes I and II. Her second collection Rooming with Elephants was published in February, 2025. She was a finalist for Best of the Net, won Sheila-Na-Gig´s editor´s choice award, and was a finalist for the Saguaro Prize. Recent work appears in ONE ART, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Gyroscope Review, and is forthcoming in Cimarron Review, The Indianapolis Review, MER, and SWWIM. She lives with her wife and children in Spain. 

OWNERSHIP

by W. Luther Jett

Three people were arrested by Florida Highway Patrol Sunday evening at the Pulse nightclub memorial site, after witnesses say they again attempted to chalk the nearby crosswalk in rainbow colors that were recently removed by the Florida Department of Transportation.—Central Florida Public Media, August 31, 2025. Photo by Nicole Darden Creston/Central Florida Public Media: Early Sunday afternoon, a sign reading "Defacing sidewalk prohibited" stands next to an area of sidewalk chalked with the phrase "You can't erase us." Florida Highway Patrol cars are seen in the parking lot across the street behind the building.

There was chalk

on the sidewalk and they—

the owners of the sidewalk

erased it.

                    Then it rained

while the sun shone—

We all saw the rainbow

before they put up walls

to hide it,

                    But you see

no-one really owned that sidewalk—

no more than anyone could own

the sky where the rainbow 

shimmered.

                    And if anyone

ever tells you they have touched

a rainbow—they are not

being truthful.

                    But I have held

chalk in my hand, chalk

all colors of—well, you know

how chalk dust rubs off—

how it gets

                    all over everything.

W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland and a retired special educator. His poetry has been published in numerous journals as well as several anthologies. He is the author of six poetry chapbooks. His full-length collection “Flying to America” was published by Broadstone Books in 2024, while his most recent chapbook “The Colour War” was released by Kelsay Books in 2024.

WE’RE BACK!

by Karen Marker

“We are not going to let the communists destroy a great American city, let alone the nation’s capital,” [Stephen] Miller told the crowd near Shake Shack inside Union Station. “And let’s just also address another thing. All these demonstrators you’ve seen out here in recent days, all these elderly white hippies, they’re not part of the city and never have been. And by the way, most of the citizens who live in Washington, D.C., are Black. So we’re going to ignore these stupid white hippies that all need to go home and take a nap because they’re all over 90 years old.” —The Hill, August 20, 2025

All of us old white hippies 

are showing up at Union Station 

Shake Shack and every

street corner

we don’t want to miss 

a love in sit in heckle

right here wherever

they are we are 

wearing our long gray

hair in braids 

like Patti Smith

singing "People Have the Power"
we’re blowing smoke rings

into their smirking faces

as they buy their burgers

for the National Guard

here so this won’t be another

Kent State we’ve come to town 

in massive numbers rocking

not rolling over
we’re wearing our tie die

tee shirts in protest chanting

Hey Hey We’re the Hippies 

Come back and we’re not alone 

look closer you’ll see we’re rainbow

colored, we’re stripping off 

their vulgar masks

smacking their faces with kisses
this is just the beginning

we’re making it a race

to the finish see what happens 

when we all get naked

let our full glory 

be exposed that’s how 

we’ll catch them 

off guard take over

by giving away the Abundance 

of our flourishing gardens 

throwing bouquets of chard and roses

Oakland, CA poet Karen Marker is a social activist and retired school psychologist whose poetry has been published in numerous anthologies and journals. Her first poetry book Beneath the Blue Umbrella came out recently with Finishing Line Press. She has recently been engaged in a project of writing a poem a day off hope and protest in response to the news. The presence of the  national guard in our cities has recalled her experience as 9th grader at Kent State University High School where she was witness to the horrors of May 4th. Her poetry is in the May 4th Archive at KSU. 

CRUELTY

by Frederick Wilbur

Birds rest on concertina wire along the Rio Grande in Eagle Pass , Texas, Thursday, July 6, 2023, that has been recently bulldozed. (AP Photo/Eric Gay) Texas Republican Gov. Greg Abbott’s escalating measures to stop migrants along the U.S. border with Mexico came under a burst of new criticism Tuesday after a state trooper said migrants were left bloodied from razor-wire barriers and that orders were given to deny people water in sweltering heat. —AP, July 19, 2023

Along the helix

of razor wire 

meant to keep

refugees stranded,

there are delicate spiders

spinning webs

that rainbow

in the early sun,

their snares

of a different will.

 

Frederick Wilbur’s collections of poetry are As Pus Floats the Splinter Out and Conjugation of Perhaps.  His work has appeared in The Comstock Review, Dalhousie Review, Green Mountains Review, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, The New Verse News, and Shenandoah among others. He is poetry editor for Streetlight Magazine.

PRIDE

by Marion Evalee

Carrying a jumbo rainbow flag onto the Salem Common under the rainbow arch are Ken Elie, left and Ed Hurley, right of the group Boston Pride, who turned out to support the North Shore Pride group. Joe Brown photo via The Salem News, June 25, 2023

The great Arc-en-ciel
Is colorless,

Not on the wing.
A heart needs something,

Color needs light,
A flag needs the wind—

Whoever’s eternal
Rebounding breath

Has deadened with the night,
As it often does.

I keep walking
Over what was

The parade grounds
(What will be the Commons

By the time we celebrate
Our independence)

Like an old vet,
Though it’s getting dark.

Marion Evalee, a Pushcart Prize nominee, has appeared in The Amethyst Review, Willows Wept, Survivor Lit, The Boston Compass, Neologism, and Montage. A selection of her poetry is featured in the anthology 14 International Younger Poets (Art and Letters, 2021). She lives in Salem, Massachusetts.

YEAH, I’M WOKE

by Gordon Gilbert

        My eyes not closed
 
to all the colors of the rainbow;
         this world is not just black and white
 
to men telling women how to live their lives;
         they can’t even manage their own
 
to the rich getting richer;
the rest of us, poorer
 
to the racism everywhere;
how to some, others’ lives don’t matter
 
to the worship of the gun;
some even willing to sacrifice our children
 
to those who have the one, true religion;
they want to impose it on us all
 
to those who profit from these endless wars;
         they are never the ones who fight them
 
    My eyes have been opened
    I see the world more clearly
as it is
                         not
                             as it never was
 
            and so,
              I say it proudly,
                     yeah,
 
       I’m WOKE !

Gordon Gilbert is a writer of poetry and prose residing in NYC's west village. Actively involved in NYC spoken word events since 2008, he has also hosted programs celebrating the beat writers, several African American poets and other poets as well,  including William Carlos Williams. During the pandemic, Gordon found solace and inspiration in long walks along the Hudson River. 

TRAVELERS REST LIBRARY GETS THREATENING CALLS…

AFTER REFUSING TO REMOVE PRIDE MONTH DISPLAYS 

—Greenville (SC) News, June 22, 2023

by Gilbert Allen

It's not a threat. “This is just what I've heard.”

The “good old boys” don't like this month's display.

One phones the staff—there are “whispers of war.”

He's not a threat. “This is just what I've heard.”

Just rainbow ribbons in the entryway

and a multicolored READ WITH PRIDE.

It's not a threat. “This is just what I've heard.”

The “good old boys” don't like this month's display.

Gilbert Allen has lived in Travelers Rest, South Carolina, since 1977. His most recent books are Believing in Two Bodies and The Beasts of Belladonna. For more information about him and his work, check out the interview here.

LET HER WEAR GREEN

by Tricia Knoll

Did the ‘Barbie’ Movie Cause a Pink Paint Shortage? The film recreates the famous doll’s brightly colored world—with the help of one specific shade of pink. —Smithsonian, June 8, 2023

Witness a shortage 

of pink paint

from the set design

of a Barbie movie. 

 

Let her wear green

for chlorophyll,

eco-warrior for a hurting

planet short on good sense

 

as cancer drugs are hard

to come by. This rainbow

month colors fly

 

on flagpoles and banners. 

I’m so sick of pink. The only

Barbie I have sits in a wheelchair;

she is a woman of color

 

beautiful color. 

Barbie Fashionistas Doll #166 With Wheelchair & Crimped Brunette Hair

Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet well beyond Barbie years. Her work appears widely in journals, anthologies, and seven collections—the most recent being One Bent Twig (FutureCycle Press, 2023) which brings together poems about about trees she has planted, loved, or worries about due to climate change.

WE DIDN’T ASK FOR ONLY

by B. Fulton Jennes

We don’t ask the flowers to all be daisies,

or dogs to be only dachshunds.

 

We wouldn’t want all flags to be red, white, and blue,

(although some people would, and that’s a sad truth).

 

Valentine’s Day would disappoint

if those heart-shaped boxes

contained nothing but nougat,

and we’d suffer if orchestras

were nothing but bassoons.

 

Think what we’d miss

if all songs were sung in D minor,

all rooms painted Chantilly blue.

 

The nights would be darker

if heaven held only blue dwarfs.

A forest planted with nothing but maples

would be stark in winter.

 

If all roads led south,

wouldn’t we miss east and west?

 

Imagine…

 

A childhood of puzzles and no other toys,

schools of sturgeon filling the freshwaters

and exclusively stingrays at sea,

libraries with shelves stacked solely with sci-fi,

rom-com the only choice in new film fare,

all eggs, runny, sunny-side-up,

all coffee, decaf, black,

all shoes, brown leather, size 7,

all towels green, all sheets unfitted,

blue ink only in non-retractable pens,

no choice but Times New Roman

to write an essay, eulogy, or epistle…

 

We didn’t ask for only.

We don’t want only.

 

We weren’t born only.

 

We were born blonde, brunette, jet-haired, red,

oval-faced, round, square and pear,

thick-thighed and thin, tall and petite,

in a rainbow of skin colors,

a hodgepodge of histories,

a symphony of sexualities,

a jumble of genders,

with loves gifted by God, not governments.

 

So don’t ask a rainbow to be only red.

 

We will not be only.

B. Fulton Jennes is Poet Laureate of Ridgefield, CT, where she serves as poet-in-residence at The Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum. Her poems have appeared in The Comstock Review, Tupelo Quarterly, The Night Heron Barks, Limp Wrist, Tar River Poetry, SWIMM, Anti-Heroin Chic, Pareidolia Literary, Extreme Sonnets II, and many other journals and anthologies. Her collection Mammoth Spring was a finalist for the 2021 Two Sylvias Wilder Prize and the Small Harbor Press Laureate Prize. Her chapbook Blinded Birds (Finishing Line Press), released in April of 2022, was named Winner of the 2022 International Book Awards in the Poetry: Chapbook category. 

FOR VAL I GIFT YOU—YOU

by Joseph Hope

For Val I gift you a country 

without a government: without a place (segregation) 

for black or white or color riot. A song as soft as the snow.

I gift you rain in the desert. A bow without an arrow, 

so you don't hunt. I gift you a heart as big as Asia. 

A smile as warm as Summer. A will as strong as Africa. 

I gift you meditation as deep as the oceans of Europe. 

For Val, I gift you the pain of childbirth. The giggling that comes afterward. 

The innocence of a thousand childhoods. The riches of the earth. 

I gift your friendship. The (im)perfect family. Cry. Laugh. Cry. Laugh. 

I gift you the reasons to go on and on 

and never quit to try again and again. 

I gift you the rain and the bow; rainbow. 

The songs of the ancient. The hope of the future. 

I gift you miracle. Goodnews. 

For Val, I gift you—you.

Joseph Hope writes from Nigeria, West Africa. He believes he's a metaphor for what can be, what is possible. His works are forthcoming or already published in Reckoning Press, Timber ghost press, Evening Street Press, Zoetic Press, The New Verse News, Praxis Magazine, Ubu, AfroPoetry, Gemini Spice Magazine, Spillwords, SprinNG, Writers Space Africa, anthologies, and more. He's a reader for reckoning press. He was a fellow in the 2021 SprinNG Writing Fellowship. He tweets @ItzJoe9 & IG: _hope_joseph

A PANDEMIC PRAYER

by Roderick Deacey

Don’t let me die a COVID death

pinned and tied by wires and tubes,

felled by fear and pain,

enduring dark visions

from potions that numb and confuse,

unable to touch the infinite,

losing the inevitable tussle for breath.

Instead, let me choose a worm’s death,

gently stilling movement

in the warm black soil.

Feeling the earth shiver and move

as it wraps me in its vast body

and cradles me

in its perpetual swing around the sun.

Or let me walk into the ancient forest

and sense the slow sap of centuries

sliding through the rough bark I lean against.

Let me mark the deep rhythm of the wood

as I feel myself slowly sink

into the tree’s heart,

to rest serene among leafy limbs.

Best of all, let me die a bird’s death,

swooping and swirling

high in a star-pricked sky—

not even aware

of tumbling flesh and feathers falling

as I joyously fly on

toward that brilliant rainbow slash of dawn.

Roderick Deacey is a performing poet in the DC area, based in Frederick, MD. In normal, non-viral times, he regularly performs with his drummer/percussionist and bass-player, presenting “neo-beat” poems inspired by the Beat Poets’ poetry and jazz forays of the nineteen-fifties. His beat poetry chapbook neo-beatery ballads was published in 2019. Deacey was awarded the 2019 Frederick Arts Council Carl R. Butler Award for Literature. Crossing genres, he won the Gold Award for best lyrics in the 2020 Mid-Atlantic Song Contest held by the Songwriters Association of Washington.

THREE FLAGS

by Diane Elayne Dees

On my walks to the river, I pass
many American flags, and—
while I don’t like to judge—
I think I know what they stand for. 
In front of one house 
is a large Confederate flag,
and I’m sure I know what that stands for. 
Then, one day, I walk around the corner,
and am surprised and thrilled to see 
a huge rainbow flag in a neighbor’s yard.
The next day, an American flag is hung 
next to it. I wonder if the neighbor hung
the second flag as a means of protection;
I let my imagination run away with me. 
The following day, a third giant flag
appears next to the others—a flag
reminding me to vote for the two
most evil and incompetent men
I can recall having power in my lifetime.
Collective delusion has destroyed
cognitive dissonance. The red, white
and blue of democracy and the 
bright yellow and green and purple
of nature’s prism lift my spirits.
But now, every day, when I turn 
the corner, the colors of diversity
and freedom hurt my eyes,
trigger blood-red visions,
and intimate a sky so dark,

no rainbow can ever be visible.

Diane Elayne Dees's poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies, and she has two chapbooks forthcoming. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women's professional tennis throughout the world.

AUTUMN LEAVES

by Lind Grant-Oyeye

Image source: It's okay, to be a flaming homosexual

Like the rainbow, seasons to speak
Like the sun, seasons to tell
Like the moon, tides and seasons to speak
Like the bear, seasons to tell

Like the heart, seasons to dream
Like dreams, colors to wish.


Lind Grant-Oyeye is an Irish-Nigerian poet and has work published in several countries. Her work discusses issues related to culture, social justice and equality.

PRISM DAY

by David James Olsen

written about and on 6-26-2015

I do declare this Prism Day,
for, finally, Americans as one
look up and round together,
seeing through a single prism
equally, resulting rainbows
viewed with reverence unified
by simple love, needing
nothing other than a national
acknowledgement to set the
global table, turning tides to
placid calm where all can
swim in matrimonial sanctity.


David James Olsen is a 32-year-old published poet/actor/singer/researcher living and thriving in New York City. Recently, he has volunteered with Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS and PFLAG NYC, as well as filling the role of House Manager for The York Theatre Company. He aims to start his own specialized NY theatre company soon, wanting to learn from the best while laying the groundwork. Previously, his poetry has been published in The South Townsville micro poetry journal, Instigatorzine, and here in The New Verse News. Continuing to compose daily, he hopes to have much more of his work out there very soon.