OUR FREE UNION

by Zumwalt

with respect to André Breton

Image by the poet using Nano Banana Pro

My country with the hair of embedded fiber-optic cable
With the thoughts of a backed-up four-lane freeway at dusk
With the waist of a redwood in the center of a scenic bypass;
My country with the lips of algae and silt from the Great Lakes

With the cheeks of a ticker tape parade on celluloid stock
With the teeth of a picket fence on a shifting, slumping shoreline;
The tongue of a cracked bell that just rings and rings on command
Of a televised courtroom, a satellite that spies in dark silence;

My country with the eyelashes of high-tension wires
With brows of the upper seats of a sold-out stadium
Of the blue light under the sheets
And of the steam rising from an executive sauna fifty stories high.

My country with shoulders of interstate concrete
And of a hydroelectric dam holding back the stars;
My country with the sticky, messy fingers of a contested ballot box
Of a strewn deck of plastic cards;

My country with armpits of coal dust and scented bubble tea
Of suburban sprawl and the nest of a bald eagle in a cell tower
With arms of Mississippi tributaries and of a thousand assembly lines
And of a mingling of the cornfield and ambushed migrant workers;

My country with legs of elusive wildfires
The movements of a swing state and a jazz festival
Calves of sequoia bark, feet of broken treaties and numbered amendments
Toes of subway tracks and tourists flicking coins into canyons.

My country with a neck of unharvested wheat
A throat of pulsing fiber and high-powered cooling fans
Of a protest stage shrieking in the bed of a dry river
With breasts of the Appalachian night;

With the ribs of a multi-story shopping mall
Of a ghost town shadowed by the noonday sun;
My country with the belly of a thumb-scrolled digital map
With a back of an abandoned silver screen;

My country with a nape of red clay and cooling asphalt
And of the threads of a smudged napkin on a diner counter at 3:00 AM.
My country with hips of a barreling NextGen Acela
With hips of a county rodeo and of Friday night tossed penalty flags

Of a pendulum swinging between fairground stand food and Michelin-rated dining.
My country with bones of Civil War reenactments
With the ligaments of uncirculated library books
With the tendons of a buffalo nickel gifted to a grandchild.

My country with the loins of an offshore drill and the grocery store pharmacy
Of prairie grass and vintage baseball cards.
My country with ears full of rotating sirens
Of eyes of parabolic, steerable radio telescopes.

My country with eyes of a flatscreen TV left on at night
With eyes of a forest gasping for breath…

My country that vowed to love us always:
Our hands held out for answers, trembling within rusty handcuffs.

Zumwalt's poetry feeds on alienation, shifting reality, and forced adaptation. Zumwalt is a repeat contributor to The New Verse News.

MISSING

by Patricia M. Phillips-Batoma

For the Guthrie family

In the Sonoran desert 
a mother is missing 
and the world wonders 
who could do this. 
Her children on TV 
try to break through. 
The star sibling, 
with the made-for-TV smile, 
brighter than any screen, 
vast as a continent, 
breaks down. She sniffles. 
Her mouth twists 
in her small mortal face 
where crisscrossed lines 
read like a map 
of all Earth’s sorrows. 
So many know this disaster. 
They sit on the same couch 
as these three siblings, 
with family near 
and ordinary days out of reach. 
We are not built to endure 
the snatching away of goodness and light, 
of normal human people. 


Author's note: The lines in italics echo the first video put out by Savannah Guthrie and her two siblings.

Patricia Phillips-Batoma is a writer and teacher who lives in Illinois. She has published poems in Skylight 47, An Capall Dorcha, The New Verse News, Off Course, Plants and Poetry and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis.

JOUSTING WINDMILLS

by Zumwalt

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

The Trump administration said Monday it is pausing leases for five large-scale offshore wind projects under construction along the East Coast due to what it said were national security risks identified by the Pentagon. —NPR, December 22, 2025

Our Leader stands upon a fairway green,
Curses white-armed giants, cool and lean.
"Monstrosities!" he cries, with twisting claims,
"I spot our world's decay upon their frames!"
Such ugly things cause huge real estate declines:
"A seventy-five percent plunge," he knowingly assigns.
"Cancer, rust, rot, and ruin are all they can provide,
It's time to take them on— 
               and I will be your guide!"

"Down below the treacherous windmill's feet,
More dead birds than alive—an entire fleet!
Mills chop up our eagles, and—look like hell,
Emit toxic fumes, and sounds that kill!
And in our oceans where whales were once happy 
Damn windmills have driven them completely batty
And maybe—when time to hear my words so wise and true
Your TV won't work— 
               the wind may not blow on cue."                                                                                 

Our Leader had issued an order across the land
But a judge overruled—left-wing sleight of hand!
On Monday our leader again pursued his cause 
Five offshore leases were put on pause.  
"Rogue windmills threaten our eastern shore!
If they don't desist, we go to war!
We fear not Putin, China or 
                illegal immigrants eating up our pets,
But, if necessary— 
                we will launch our nukes —    
                more than anyone has ever launched before— 
                to stop these pesky, ugly, windmill threats!"

Zumwalt's poetry explores themes of alienation, shifting reality, and personal adaptation.

THE WEATHERMAN CRIED

by Stella Graham-Landau

how many years has he 

shared warned cajoled explained

the likelihoods percentages and possibilities

where storms could land

still they argue

point to past failures and misses

their anecdotes and myths raised to the status of fact

he looks at his maps

the tiny mass of whirling white

swirling counterclockwise

this one is a monster

he apologizes for his tears

he is still in the throes of trauma

knowing how many folks died two weeks ago

when dire pleadings went unheeded

maybe he realizes that

his friends who will not leave their cats 

may not survive this storm

he wipes his eyes

he has no life preservers to toss

no life jackets to dispense

no paddleboards or inflatable rafts to offer

he only has science

and statistics

and words he hopes will save lives

he takes off his glasses

holds his head in his hands

i hope i’m wrong this time

Stella Graham-Landau has lived in hurricane territory most of her life. She has great respect for the power of these named storms and much gratitude for the meteorologists who share their insights in an effort to keep us safe.

CRT MEETS THE LITTLE ROCK NINE

by Margaret Rozga

Sarah Huckabee Sanders appears in the center

of my television screen. Her head and shoulders

in sharp focus, that camera angle fixed as if

to convey steadfastness. As if.

In the background a stretch of hazy space as if

she appears out of nowhere. On either side of her

jewel blue, likely furniture, maybe facing couches,

though placed at such a distance from each other

as if to constrain conversation. The camera angle

cuts off a complete view, so they appear flat

surfaces as if they were beds.

She continues to talk, about surviving cancer,

about leaving her children at Christmas to fly

in the dark to Afghanistan in the entourage

of he who she lets remain unnamed. As if.

She moves on.

Little Rock’s Central High School, her school,

she says. Art on the State Capitol grounds now

celebrates the Little Rock Nine, African American

students unwelcomed, demeaned, threatened,

abused when they integrated the school. As if

to erase sixty-six years, she claims in this way

civil rights history is with her, as if her sneer

at CRT were not erasure.

Her service in the administration of the

president she traveled with in the dark

another as if.

Editor’s note: A proposed bill that would have prohibited the use of public school funds to teach the 1619 Project curriculum has failed to make it out of an Arkansas House committee. —THV11, February 9, 2023

 

 

Margaret Rozga served as a voting rights volunteer in rural Alabama in 1965 and was a participant in Milwaukee’s 1967-68 fair housing marches. Her fifth book is Holding My Selves Together: New & Selected Poems (Cornerstone Press 2021).

THE NEWS

by Jacquelyn Shah

Little in the news is truly new now,

though it should be suspensed with, 

the infelicitous word truly, 

which can’t be employed justifiably.

Close relative of truth, a word that’s lost

its eminence since failing

to hang on to sense and signification, 

truly must follow it out the door,

down the street, to the junk-yard, to lie

with all the other useless rubbish.

Truth be told (...but remember, it can’t be!) 

the word truth had been aging 

badly for some time, beginning to resemble 

a jalopy, which might or might not 

reach its destination,

and while moving, often sputters,

even stalls. 

But getting back to news... 

The only thing to be said about it,

given its all-too-often-grisly forms––

à la weather, health, politics, economy,

sports, murders, war, etc.––

is: the time has come to minimize

my TV viewing time, 

which has truly been nothing more 

than an attempt to keep abreast.

And who needs another breast?

Not me, I’ve three already.

Jacquelyn Shah—iconoclast, feminist, pacifist. A.B., English, Phi Beta Kappa; M.A.–English; M.F.A., Ph.D.–English lit/creative writing–poetry. Publications: chapbook, small fry; full-length book, What to Do with Red. Poems in various journals; Winner of Literal Latté’s 2018 Food Verse Contest

TO BEAR OR NOT BEAR ARMS /FUGITIVE SECURITY

Two Poems by Alex Nodopaka

📸VISUALS📸

❗️Video from inside the apartment during a missile attack in Kyiv.#Kyiv #Russia #Ukraine pic.twitter.com/SRgk0WXU5F

— Aarian  (@Worldnews195) February 26, 2022

NOTE: This video is NOT from Alex Nodopaka's niece's apartment but from Twitter.

1. To bear or not bear arms

 

As my niece in Kyiv

is being shelled

I write poems

based on her words*

and what I see

on our TV.

 

I hold my Siamese

the way I imagine

her holding hers.

It seems odd to me

with the repressed

memories I held

 

for over 80 years

but that's all I can do

except bear arms

and join her.

I never in my life

thought I'd say

 

Damn Russia.

 

2. Fugitive security*

A poem based on the words of Alex Nodopaka’s niece in Kyiv.

 

The daily shaking of the 5th

floor of the building

where I live frightens me.

 

Nightly I put down

a few blankets on the floor

of my bathroom.

 

The only place that offers

a false sense of security.

Wedging my head

 

between the toilet

and the wall for protection

I try to sleep

 

despite the rumbling

keeping me awake.

 

Alex Nodopaka originated immaculately in Ukraine in 1940. Speaks San Franciscan, Parisian, Kievan & Muscovite. Mumbles in English & un poquo de Madridista. He sings in tongues after Vodka, has studied at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, Casablanca, Morocco. Presently full time author and visual artist in USA.

THE WHITE SUPREMACIST IN MY LIVING ROOM

by Lesléa Newman

White Supremacist’s Coat Rack by Enrico Bertuccioli.

staring out of my TV screen is white

of course. He has dark Charlie Manson hair,

a scraggly Unabomber beard,

and an old black dog with big black eyes

sprawled across his lap and gazing

up at him with absolute adoration.

The white supremacist on my TV screen

sits under the gun on his wall at ease

in his easy chair, leaning back

peering out at the camera intently.

He has a message for me but I do not care

to listen. Instead I prefer to watch

the watchful eyes of the old black dog

who is hanging on his master’s every word.

The white supremacist has unruly hair

that falls across his forehead into his eyes.

He rakes his long skinny fingers

through his long stringy hair

and then lets his hand float slowly

down toward the old black dog

who sits up straight, every atom

of his ancient body quivering

with joy as if he has been waiting all his life

for the white supremacist’s hand

to land on top of his head so gently

and with such genuine tenderness

that the old black dog’s mouth drops

open, showing his old black tongue

and jagged yellow teeth. The old black dog

is grinning. He is in on the joke.

His old black eyes look out at the camera

for just an instant as though he wants

to make sure I am seeing this great show

of affection before he turns back

to the white supremacist who warns

the world at large to beware of what lies

ahead. And now the white supremacist

removes his hand from the old black dog’s head

and rests it on the arm of his chair

and the old black dog rests his head happily

on the white supremacist’s knee

shutting his eyes and sighing a sigh

completely content and safe

in the knowledge that all is right

with the world. So much love.

So much hate. I turn my TV off.

Lesléa Newman has created 75 books for readers of all ages including the poetry collections, I Carry My Mother and I Wish My Father (a pair of memoirs-in-verse) and October Mourning: A Song for Matthew Shepard  (novel-in-verse); and the children’s books, Sparkle Boy and Heather Has Two Mommies. She has received poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation, two National Jewish Book Awards, the Massachusetts Book Award, the Sydney Taylor Award, and half a dozen Pushcart Prize nominations. From 2008 - 2010, she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, Massachusetts. Currently she teaches at Spalding University’s School of Creative and Professional Writing.

OLD GUY AWAITS VACCINE

by Earl J. Wilcox

 "Time waits for no man,” watercolor by SuayaArt.

So far I have outlived whooping cough, measles, mumps, shingles,

strokes, dementia, the Apocalypse, the Rapture, three years eleven

months of the T***P madness, perhaps one Kardashian, zombie

uprisings, my dear mate of six decades, three siblings, one child, eviction,

twenty-four Marvel Universe movies, hundreds of episodes of Friends

and Big Bang Theory, dear Alex Trebek, bankruptcy, cancer, plus

millions of maladies and diseases about which I am totally ignorant.

If I live another few days or weeks, perhaps the vaccine will find me

and my generation still optimistic we can add Covid-19 to the lists

of days and hours of this world we miss.

Earl Wilcox in his late 80s awaits the vaccine in South Carolina.

CLEARLY

by Barbara Loots





Clearly this explains a lot
about the president we’ve got.
For basement, substitute your bed.
Computer?  Say tv instead.
Every click of Twitter thumb?
Neurons in the brain go numb
until the whole damn thing is gone.
The skull is empty. Sad. Poor Don.


Frequent contributor to lightpoetrymagazine.com, Barbara Loots keeps an eye on the news from Kansas City, MO. New collection The Beekeeper and other love poems coming soon from Kelsay Books. 

MISERIES

by Tricia Knoll

Protesters in Chicago on Saturday.(Nam Y. Huh / Associated Press) The photo accompanies the essay that prompted this poem: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s Op-Ed “Don’t understand the protests? What you’re seeing is people pushed to the edge,” Los Angeles Times, May 30, 2020

they come down with barbs
on flashing tails    or as slime
on the slope you slipped downhill

did you try to connect them
to a machine to measure amplitudes
and heard gut-punched moans

when they shook their rattles
in your dreams, did you wake,
cower, throw bricks

or put them in a drawer
where they roll like marbles
until ground-shaking stops

and TV spits them out
to chew on with worn-down
molars under cracking klieg lights

until we saw tonight
how they churn to burn
the deepest anger and hurt

so deep you can only guess at
the darkness of an abyss and
smell the smoke into daylight

to give them names they’ve earned
for decades: injustice, racism,
inequity and mourning.

Tricia Knoll is an aging white woman of privilege isolated from COVID in the woods of Vermont. Her poetry collection How I Learned To Be White involved three years of introspection into how privilege manifested in her life—and she is  not convinced she learned everything she must learn. She is grateful for Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's op-ed.

THRENODY

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

Detail of the Cover of I Can't Breathe: A Killing on Bay Street by Matt Taibbi.

In America now
We can watch real murders
On TV
Then wait for officials to decide
Whether officers
Were justified
In killing the black man
As he lay handcuffed and helpless
Face down on the pavement.
In America now
We can listen to news reports
About whether there might be evidence
That the unarmed black jogger
Behaved in a way
That was threatening in some fashion
To the heavily armed
Father and son
Who jumped out of their pickup truck
And gunned him down.

In America now
We can watch videos
In which white people call the cops
On black children mowing lawns
In the wrong neighborhoods,
On black professionals
Who “seem suspicious”
Entering the lobbies
Of the condominiums where they live,
On black walkers who remind them
To leash their dogs.

In COVID America now
Black people are dying of the virus
At three times the rate
Of whites,
Black people are incarcerated
At six times the rate of whites
Black people are unemployed
At twice the rate of whites.

“I can’t breathe!” cried Eric Garner
For four hundred years.
“I can’t breathe!” cried George Floyd
For four hundred years.
“I can’t breathe!” cry black children
From broken and polluted neighborhoods,
From decaying and crumbling schools.
“I can’t breathe!” cry black parents
From hospital emergency rooms
Holding sons and daughters
In their laps
Who are dangerously ill
Because mom and dad could not afford
Early and dequate health care.
“I can’t breathe!” cry young black couples
Unable to rent or buy homes
And begin family life
In neighborhoods
Where the unspoken understanding
Is “whites only.”

“I can’t breathe!”

“I can’t breathe!”

“I can’t breathe . . .”

Buff Whitman-Bradley's poems have appeared in many print and online journals. His most recent books are To Get Our Bearings in this Wheeling World and Cancer Cantata. With his wife Cynthia, he produced the award-winning documentary film Outside In and, with the MIRC film collective, made the film Por Que Venimos. His interviews with soldiers refusing to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan were made into the book About Face: Military Resisters Turn Against War. He lives in northern California. He podcasts at: thirdactpoems.podbean.com .