IN CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND YOUR CONTROL

by Sara Sarna

"Broken Heart — Bleeding Heart" by Michal Boubin

You feel the cracking.

Vow to be a gap-filler,

leak-plugger,

like the boy at the dike,

who knows if he walks away,

the world drowns.

It seems there is no way

to stop things coming apart,

short of legions, armies

of the like-minded,

plugging holes.

But despair is pervasive,

contagious,

the goal all along.

Hold fast,

and I will hold you

and someone else 

will hold me

and on and on

until together we are 

stitch and bandage

to bind up the hurt,

the heart,

of a nation.

Sara Sarna is a poet, actor and hiker. She is a member of Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, Wisconsin Writers Association, and Write On, Door County. Her work has appeared in print, online, and been heard from stage and radio. Her chapbook Whispers from a Bench was published in 2020.

MUSEUM OF CUTTING-EDGE TECHNOLOGY

by Kenneth Arthur

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

When we paid the entrance fee

the sign promised “a glimpse

into the stable genius of our future”

but when the tour guide

led us into a room

dreary, dark and a little damp,

brushed away giant cobwebs,

expounded upon the macabre exhibit,

Kitty For Dinner in water colors,

I had my doubts.

When we were issued

rubber gloves

raincoats

knee-high boots

led deep down into the building’s bowels

I knew we’d been swindled.

As tour progressed through gallery

of beautiful asses and large breasts

with interactive display

a soft mewl crept into awareness.

Before I could discover its source

we were whisked away

to view the prison full of Mexicans,

then film of disabled with full laugh track

I wanted to cry

masked people shooting up disinfectant,

forest rangers raking leaves

I wanted to cackle

golden throne atop a hill of green land,

orange statue straddling a canal

I wanted to scream

then that sound again, a whimpering,

young boy crying 

chained to the wall

just beyond his reach a door and sign:

Now leaving Trump’s brain.

Sorry, Donny. I have to save myself.

I ran for the exit.

Kenneth Arthur is a queer minister with a background in computer science and who dabbles in poetry. Several of his poems have been published in journals including The New Verse News, The Skinny Poetry Journal, and Pensive. He is also the author of Out of the Ashes: Constructive Theology for Those Burned Out on Christianity and blogs at kenarthur.substack.com. 

THE EMPEROR’S NEW SKIN

by Dana Wall

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

At night, the spray tan must fade
like sunset on sandstone, revealing
the soft animal beneath the mask—
a man who fears his own reflection,
who builds towers to touch the sky
but cannot reach his own heart.

I imagine him alone in gilt rooms,
counting retweets like rosary beads,
his hands small as a child's reaching
for validation through blue light.
The weight of inheritance heavy
as his father's disappointed ghost.

The paper-thin skin of his ego
requires constant tending, like
an endangered orchid that feeds
on camera flashes, on the roar
of crowds that fill the hollow
where love should have grown.

Even his hair tells a story—
how it coils around absence,
a golden nautilus shell hiding
the spiral of ancient fears.
Each morning, he reassembles
himself from fragments of pride.

I wonder about the boy who became
this avalanche of need, this hunger
shaped like a man. How many mirrors
cracked before he learned to replace
reflection with gold leaf, to mistake
attention for the warmth of touch?

Watch how he circles his wounds
like a leopard guarding territory,
how he marks everything mine, mine
as if ownership could fill the space
where meadowlarks should sing,
where truth should root and bloom.

Dana Wall traded balance sheets for prose sheets after years of keeping Hollywood's agents and lawyers in perfect order. Armed with a Psychology degree that finally proved useful when creating complex characters and an MBA/CPA that helps her track plot points with spreadsheet precision, she ventured into the haunted halls of Goddard College's MFA program. Her work in Bending Genres Journal, Mixed Tape Review, Witcraft, 34 Orchard, Eunoia Review, and Sykroniciti confirms that words are more reliable than numbers, though occasionally harder to balance. 

GIRLY BOY

by Jean Voneman Mikhail 

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

My little boy blue, 

as a child you wore 

girl-pink, not the browns 

of circus bears and puppies. 

Not the beiges of office walls. 

Who cares about colors now?

Wear what you like. 

As a girl child, my boy snakes hung 

down in braids past my fingertips.

They had a sweaty life all their own. 

They flicked ribbon tongues at me,

struck me on the back when I ran 

away, so I cut them off one day.

I stored them in a box of magic tricks,

decorated the lid with sequins, 

like moon disks sparkling in the light.

Who would see them in a dark closet? 

I eventually got my girl groove back. 

I liked the boys, their hawk heads, 

hooded. They blinked in astonishment

that I had actually caught up to them.

Eventually, I grew my braids back,

gave up the girl I used to love. 

I opened my legs to the bedposts. 

I had you on my favorite night of all.

You were born blue and little. 

I think of you now as a girly boy. 

A ghost of a boy-girl in a mirror.

Don’t rub off your eyeshadows

with the back of your hand,  

with your desert skin, so dry and soft. 

Your eyes are the valleys you’ve left 

behind in the rearview mirror, 

where the hills float away. 

The morning moves you, 

slides a mountain aside, as you 

drive through, around the twists 

and turns of your desires. 

The mountains widen, deepen 

their despair then disappear, 

the further into this self-love thing you go. 

Jean Voneman Mikhail has published in One Art: a Journal of Poetry, Sheila Na Gig Online, The New Verse News, The Northern Appalachian Review, and other journals and anthologies. She was recently nominated for “best of the net” by Eucalyptus Lit. 

WHILE READING THE GUARDIAN, I RECOGNIZE A FAMILIAR NARRATIVE

 by Bonnie Naradzay

A three-year-old Palestinian boy has died in hospital, four days after he was shot in the head by Israeli soldiers while riding in a car with his father in the occupied West Bank. Mohammed al-Tamimi (above) was airlifted to the Sheba hospital near Tel Aviv after the incident on Thursday night and remained in a critical condition until medical officials announced his death on Monday. His father, Haitham al-Tamimi, 40, is still being treated at a Palestinian hospital. His injuries are not believed to be life-threatening. —The Guardian, June 5, 2023

After blocking entrances to a village 

in the Occupied West Bank,

Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) shot 

a father and his three year old boy

because they lived there.  

 

Bullets went through the boy’s head;

he was airlifted to a Jewish hospital

near Tel Aviv.  They shoot the boy

then act as if they want to save him.  

A few days later he’s dead.

 

His father’s in a Palestinian hospital bed.  

What is life to him now?

The story was, the IDF said,

that the bullets were shot by Palestinians.

This is how the narrative always starts.

 

Then the word “crossfire” is used.

But eyewitnesses said there was no other gunfire.

Then the IDF admits they shot the father and his son

and “regrets harm to noncombatants. Doing everything 

in its power to prevent…” The case is closed.

Bonnie Naradzay’s poems have appeared in AGNI, New Letters (Pushcart nomination), RHINO, Kenyon Review online, Tampa Review, Florida Review online, EPOCH, Dappled Things, The Birmingham Poetry Review, American Journal of Poetry, Poetry Miscellany, and other places. In 2010 she was awarded the New Orleans MFA program’s poetry prize: a month’s stay in the castle of Ezra Pound’s daughter, Mary. For many years, she has led regular poetry sessions at day shelters for the homeless and also at a retirement center, all in Washington, DC. 

HIS ABORTION POEM

by Dick Altman

Source: “Abortion” by John Bartlow Martin from the May 20, 1961, issue of the Saturday Evening Post.

he’s the golden boy

of parent/teacher/friend

the boy wanted on everyone’s side

the scholarship boy

the grad school boy

the golden boy

who in that familiar moment

of uncontrolled/youthful rapture

watches his golden prospects

for the future turn to dross

                      *

the Viet Nam draft

breathes down his neck

he still hasn’t found a job

(too educated, he’s told)

he’s not married

(though one day he will

marry the woman

he impregnated)

they are neither ready to marry

nor ready to have/support children

abortion is illegal

Roe vs. Wade is nowhere in sight

                       *

he reaches out to his composer father

who reaches out to friends

in the music business

an address and phone number

in Harlem surfaces

no names/no receipts

the golden boy borrows

from his father enough cash

to pay for a semester of college

the young couple agree

this is their only alternative

they discuss their mutual anxiety

she—they agree—must make

the decision

                         *

they never talk about what exactly

took place on the fourth floor

of the Harlem walk-up

she’s bleeding profusely by bed time—

in the emergency room by next morning

a spontaneous abortion the doctor calls it

knowing it wasn’t

whatever made the embryo abort

likely ended her/their prospects

of ever having children

Roe vs. Wade would not be decided

for another nine years

Politico’s revelation the Supreme Court

may overturn the decision

shatters him to tears

 

Dick Altman writes from New Mexico. His work has been widely published in the United States and beyond.

AMERICAN SENTENCE / AMERICAN SENTENCING

by Erin Murphy






The boy was three and a half feet tall, his black wrists too small for handcuffs.

Author’s Note: My poem is written in the form of the 17-syllable American Sentence invented by Allen Ginsberg.

Erin Murphy’s work has appeared in The Georgia Review, The Normal School, Field, North American Review, Women’s Studies Quarterly, and elsewhere. Her eighth book of poetry is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry. She is professor of English at Penn State Altoona and serves as Poetry Editor of The Summerset Review.

GUYS LIKE US

by Alan Walowitz

On April 28, 1973, a 10 year-old was executed on a street in South Jamaica, Queens. His name was Clifford Glover. He was walking with his step-father, when a car pulled up and out jumped 2 men with guns. Clifford and his father tried to run, fearing they were going to be robbed, but one of the gunmen fired. Before firing the fatal shot that would strike little Clifford in the back and take his life, the man yelled out, “You black son of a bitches!” The man  who killed Clifford was not a robber. He was a New York City police Officer by the name of Thomas Shea. --Black Main Street, July 22, 2016

I wasn’t exactly Teacher of the Year,
but classes were small and that limited the damage.
A lot of kids never came to school
except for lunch some days and always the last of the month
when free bus passes were handed out
—then there was Title One, LBJ’s bonanza
which could have made things more right—
except for guys like us.  No matter.
Our failures would lead to full employment in some jungle
where too many of these kids were headed—
so guys like us agreed to hunker down behind a desk
from 8 to 3 in this godforsaken neighborhood
to avoid a free tour ourselves and a tent in some rice paddy
by sending someone else’s kid in our place.
Still, some of us made sad jokes about our petty classroom trials:
At least in Nam they give you a gun,
we told each other at a bar after school,
or smoking weed way too far into a night
that would become dawn and a day
we’d slog through in shades as if it were the jungle,
our heads pounding, and handed out word searches, crosswords, and rebuses—
whatever it would take for guys like us to make it through.

It felt faraway this damage I inflicted.
till the morning Clifford Glover, age 10, was shot by a cop
when walking with his pop to work
through an empty lot just a mile away—
and then I knew the game was up.
George Mackie, that kid didn't know to get out of the rain,
and used to say  he preferred to sit under the flag
so he could do his work “under justice,”
looked at me different from then on
and didn’t want to  hang around my room during lunch
and, whether true or not,
I swear I saw him eyeing me each afternoon
as the cops escorted us to our cars which would take us home,
to a neighborhood safe for guys like us.
None of this makes me proud
but like the doctor I’d never grow up to be
I lived by the rule:  First, do no harm
and I figured none of what I did or didn’t would hurt them much,
especially compared to what living was bound to do.

Alan Walowitz has been published various places on the web and off. He’s a Contributing Editor at Verse-Virtual, an Online Community Journal of Poetry, and teaches at Manhattanville College in Purchase, NY and St. John’s University in Queens, NY. Alan's chapbook Exactly Like Love is available from Osedax Press.

WASHED

by Cally Conan-Davies

The full horror of the human tragedy unfolding on the shores of Europe was brought home on Wednesday as images of the lifeless body of a young boy – one of at least 12 Syrians who drowned attempting to reach the Greek island of Kos – encapsulated the extraordinary risks refugees are taking to reach the west. Turkish media identified the boy as three-year-old Aylan Kurdi and reported that his five-year-old brother had also met a similar death. Both had reportedly hailed from the northern Syrian town of Kobani, the site of fierce fighting between Islamic state insurgents and Kurdish forces earlier this year. —The Guardian, September 4, 2015

for Aylan

The bird, a murre, beaten by a wave,
its beak interred, its feathers caked with sand,
rolls in the foment of another wave.
No human word amounts to what has happened.
The bird is flowing back to the sky it gave.


Cally Conan-Davies is a writer who lives by the sea.

GOING TO CLASS BEFORE EVERYTHING CHANGES

by Anuja Ghimire

Two teenage Nepalese schoolgirls suffered burn injuries after a boy hurled acid at them early Sunday, police said. The girls, aged 15 and 16, were admitted to a hospital with burn injuries after the youth attacked them with a bottle of acid. The two were sitting in class at a coaching centre in Kathmandu waiting for other students when the attack occurred. "A masked boy came into the room and threw acid at them," senior police officer Narayan Khadka told AFP. Khadka said an investigation was underway to find the attacker, and added that his motive had not yet been established. Acid attacks, which disfigure and often blind their overwhelmingly female victims, are often a form of revenge in South Asia linked to dowry, land disputes or refusal to a man's advances. Although acid attacks are now a criminal offence in neighbouring India, there are no specific laws addressing it in Nepal.  --Yahoo! News, February 22, 2015; Kathmandu Post photo by NARENDRA SHRESTHA & Nimesh Jang rai

To stick
a little round ball
of chewed gum under the desk
And spread notebooks
over the two initials and the arrow
Carved with a ball point pen,
shielded with a heart
Your mouth
buried in a friend’s ear
The latest
on the boy who smiled
 in the hallway,
again
The crumpled yellow paper
wet with your sweat
Because words
only spoken
are too soon
forgotten

To relearn
Pythagorean theorem,
though you don’t understand
why
You wear
the red sweater
 your mother hand washed
-- It should last another year --
And the white shirt
your father ironed
So the collar is creased
just right
Because rules
followed
unlock
happy tomorrows

To pull out
the new protractor
your brother bought
The last one
chipped and broke
into three uneven bits
You measure
the angles of triangles,
your duty
And sit
with dreams
folded in your pockets
Before the unguarded door
opens
letting in
the rushed steps
Because you
are beautiful,
but you have
to become someone


Anuja Ghimire is from Kathmandu. Her poetry is published in Riverlit, Glass, Clay, Ishaan Literary Review, Zest, Right Hand Pointing, Stone Path Review, Constellations, and others. She lives in Dallas. 

HALLOWEEN PARTY

by Laura Rodley

Cut from reams of white satin sprang Lawrence

of Arabia, my son Joseph fenc-

ing with a sword made of rough-sawn maple,

a yellow band round headpiece, a staple

from the house to hold it all in one place,

curtain cording his belt, the saving grace,

his sandals of brown leather geared for sand

even as hot as desert, Lawrence’s land.

“Awrence,” he yodeled through the house, so tall

I had to stand on a stool, fashion all

on top his head, long flowing headdress, sheik’s

gear changing a gentle boy, now not meek,

then out the door with friends with worthy cars,

too old for trick-or-treating, too young for bars.

Laura Rodley’s New Verse News poem “Resurrection” appears in The Pushcart Prlze XXXVII: Best of the Small Presses (2013 edition). She was nominated twice before for the Prize as well as for Best of the Net. Her chapbook Rappelling Blue Light, a Mass Book Award nominee,  won honorable mention for the New England Poetry Society Jean Pedrick Award. Her second chapbook Your Left Front Wheel is Coming Loose was also nominated for a Mass Book Award and a L.L.Winship/Penn New England Award. Both were published by Finishing Line Press.  Co-curator of the Collected Poets Series, she teaches creative writing and works as contributing writer and photographer for the Daily Hampshire Gazette.  She edited As You Write It, A Franklin County Anthology, Volume I and Volume II.

THE KING OF CHICKEN STREET

by Rick Gray

Chicken Street, Kabul. Source: Streets of Afghanistan Project

Not yet fourteen, he swings on donated crutches like an old jazz hand
Brushing the bad news lightly to his orphaned platoon.  

Cute won’t work anymore, the foreigners are all leaving the war.                        
Our new mission is grabbing anything they abandon.

Slip thick blankets off their emptied beds, still warm with home dreams.
Seize their Pop-Tarts, some good glue, and those spittoons. I have ideas.

And the general’s long strategy desk we saw on that looted TV, he commands,
Smash it into firewood with your remaining little hands.

We’ll need the heat.  And the meat, he squints, lifting his right crutch and aiming
Its chicken-bloodied tip at a shadow taking cover underground.

The others understand.
Any rat alive, or close enough. 


Rick Gray has work currently appearing in Salamander and has an essay forthcoming in the book, Neither Here Nor There: An Anthology of Reverse Culture Shock. He served in the Peace Corps in Kenya and teaches in Kabul, Afghanistan.

AWOL

by Rick Gray

Kabul sunrise. Image source: Panoramio

In a locked-down house of disconnection,
this is the hidden room of yellow exclamation.
Outside its mirrored windows dawn explodes the targeted capital
And strikes a starving boy on the corner waving a smoking tin can
Begging for a fragment of fresh luck.

Deserting an endless war of circling thought
I walk away from the blue face of my frozen screen
and step AWOL passed dreaming guards cuddling Kalashnikovs.
Digging down into the animal heat of my thigh
I grip metal jangling against a shriveled coma on antidepressants.

Oh, it’s so nice to stroll in the Kabul Sunrise!
“Give me muddy!” the boy on the corner orders me,
his English broken as my abandoned laptop.
I release my fist and watch Afghan coins drop 
Flaming into the yellow cracks of a hungry human hand.


Rick Gray teaches in Kabul. He has work forthcoming in Salamander and the book, Neither Here Nor There: An Anthology of Reverse Culture Shock.