SEVEN-POINT-FIVE PERCENT

by Gale Naylor

after Jose Hernandez Diaz

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

Wearing a tie can reduce blood flow to the brain by seven-point-five percent. I’ve heard the percentage is higher if the tie is red. And long—with its triangular tip seeking a fly like the tongue of some metal-infatuated snake, while the tail tightens around a thick neck—carotid compression. Does lack of oxygen fill the brain’s airless void with dreams… of castles lined with gold; of consequences for thee, adoration for me? Seven-point-five percent. This one, simple fact explains so much: Why rich, suit-and-tie men still seek, long after they should be sated. Why heads—of state, of corporations, of patriarchal households—make decisions empty of heart. The simple cause: compression; the cascading effect: low brain blood-pressure, lack of oxygen, loss of compassion, community, empathy——who knew blood was so important! 

Poetry is how Gale Naylor makes sense of the world as a survivor of incest and sexual abuse; they hope their voice helps other survivors feel less alone. Gale's poems have appeared in Exposed Bone, Calliope-on-the-Web, S/He Speaks 4, Jupiter Review, The Ekphrastic Review, and the California Poet Laureate’s “Our California” website. Gale received an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles in 2026.

THE DYING BREATH

by Rose Mary Boehm

In a new image taken by the James Webb Space Telescope, the dying breaths of the star at the heart of the famous Helix Nebula are exposed in wonder and radiance. —Good News Network. Photo: NASA, January 20, 2026

 

"As above, so below," the famous aphorism by a mythical teacher and a mythical text. 

In the Emerald Tablet the ancients already knew about the relationship between the macrocosm and the microcosm. So, as a star dies and we see its dying breath pushing outward like a cloud of seeds to form new stars when their time has come, so the humble dandelion’s delicate umbrella-equipped seeds go with the wind to settle on another meadow and become new dandelions when their time has come, the spiders die soon after producing their egg sacs, and the spiderlings disperse into the world by ballooning: using the breeze and sometimes atmospheric electric fields to travel far, settling, mating, and laying egg sacs when their time has come.

 

"As above, so below"—instead of neurons sending electrical signals through axons, stars use magnetic field lines. Trees connect through the complex mycelia network, and we have more than 86 billion neurons in the brain, and a more or less equal number of other cells. Neurons and neurotransmitters are our mycelia. 

 

When my grandfather died, I saw a small silver cloud leaving his open mouth.

 
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her work has been widely published mostly by US poetry journals. A new full-length poetry collection is forthcoming in 2026.

SHAPED LIKE A FISH

by Bonnie Naradzay

Earlier this year, scientists discovered that there is about as much microplastics in the brain as a whole plastic spoon. The paper, published in Nature Medicine in February, revealed that the amount of microplastics—tiny plastic particles smaller than 5 millimeters—in the human brain appears to be increasing: Concentrations rose by about 50% between 2016 and 2024. —Fortune, May 20, 2025

Reading about how NASA astronauts

grew edible zinnias while orbiting 

above us in space, I think of ways

we've chosen to live on this earth. 

 

Red lilies and oleander were the first 

flowering plants to thrive in Hiroshima’s 

charred remains.  In the rubble, gamma 

rays made the blooms even brighter.

 

Fields of sunflowers, grown in Chernobyl, 

change the radioactive dirt effectively, 

scientists say. Meanwhile, Agent Orange 

is everywhere in the soil in Viet Nam.

 

Flowers that have grown mutations, 

though near Fukushima, may be 

a mistake. Could that happen anyway?

On islands in the Tasman Sea, birds 

 

mistake ocean plastics for food to feed

their chicks, and dead birds were found

having ingested single-use soy sauce 

plastic bottles, shaped like a fish.  

 

When you mistake the song of a bird
for the death rattle of another species, 

It’s already over.  The world is filled

with microplastics, like our brains.

Source: Heliograf

Bonnie Naradzay’s manuscript will be published this year by Slant Books.  For years, she has led weekly poetry sessions at homeless shelters and a retirement community.  Poems, three of which have been nominated for Pushcarts, have appeared in AGNI, New Letters, RHINO, Tampa Review, EPOCH, Dappled Things, and other places. While at Harvard she was in Robert Lowell’s class on “The King James Bible as English Literature.” In 2010 she was awarded the University of New Orleans Poetry Prize – a month’s stay in Northern Italy – in the South Tyrol castle of Ezra Pound’s daughter Mary.  There, Bonnie had tea with Mary, hiked the Dolomites, and read drafts of Pound’s translations. 

TRUTH, JUSTICE, AND BRAIN ROT

by Bonnie Proudfoot

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

Don’t tell me you spent all your allowance 

on comic books, or you used to stay up until 

daybreak, your knees shaping a tent under 

the covers, a weak flashlight, Superman, 

Supergirl, Batman, Spidey and the mutants, 

the whole gang rotting your brain, your eyes too. 

Did you stash your valor between the mattress 

and box spring, your rotting brain leaping tall buildings 

at a single bound, ready to keep evil at bay, fighting 

for, oh, truth, justice, and the American way.

 

Did you heft yourself out of bed on time 

for first period, or did your rotten brain let you 

snooze, then snooze some more? Did it make you 

listen to rock ‘n roll, sing "Sympathy for the Devil" 

as you walked to school? Did it know what 

"Satisfaction" really meant? And so what if 

your brain did rot? Blotchy, dark, and spongy, 

a not-so-fresh potato, or cottage cheese 

in the back of the fridge with curds of green mold 

lacing through? Would it rot all at once? Or 

one day no rot, one day riddled, one day a lot? 

 

So here you are, it’s minutes before midnight, 

kryptonite closing in, fascists tunnelling 

into Fort Knox, your knees a tent under 

the saggy covers, nothing left to lose. You’re 

scrolling through headlines at a single bound, 

seeking truth and seeking justice, index finger 

on your phone tapping with the dexterity 

of the Incredible Hulk threading a needle, 

the fate of the free world to defend,

secretly shouting Shazam, pushing send.

Bonnie Proudfoot's fiction, poetry, reviews, and essays have appeared in journals and anthologies. Her writing has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart. Her novel Goshen Road (OU Swallow Press) was the WCONA Book of the Year and long-listed for the PEN/ Hemingway. Household Gods a poetry chapbook, was published in 2022 (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions). A full-length poetry collection, Incomer, is forthcoming on Shadelandhouse Modern Press. Bonnie resides in Athens, Ohio.

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. 

UNNATURAL HISTORY

by James Penha

Revealing the Smithsonian’s ‘racial brain collection’ - Washington Post

Smithsonian swiped

brains from people of color—

what were they thinking?

Note: The Secretary of the Smithsonian wrote the following in a piece for the August 20 Washington Post: “The Post’s recent coverage regarding the human remains still housed in our collections is certainly illustrative of the Smithsonian’s darkest history. This is our inheritance, and we accept the responsibility to address these wrongs to the fullest extent possible.”

James Penha edits The New Verse News.

CALIFORNIA HATERS

by tom bauer

The Annihilation of Hate by Frank Hunter

Hate crimes soared in California in 2022, with year-over-year rises recorded in crimes targeting virtually every demographic group, according to a report released Tuesday. —Los Angeles Times, June 27, 2023

what is hate? the angry white boy, proud,
determined to bring worlds to their knees?

is it the ruminative brain, snowballed
around some speck of ugly dusty thought?

in brains is it like geysers boiling over
under shale until the surface cracks, breaks?

what is the spark? injustice felt? a pain
inside the eye, a prick of a needle?

i could have gone that way. some angry guy
infecting my brain with wrongheaded dreams.

a year or two to change the brain and off
i’d go, powered by resentment’s battery.

in gratitude it’s hard to hate. the choice
is always mine to make. it is my brain.

tom bauer lives in montreal with his sons and plays boardgames.

OUR QUONDAM COMPANIONS PERSIST

by Jonathan Yungkans

The Human Brain, a painting by Edward Wolverton.

Of my country and of my family I 

have little to say that hasn’t been either
rent or splattered upon. Bone fragments and dots 
of brain create paisley Rorschach patterns in
 
the fabric of my conscience. Let’s allot the 
dappled cotton skein to drape figures gone
more statue than statuesque. Children, how you 
bleed. You shape garnet- and wine-colored mud pies
 
and smear them against your faces and clothes 
to blend with earth, ashes to ashes, bullets
to dust, all the pretty bodies going down.

Author’s note: Title taken from the poem “The Handshake, the Cough, the Kiss” by John Ashbery in the collection A Worldly Country.

Jonathan Yungkans juggles writing and photography with work as an in-home health-care provider, fueled by copious amounts of coffee, while finding time for the occasional deep breath. His second poetry chapbook Beneath a Glazed Shimmer was published by Tebot Bach in 2021.

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. 

NO RACIST BONE IN MY BODY

by Tricia Knoll

Image source: PoliticalForum

My, my, you old fool.
Of course, bones aren’t racist.
We’ve seen the pictures.
Kennewick man, skull sort of yellow,
sort of green, sort of gray.
All the bones at the end
come to some sort of pale.
You know, Alas, poor Yorick.

It’s the brain, you fool.
The synapse connections
met out of bounds, sparks
you must have learned
as a child. Who is good,
who is not so good, who
should vote, not vote,
breathe, not breathe,
share the earth, molder
in cages. The concept
of division rest in a brain.

I’d give you credit
for not having a racist
big toe. Although... I fear
the boots you might put on.

No racist bone
in your body. Get real.
Look at your heart.


Tricia Knoll is a poet as tired as so many Americans of lies, cruelty, and idiocy.

GIRLS JUST WANT TO HAVE ENJOYMENT

by Diane Elayne Dees

Click here to see original tweet.

So many things we could be doing—
watching movies, walking dogs,
playing with kids, lying on the beach,
having coffee with friends, playing tennis
on Saturday, relaxing at a jazz club.
But none of these can compare
with remembering, reliving, retelling:
the hug turned sinister, the doctored
drink, the sound of fabric being ripped,
the feel of bruising hands on shoulders,
the sound of laughter, the vomit-inducing
kiss, the heavy breathing, noxious sweat,
the brutal violation so powerful—
our neurology may never be the same.
The pleasure center of the female brain
lights up with every opportunity to beg
a powerful man to listen, to understand,
to maybe—one day—actually give a damn.

Diane Elayne Dees’s poems have been published in many journals and anthologies. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that covers women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

HEATHER

by Marsha Owens

Art from Naomi Kane. Image source: TheNib

Words travel dark back roads of my brain, seep into aching fingers
that strike the keyboard then ricochet off the page like a human pummeled
and tossed.

            —a slight body can dent the grill, a car the weapon of choice,
            and headlights grab strands of blonde hair later smoothed around her
            young face by her mother’s trembling hands—

and we, shocked, shocked I tell you
step lightly across the abyss from then into now,
collective arms drop in surrender, heads hang resigned,
eyes look away then glance back to watch America turn
rancid, its remains ooze behind clanking gates, huddle with ignorance,
kick the dirt in search of morality and decency once treasured.

            And we still don’t believe the signs and symptoms—
            even though the heart has stopped beating.

Marsha Owens spent her career in public education and is now happily retired. Born and raised in Richmond, VA, the recent events in Charlottesville hit too close to home. She is pleased that her work has appeared at Rat’s Ass Review, The Wild Word, TheNewVerse.News and is forthcoming in Streetlight Magazine.

ELEGY ON BLEACHED CORAL

by Cally Conan-Davies

Huge sections of the Great Barrier Reef, stretching across hundreds of miles of its most pristine northern sector, were recently found to be dead, killed last year by overheated seawater. More southerly sections around the middle of the reef that barely escaped then are bleaching now, a potential precursor to another die-off that could rob some of the reef’s most visited areas of color and life. Photo by Terry Hughes et al./Nature.—The New York Times, March 15, 2017

Solar panels
on my roof
useless as ships
come to grief

Shrouded in
monsoonal rain
where the forest
meets the reef

A vague etching
of something strange
of levelled ghosts
passing away

Hue of the Eucharist
the chalky waste
of mute Cassandra's
stranded face

In shallow water
quiet and wet
like a long forgetting
human brain


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

A FRIEND BREAKS HIS RENAISSANCE SWORD ON A PAPAYA

by Kristina England

Any fruit can hide the fierceness of its rinds.
We should never believe the weapon invincible.

Record low temperatures today, risk of frostbite,
hard wind claps bathroom vents.
It's like they're cheering on the cold.

President of United States accuses former president
of wire tapping, calls him "sick," then berates
Arnold Schwarzenegger on Twitter
for being a "pathetic" reality show host.

Brain hurting from malnutrition,
I reorganize the living room two times,
split myself in half, one part here,
one part looking back at what we had.

Sometimes the chance of turning
to salt is more rewarding
than the alternative.


Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts.  Her writing has been published in several magazines, including Gargoyle, Silver Birch Press, and Tipton Poetry Journal.

COLUMBINE, SANDY HOOK, TUCSON, AURORA, LITTLETON, BLACKSBURG, DECATUR (ALMOST), AND NOW THE D.C. NAVY YARD, ON AND ON

by Judy Kronenfeld

We've all seen, or heard of it--
some chemical  sparked by pain
does a crazed dance
in the brain, and the geek nephew
everyone thought a natural, can’t
face another year in school and
come September, comes unglued, almost froths
at the mouth by the breakfast bar,
spittle roping from his lips,
violently throws off the arms
that try to comfort him, and who knows
what next; the co-worker not yet
in the news, who’s had it up to here
plus, with more work and a benefits
cut, rampages in the Men’s,
pulling sinks from the wall
and smashing them, or goes home
where his wife mysteriously falls
and breaks her arm. O.K. they’ve always
had a tendency, drank too much,
yelled at their wives or parents,
bullied their classmates or younger
brothers, locked themselves
in their rooms; O.K. some of us
tried, we really did, got them
to counselors, it’s not our fault,
is it, if they refused to go,
or quit their meds? And some of us
closed our eyes because familial
ties make anything familiar,
and the desire to protect can blind,
and some of us sternly disallowed
the inappropriate—“Pull up those
bootstaps, kid! Right-face!”—
and some of us kicked the fellow
to the side of the road. And some of us—
lots of us—have no way to recognize
what goes awry, ourselves already brutalized,
and so many of us have no way
to guide, no knowledge, no resources,
not a dime to spare to soothe
a crazy head. We don’t help
these people—we give them
guns.


Judy Kronenfeld's most recent collections of poetry are Shimmer (WordTech Editions, 2012) and the second edition of  Light Lowering in Diminished Sevenths, winner of The Litchfield Review Poetry Book Prize for 2007 (Antrim House, 2012). Recent anthology appearances include Before There Is Nowhere to Stand: Palestine/Israel: Poets Respond to the Struggle (Lost Horse Press, 2012) and Love over 60: An Anthology of Women's Poems (Mayapple Press, 2010). Her poems have appeared in many print and online journals such as Calyx, Cimarron Review, The American Poetry Journal, Fox Chase Review,  Foundling Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Hiram Poetry Review, Natural Bridge, New Verse News, The Pedestal, Poetry International, Spoon River Poetry Review, Stirring, and The Women’s Review of Books.