IMAGINE

by Steven Croft

AI-generated graphic for The New Verse News by Shutterstock

If instead of munitions, we could send Ukraine a spring

without war,

see Russian soldiers march off singing, "There is No Rank

Higher Than a Soldier's Mother," as mothers

who love them call them back home,

As the Dnieper thaws, let Ukraine beat its swords

into ploughshares for its golden fields of wheat, the farmers

no longer molested by fighter jets,

Let its cities be beautiful European cities again, free of

shelled and crumbling buildings, with

vibrant commerce and carefree nightlife, let people

sit idly in cafes, reaching calmly for coffee cup, newspaper,

its list of dead gone – for now,

Unwind stacked car graveyards of burnt-out husks,

bomb-twisted chassis, put them new again on roads

unpocked by explosion,

Let the countryside host tortoiseshell butterflies and roe deer,

the sound of bees visiting flowers, instead of armies

of tanks,

Let unstartled horses and cattle whip their tails idly in pastures

behind mended fences,

Let Ukraine part the dark curtain of daily anticipatory death,

box up the war strategy, the screams of wounded and dying, grief

of the living, tape them shut—for now,

Send home its stretched-thin, worn-out army of war,

Let its President wear a suit again, let his face cast off its war

fatigue, his body the green battle fatigues,

All over Ukraine let bells of peace and respite ring from the shingled

belltowers of wooden churches, let them dance the hopak

with fevered joy.

Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, December 2023). His work has appeared in Willawaw Journal, San Pedro River Review, So It Goes, Anti-Heroin Chic, The New Verse News, and other places, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7, 2023

by Katherine West

Even in October 

butterflies crowd 

the butterfly bush

are lifted by the cold 

wind then released 

to drift back to their magenta 

breakfast

in a flurry of giant 

orange flakes 

of Halloween snow 

or fire 

The high rise looks like 

a grey ice cream cake 

left out in the summer 

sun so that slabs 

of cement melt and slide 

down its sides to the street where 

grey children lie 

with their eyes shut 

the party over 

time to go home 

The prairie dog sits up

on its hind legs 

still and alert 

waiting for danger—

shadows of crows 

pass over him and away 

like the low-flying planes 

in black and white newsreels 

of World War Two 

Pale blue flowers 

still cling to the tips 

of the rosemary bush 

but the lavender 

and thyme are dried out 

helpless when the wind 

drives down the mountain 

strips them bare 

In this house the cabinets 

are full of supplies—

ten of everything, power 

to run fountains 

in the desert 

thick walls to keep the heat out 

to keep the heat in--

a fat door like that 

of a castle

Vultures come in a black 

rush sometimes--

the body bags are white 

as lumps of sugar 

with the corners 

licked off

Katherine West lives in Southwest New Mexico, near Silver City.  She has written three collections of poetry: The Bone Train, Scimitar Dreams, and  Riddle, as well as one novel, Lion Tamer. Her poetry has appeared in journals such as Writing in a Woman's Voice, Lalitamba, Bombay Gin, The New Verse News, Tanka Journal, Splash!, Eucalypt, Writers Resist, Feminine Collective, Southwest Word Fiesta, and The Silver City Anthology. The New Verse News nominated her poem “And Then the Sky” for a Pushcart Prize in 2019. In addition she has had poetry appear as part of art exhibitions at the Light Art Space gallery in Silver City, New Mexico, the Windsor Museum in Windsor, Colorado, and the Tombaugh Gallery in Las Cruces, New Mexico. 

EARTH DAY

by Pepper Trail

I.

 

Let us give thanks

 

In gatherings or on our own

Stepping carefully upon the earth

Looking closely, bending to the flowers

Lifting our eyes to the swallows and the soaring hawk

Listening to the wind combing the grass and

Carrying birdsong across the creek

Scenting the richness of the soil

Mindfully opening every gift

 

Let us give thanks

 

II.

 

Let us grieve

 

Remembering all that once was given

Meadows bright with butterflies

Daily chorusing of the birds

Far forest-clad horizons

Silent wilderness

Mighty rivers of ice

Blue whales and elephants

Coral reefs in dazzling splendor

 

Let us grieve

 

 

III.

 

Let us protest

 

Lest we surrender to the drowsy sun

In our multitudes, cry Enough!

Name the destroyers

Corporate greed

Oil addiction

Political cowardice

Denial of nature’s rights

Willful blindness to all we do

 

Let us protest

 

IV.

 

Let us plant

 

Let us fall to our knees

Prepare the waiting earth

With our soft and ignorant hands

Plant a tree native to this damaged place

A testament to our desperate hopes

Flourishing past our little lives

A lasting gift of breath 

For our survivors 

 

Let us plant

 

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

QANON AND THE BUTTERFLIES

A Found Poem with the Species List of the National Butterfly Center

by Pepper Trail

Why did the National Butterfly Center in South Texas close last week? 🦋

Because of a conservative conspiracy, of course! @mehdirhasan brings you the troubling tale: pic.twitter.com/FLTzl14LeT

— The Mehdi Hasan Show (@MehdiHasanShow) February 8, 2022

In a country where many believe that Satan-worshipping pedophiles 

run the government and the resurrection of John F. Kennedy Jr. will 

 restore a Trump presidency, the Butterfly Center has become 

the latest unlikely victim of wild misinformation 

and outright lies spreading rapidly online.

 —The New York Times, February 6, 2022

 

How are we to make sense of this?

The Question Mark

 

Among the flowers are butterflies, only butterflies

The Monarch and the Soldier and the Queen

The Blue-eyed Sailor and the Painted Lady

The Dainty Sulphur and the Silver Emperor

 

All mingling together in peace

The Black Swallowtail

The Great Southern White

The Mexican Yellow

 

Outside the fence, all is fire and storm

The Malicious Skipper

The American Snout

The Fatal Metalmark

 

But here, can we not agree on beauty, at last?

            The Common Banner

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

AS THE WORLD SLEEPS

by Jen Schneider





A man has been left seriously injured after the tent he was sleeping in was removed by an industrial vehicle in Dublin. The man, who is believed to be homeless, was taken to St Vincent's Hospital, where he is reportedly being treated for "life-changing" injuries and remains in a serious condition. The incident, which took place at Wilton Terrace near the city centre of the Irish capital, happened on Tuesday afternoon. —ITV News, January 15, 2020

The Toronto Homeless Memorial now includes the names of more than 1,000 people who died while homeless; a grim milestone that some advocates say underscores the extent of Toronto’s poverty crisis. —CP24, January 14, 2020

In my dreams, the Butterflies dance – 

Monarchs, Swallowtails, and Brush-Footed Beauties.  

Flittering specks of crimson, pale pinks, warm yellows – 

like the cotton patchwork quilt I use to warm myself

as Night falls.

In my dreams, the Radio sings – 

Ellington, Bach, Armstrong

Sweet, sometimes off-beat tunes of jazz, hip-hop, classical notes – 

like the lyrics of childhood verse I sing to calm myself

as Night falls.

Sleep is a Noun, much like any other

until it’s Not:

Regenerative blocks of eight hours, cycles

of REM, light, and deep slumber.

Wakefulness, too.

Sleep is a Verb, much like any other

Until it’s Not:

Engagement in a nightly ritual

of rejuvenation. Eyes close. Muscles relax.

Consciousness suspends, too.

Sleep is a Basic Necessity, much like any other

Until it’s Not:

The lowest, most fundamental tier

of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs turned Off.

Out of reach - a victim of city regulations, zoning boards,

and inked signs informing us of our camps’ demise.

What happens when the steps—Maslow’s, City Halls, 

Bus Terminals—turn off. The music stops playing. 

The dreams turn sour. Strips of yellow and black

ribbon turn bedtime into a nightly scavenger hunt. 

With no treasure or prize.

I’m told we’ve made the News.

Sometimes dreams do come true. Childhood fantasies 

of my name on Billboard Lights.

Arms sway as I belt out verse of the Masters, 

dance with the Monarchs, and look Up to the Heavens.

My focus, now – Down – to the Concrete - for a place to rest.

Down by the Rec Center. 

Down near the Church. 

Down under the Bridge.

A folksong gone wrong, with lyrics all my own.

Sleep is Talk Show Filler, much like any other

Until it’s Not.

Tips, Tricks, and Strategies in the form 

of downloads, software applications and endless talk

of background noise and strict schedules.

What happens when the background noise –

Roaring Interstates, Tree Lined Highways, Dark Tunnels 

is the Bedroom?

What happens when the schedules – 

City Collection Trucks, Patrolling Officers, Slow Moving Vans 

are the Nightmares?

Sleep is…

Shivers turned to blankets of fuzzy warmth.

Arms wrapped around tired bones.

Lights off on social experiments gone wrong.

Until it’s Not. When the lights stay on and the arms arrest.

Sleep simply Ceases to Exist.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Her work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.

NOT ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

by Marilyn Peretti


Click here for more information on how to save the Earth.
          Click here to purchase or stream this video.


How do I not love thee earth?
Let me count the ways:
Monarchs leaving
Bees leaving
Polar bears leaving
Fires in the Arctic
Fires in Amazon forests
Microfiber in ocean fish
Microfiber in Arctic snow
Fossil fuels spitting from cars
Fossil fuels pouring from planes
   that depart every minute from
      somewhere
Lead in the water
Polluted water in Flint
Polluted water in Newark
Asbestos hiding everywhere
No water in Cape Town
Low water in Cairo
Low water in Bangalore
Glaciers melting - drip  drip
Funeral for glacier in Iceland
So, sea level rising along South Carolina
Sea level rising in Miami
Sea level rising in Brazosport
Sea level rising in Little Ferry

Shall I love thee better after death?

Marilyn Peretti from near Chicago, is Pushcart nominated, her poems published in Kyoto Journal, Journal of Modern Poetry, TheNewVerse.News, Rockford Review, Fox Cry Review, Talking River, Li Poetry (Chinese), Grey Sparrow, and others. Her books Let Wings Take You, Lichen-Poems of Nature, Angel's Wings, and To Remember-To Hope, are sold at the Blurb Bookstore.

CONTINUOUS MIGRATION

by Joanne DeSimone Reynolds 

“[At McAllen TX detention center on July 12, 2019] VP saw 384 men sleeping inside fences, on concrete w/no pillows or mats. They said they hadn’t showered in weeks, wanted toothbrushes, food. Stench was overwhelming. CBP said they were fed regularly, could brush daily & recently got access to shower (many hadn’t for 10-20 days.) Facility we saw earlier in the day with children was new & relatively clean and empty. There were cots & medical supplies & snacks. Children watched TV and told Pence through translator they were being taken care of. But at least two said they’d walked for months to get here.” —Josh Dawsey @jdawsey1 White House @WashingtonPost

The species depends on the freedom of movement
It's in the DNA
Wings of the fathers and fathers and of the mothers and mothers too
All come for one milk
Metabolizing a weed's poison to foil enemies
Five generations to complete the journey
Butterflies like bees tell the harvest

The species depends on the freedom of movement
It's in the DNA
Baja or ports of call or the Bering Strait
All come for one milk
Who knows the many generations to complete the journey
Fear a poison to a nation's people
Children like blossoms tell the harvest


Joanne DeSimone Reynolds is the author of a chapbook, Comes A Blossom published by Main Street Rag in 2014.

TRUTHS AND LEPIDOPTERA

by David Chorlton

Andrus Nichols in The Saintliness of Margery Kempe directed by Austin Pendleton at The Duke on 42nd Street. Photo by Carol Rosegg.

A hawk against the dawning clouds
moves high and dark
as the city underneath him
awakens. On this day the news
breaks with a louder
crack than usual, and even
the quail who spill out
from the neighbor’s bougainvillea
walk a nervous line.
The television screen lights up
with happiness and Earthly delights
before names
start to be named
and analysts dissect the crimes
they are suspected of. But it’s early
and the shadows of the palm trees
lie wet across the ground. It’s hard to believe
in such joy as advertisements show
while subterfuge and scheming are the order
of the day: also a day
in which lizards flash
across the back yard wall, hummingbirds
fly constantly
from bush to bush, and a Funereal Duskywing
trembles at  the Coral Bells
that silently ring the hours
rolling along the wash and up
the mountain to the ridge
where they rub their cheeks against
the timeless moon.

—

Another day: another cog
clicks in the universe. The sun rolls
into place. It’s hard to tell so early
whether that’s a Cabbage White or Southern
Dogface, but the nascent flowers on the milkweed
are a marker on the winged way
to truth.

—

The jasmine draws its power from the rain
recently fallen
and the air feels as though
it were smiling as we breathe it,
even in this tainted world
where sin remains popular
centuries past the age when heretics
were burned, although
defining it depends on which
side you’re on, and being accused
just generates more mystics
like Margery Kempe, who the more she was mocked
the more she believed she was right.
Some people believe
the sulfur floating on the scents just now
is someone’s soul; a proposition
kind enough to merit acceptance.
When in doubt
take beauty’s side, even
when the hawk marks its path
with a talon drawn across the midday sky.

David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems have appeared in many publications online and in print, and often reflect his affection for the natural world, as well as occasional bewilderment at aspects of human behavior. A recent collection of poems is Bird on a Wire from Presa Press. The Bitter Oleander Press published Shatter the Bell in my Ear, his translations of poems by Austrian poet Christine Lavant. A new book Reading T. S. Eliot to a Bird is due from Hoot ‘n Waddle, based in Phoenix.

THE MONARCHS

by Roger Stoll

Soon, monarch butterflies that sipped nectar in your backyard will heed an ancient call. These tiny, black and orange insects will rise high in the air, hitch a ride on the thermal updrafts and fly until they reach their winter home in a Mexican forest, 2,000 miles away. Climate change has also taken a toll, Sarikonda said. Drought kills milkweed and other pollinator plants; cold snaps keep caterpillars in that stage longer, leaving them more vulnerable to predators, she said. Steps toward helping the monarchs are showing progress. Many parks and nature centers hold programs in the fall asking volunteers to help catch and tag monarchs so that scientists can gather data about their migration habits. —Julie Washington, The Cleveland Plain Dealer, September 9, 2015. Photo credit: Katharine Auld Breece.

The Monarchs have returned.
It’s taken them four generations,
but they made it;
a few of them anyway,
fewer by a quarter, by a half.

Their overwintering forests
have been logged and burned.
The climate is too hot,
drying out the eggs, cooking the larvae.
Milkweed, the larvae’s only food, has been decimated by herbicides.

This time they’ve come prepared.
They picked up what they could along the way,
balancing it on fragile bodies
suspended beneath spectacular wings:
helmets, blast-proof armor, grenades, light arms.

They’re not going quietly this time.
After a few weeks,
once they’ve copulated, laid their eggs,
and before they die,
they plan to take a few of us with them.


Roger Stoll is a retired music teacher living in San Rafael, California.