Robin Stevens Payes is a Pushcart Prize–nominated poet, storyteller, and cultural steward whose work braids ancestral memory, science, myth, and moral imagination. She is the author of the YA time-travel adventure series Edge of Yesterday and creator of [re]member the world, a multi-genre project retrieving and reweaving the silenced history of her grandmother’s flight from Ukraine’s Pale of Settlement. Her poetry has appeared in The New Verse News, Dawn Horizons, East Sea Bards, Maryland Bards Poetry Reviews, and Reflections. As the ancestor telling a new story so her grandchildren and theirs may thrive, she writes about memory—what is lost, what survives, and what we must carry forward—on her Substack, Releasing Memory.
Today's News . . . Today's Poem
The New Verse News
presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.
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Thursday, September 24, 2026
MY KENNEDY CENTER (1982-2026)
Robin Stevens Payes is a Pushcart Prize–nominated poet, storyteller, and cultural steward whose work braids ancestral memory, science, myth, and moral imagination. She is the author of the YA time-travel adventure series Edge of Yesterday and creator of [re]member the world, a multi-genre project retrieving and reweaving the silenced history of her grandmother’s flight from Ukraine’s Pale of Settlement. Her poetry has appeared in The New Verse News, Dawn Horizons, East Sea Bards, Maryland Bards Poetry Reviews, and Reflections. As the ancestor telling a new story so her grandchildren and theirs may thrive, she writes about memory—what is lost, what survives, and what we must carry forward—on her Substack, Releasing Memory.
Saturday, July 04, 2026
THE ARCHITECTURE OF DEMOCRACY
To replace a house,
it is ill-advised
to randomly weaken
the foundation.
To tamper with gas lines
while informed only
by ignorance.
To pull wires
without knowing
where they lead
or what they serve.
To rip out windows
and collapse
the hand-designed,
custom wooden frames.
To remove the roof
during rain
before the expensive,
antique floors
are protected.
To pull down walls
without understanding
how weight is distributed—
how each beam,
each brace,
each hidden support
helps hold up
the whole frame
of Democracy.
And some now shout:
“Damn the building codes.”
“Damn the building plans.”
As if survival itself
were an inconvenience.
As if restraint,
inspection,
and measured repair
were enemies
instead of protections.
Forgetting:
a reckless demolition
does not always end
with open sky.
Sometimes
it ends
with collapsed Democracy.
Jim Kelly is a California poet whose work explores democracy, race, and social justice. His poetry has appeared in Litro Magazine, Urban Pen Magazine, and Urban Poems.
Friday, June 02, 2023
DEMO
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Jeff Koterba / Cagle Cartoons |
In the House
there’s treachery afoot.
A leader sandwiched by volleys
of red sensation
and
what formerly was known
as consensus.
And the price to be paid:
parliamentary
demo-
li-tion.
I move that the Country
Avert economic infanticide
By installing cold showers
That spray the margins where
Passion plays like theatre
To astound the outer rings.
Michel Steven Krug is a Minneapolis poet, fiction writer, former print journalist from the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars and he litigates. His poems have appeared in Sierra Nevada Review, Jerry Jazz, Whistling Shade, St. Paul Almanac, Liquid Imagination, Blue Mountain Review, Portside, New Verse News, JMWW, Cagibi, Silver Blade, Crack the Spine, Dash, Mikrokosmos, North Dakota Quarterly, Eclectica, Writers Resist, Sheepshead, Mizmor Anthology, Poets Reading the News, Ginosko, Door Is A Jar, Raven's Perch, Main Street Rag and Brooklyn Review. His collection Jazz at the International Festival of Despair is scheduled for publication by Broadstone Books, in the spring, 2024.
Saturday, October 15, 2016
NEVERMORE
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Ah, distinctly I remember it was early in November
when the hearth-fire’s dying ember cast dark shadows on the floor.
As dry leaves went whirling, flying, suddenly I heard a sighing
as of someone softly crying, “Let me in! Unlock your door.”
Only this and nothing more.
Had she come again? I wondered. As the storm clouds flashed and thundered,
in the throes of hope I blundered, flinging wide my chamber door.
But the vision I confronted was not her for whom I hunted.
Grief arrived and joy was blunted: through that doorway I deplore,
hope would enter nevermore.
Like a ghastly apparition on a grim and solemn mission,
an unnerving politician pushed his way into the room,
and I had the premonition that his access code to fission
soon would cause our demolition. Like a specter from the tomb,
in he came: the Trump of Doom.


