EVACUATE, EVACUATE!!

by Dick Altman

in Northern New Mexico

Wildfire near Tres Piedras New Mexico grows to over 1,800 acres —Santa Fe New Mexican, June 28, 2026. U.S. Forest Service photo.

Firefighters Mourn 3 Fallen Comrades as Blazes Ravage Utah and Colorado. Fires are raging in the arid Southwest after a warm winter. Forecasters say the fires may grow rapidly, and parts of Colorado have been ordered to evacuate. —The New York Times, June 28, 2026

I feel the old anxiety,

my pulse rising,

as the season’s first fire

expresses an unbridled

appetite for destruction,

exploding in three days,

from thirty acres

to seven hundred,

and still uncontained.

Grab your things,

crews yell,

hammering

on the front door,

and get out now!

How many times,

I ask myself,

must this story

repeat itself.

I watch,

across the valley,

swathes of

tall pine,

go from years

of glorious growth,

to barren shiny char,

in a matter of hours.

It shatters my heart,

when I think

of how I devoted

so much of my spirit

to nurturing

a conifer forest

up here on my home’s

bluff.

And all of its beauty,

decades in the making,

lost forever,

in a single bolt

of predacious light.

Nightmares

of flame

plague my sleep,

whenever

a blaze begins

to devour

a nearby landscape.

Am I next,

repeats in my mind,

over and over.

Evacuate!

The word

riddles me

with fear

and helplessness.

Replant

my life,

as if a cindered

forest.

Could I summon

the strength.

Force myself

to forget the home

I built,

the arboreal

children

I rear

over decades.

Evacuate!

To a tomorrow,

unknown,

uncertain,

voracious,

I weep to myself,

beyond

all reckoning.

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, and others here and abroad.   Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 300 poems, published on four continents.

RAIN YEAR ROUND

by Christine Jackson

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

Under my tarp shivering, boots soaked, mud. Jesus an attack in this rain? We were ready, sure. My back muscles still zinged from days of digging burying metal cases under the trees, tamping soggy ground. Like for small graves. High school kids hacked into the Jay Six list. We were next. Tonight. My phone flashes a text from Irene in the vols tent by the road: 3 F150 pickups. A thrum of thunder rolls over the wintry field behind the library and my taut nerves. Trucks rumble into the parking lot. Profane confusion among bobbing flashlights. My binoculars pick up a dozen long-beards in ragtag camo and epaulets, oilskin duster coats. One horned helmet. Flagpoles with bayonet tips. I tap a quick text to our people.

 

Sprays of shattered glass and a percussive thud from a flash bang mean they are inside. Tipped shelves clatter. Rows of racks collapse, crash. Guttural whoops over their empty victory. The library’s massive alarm leaps to life, out-whooping them, pulsing louder in the rain. They scramble, cursing along the slick walkway. I huddle at the edge of the woods, my rifle close to defend sacred ground, the buried texts. We knew the Project’s targeted titles, so many, Shakespeare, Orwell, Bradbury, Margaret Atwood, Stephen King. We saved what we could, but for how long?

 

The F150s roar away.  More would follow.

We had truth. Was it enough?

Icy rain continues to fall, steady, insistent,

pelting the tarp overhead like birdshot.

 

Christine Jackson is retired from her day job, three decades of teaching literature and creative writing at a South Florida university.  She continues to clock in on a life-long night shift writing poetry.  Her work has appeared in an array of online journals, including The Ekphrastic Review, Verse-Virtual, and South Florida Poetry Journal.

ISRAEL LAUNCHES OVER 100 AIRSTRIKES ON LEBANON IN TEN MINUTES WITHOUT WARNING

by Moudi Sbeity 

as if a warning is a good excuse. 

This means over ten airstrikes per minute. 

What else could we do with a minute? 

I won't name anything lovely for you. 

I won’t save you from this terribleness, saying 

we could plant more than a hundred seeds. 

That perhaps we could feed a hundred people, 

sustain a worldwide hymn till heaven hears this 

aching chorus. Some poems need to show you 

how much it hurts. Some poems need to leave 

you wondering

just how tightly a heart must be closed in order

to champion a thirst for destruction. Just how 

desperately the soul must be choked before 

waging its inner horrors. Just how much more 

can we rip each other before remembering that 

a minute is sixty seconds, and a second is about 

one breath cycle, and one breath cycle is all you 

need to stay alive. I won't even do the math for 

you, the one that calculates all the breath cycles 

that encompass a minute across the millions of 

people now breathing in the unsanctioned dust. 

Just how much ignorance, and how heavy of a dose, 

and how often, does it take to poison one person’s 

blood before he decides to launch more than a 

hundred missiles, before his guilty fingers 

violently reach into God’s pulse. 

Moudi Sbeity is a Lebanese-American poet, author, educator, and psychotherapist. Born in Texas and raised in Lebanon, he moved to the United States at the age of eighteen as an evacuee following the 2006 July war. In Utah, Moudi founded and operated Laziz Kitchen, a Lebanese restaurant celebrated by The New York Times as “the future of queer dining.” Moudi was also a named plaintiff in Kitchen v. Herbert, the landmark case that brought marriage equality to Utah and the 10th circuit states in 2014. A lifelong stutterer, he is passionate about writing and poetry as practices in fluency and self-expression.

MIRRORING OUR TIMES

by Lylanne Musselman

Lylanne Musselman is an award-winning poet, playwright, and visual artist. Her poetry has appeared in Pank, The Indianapolis Review, The New Verse News, and Tipton Poetry Journal, among many other literary journals and anthologies. A seven-time Pushcart nominee, she is the author of eight poetry collections and is currently working on another.

USAID

by Lynne Barnes

Cleveland Clinic

(Understanding Unloved-Unloving, Untreated, Up-thrust Sociopaths Always Injure & Destroy)

 

1.

U and I have been

Sending

Aid to

Individuals

Destitute around the world, for

Decades.

 

Donald is now at the helm of our ship of state,

Doing away with our helping hand, and the

Death toll is hundreds of thousands so far.

Destined to reach 14 million over what will be the next

Dreadful ten years if we don’t resist, re-find and restore our

Democracy’s humanitarian kindness.

 

Unless we persist, prevent this, we are

Sliding into

An era of 

Intense, horrific

Destruction and death around our globe.

 

2.

Dark Triad is not a diagnosis,

            but a poem, penned by psychologists—

            a metaphor for a group of traits.

 

Dark Triad humans—

Deny

Devalue

Distract

Dominate

Deviate, fall into

Dysfunction.

Dark Triad is narcissism, psychopathy, and

            Machiavellianism intertwined.

 

Dark Tetrad adds a verse to the poem—

            Sadism— pleasure at the suffering of others.

 

            We must

 

Disarm Donald, our fellow damaged,

        handicapped human, remove him from his

            legal and military commands, and

 

            pray that we never allow a

Dark triad/tetrad human, incapable of empathy, to

Dump shit on us ever again.

Lynne Barnes is a retired psychiatric nurse and librarian living in San Francisco, honored that her poems have appeared in past months in The New Verse News. Her poetry memoir, Falling Into Flowers (Blue Light Press, 2017) was a finalist for the 2018 Eric Hoffer Book Award.

BIRNAM WOULD

by Adele Evershed

There was anger and sadness among people who turned out over the Easter Bank Holiday weekend to protest at the destruction of a tree in Enfield thought to be up to 500 years old… The pedunculate oak, which was cut down on 3 April, was located on the edge of an Enfield council-owned park in north London and overlooked the Toby Carvery pub... Mitchells & Butlers, the owners of the Toby Carvery pub chain, said they cut down the tree after being told it was dead. —BBC, April 21, 2025

I was born in a time of unrest,
where tongues swelled against
religion and unfaithful wives,
riots in the street,
and resentments as large as cats
festering in unemptied bins.

I grew through it all—
pandemics and plagues,
great fires and floods,
watching people work themselves to death,
to be replaced as easily as spokes on a wheel,
bent on moving the carts forward,
but I was in no hurry,
so I was left alone.

The Thames iced over
while frost fairs and firing squads
amused the people,
and all the artists with numb fingers
captured the scenes—
though sometimes they painted over
dead children in the snow.
I never forgot they were there.

The wind moved through me,
leaving a coating of urban sprawl,
and I was the one left
bearing witness to
bombs, broken nights, boozy slashes
oozing rivers of blood,
the good and the very, very bad—
I survived it all,
until a man from a toby-jug pub,
came with a weapon of mass destruction
and cut me down.

Soon there will be no thing left
to tell the old stories,
and how will you know yourselves then?

Adele Evershed is a Welsh writer who swapped the valleys for the American East Coast. You can find some of her writing in Gyroscope, Free Flash Fiction, Trash Cat Lit, Janus Lit, and Poetry Wales. Adele has two poetry collections, Turbulence in Small Spaces (Finishing Line Press) and The Brink of Silence (Bottlecap Press). Her third collection In the Belly of the Wail is upcoming with Querencia Press. She has published two novellas in flash, Wannabe and Schooled (Alien Buddha Press), and has a forthcoming novella, A History of Hand Thrown Walls, with Unsolicited Press.

GOOGLE EARTH GAZA

by Robinson Terry

Before:
Bright white roofs greet the camera.
Square irises shaped like a city,
orderly rows of houses, 
neat columns of streets, and 
thin shadows that hug the edges of so many homes. 
Green trees scattered about
in no particular pattern—
though there are parks
just as surely as there are people—
even if the picture can’t catch or corroborate their existence,
they exist. 
 
After: 
leveled earth 
devoid of shape and structure
every building reduced to a basement
every basement staring up
at a sky that will never reach down far enough 
to grant them light 
fat shadows like a smattering of so much blood 
no design to the destruction
label it hazardous and call it a target
to justify wiping it from the surface:
a target has no depth 
a target is always flat 
a target only exists on a screen
no—human beings were not the targets—
a target can only be a building
not who built the building
they are not on the screen
they are not seen—
never were 

Robinson Terry is an English teacher living in Syracuse, NY. He has previously been published in Better Than Starbucks and The Broadkill Review. 

REQUIEM FOR THE CANADA WELL

by Tricia Knoll

in memory of Rachel Corrie

Lying semi-conscious… is nine-year-old Yunis Jumaa, who has cerebral palsy… His mother Ghanima says eight months of war have dramatically worsened his health. "When he developed this malnutrition and dehydration, he became as you see him now," she says. "There is no bottled water. The children walk a long distance—when they get water it reaches us contaminated," she adds. —BBC, June 21, 2024

On Friday, I discovered a video posted on Instagram by an Israeli soldier from the 601st Combat Engineering Battalion, showing the calculated demolition of a chief water facility in Rafah…The water facility, also known as the Canada Well, is situated in Tel Sultan Neighborhood, in the western part of Rafah city. U.S. human rights activist Rachel Corrie, who was crushed to death in 2003 by an Israeli military bulldozer while attempting to prevent demolitions in the city, spent much of her time during the last month of her life helping to protect the municipality workers at the Canada Well. The workers were repairing damage done to the well due to the Israeli military bulldozers in the area, according to Gordon Murray, one of her fellow activists. —Younis Tirawi, Portside, July 29, 2024

To know the land, dig for water.
An angel found Hagar at the well.
Stories told of Rebekah and the women
coming together where the pool stills,
the well fills in slow rising. To find
stillness and life. Safe haven. Give me
something cool to drink. I will love you.
Be my oasis. Honor the flow of vows. 
This is the spirit of life. 
 
And now, quiet municipal services:
no sirens. No flashing lights. Backhoes
attending to unanticipated main breaks,
diggers repairing the aftermath 
of earthquakes. Repair. Filter. Deliver. 
 
Villains poison the well.
Cruelty blows it up—
we are told from old times
women gather
to carry water home
again and again
going to the well. 

Tricia Knoll worked for a municipal water utility for fifteen years, including emergency response to New Orleans following Katrina to help restore drinking water service. In 2024, two new poetry books were published: Wild Apples (poems of downsizing and moving 3,000 miles to Vermont) and The Unknown Daughter (27 poems of voiced personas responding to a Tomb of the Unknown Daughter).

ACCEPTABLE LEVELS OF CRUELTY, STEADILY RISING

by Gordon Gilbert

In the not-so-distant past,
genocidal acts, a holocaust,
distant from our shores,
rumoured only, but for most unseen,
finally revealed in retrospect
indelibly to soldiers’ eyes,
brought home in photographs,
not to be denied.
 
Ah, we said, if only… If only…
But we did not know
at the time, only later,
and alas, too late to do
what we surely would have done
had we only known…
 
But now this genocide comes to us live,
like a fog slowly lifting, revealing
the landscapes of barbarity:
bombs falling; the destruction of
homes & neighborhoods,
schools & hospitals,
mosques & churches;
the death of civilians—
babies,  children,  women,  men;
the cries and wails of those
(for now) still alive.
 
Survivors,
searching in the rubble for those they lost.
We know this time. 
We cannot say we do not know. 

Editor's note: The title of this poem is a line from “To the Days” by Adrienne Rich.


Gordon Gilbert is a writer living in NYC's west village.  During the pandemic, he often found solace and an inner sense of peace by taking walks along the nearby Hudson River; now he does so as unwilling witness to the ongoing genocide in Gaza. 

DIANNE FEINSTEIN IS DEAD

by Marissa Glover

This is the truest thing 
you will read all day. 
 
Some people mourn
others will rejoice
 
some write about legacy
others, swaths of destruction.
 
It happens every time.
Rush Limbaugh, bin Laden—
 
the women/witches at Salem.
What you see always depends 
 
on where you stand. Just ask
the reporters taking notes
 
at Calvary. There were women
crying at the foot of the cross;
 
there were soldiers gambling
for garments. 
 
If you’re looking for truth,
you will not find it here. 
 
Not even consensus. Except
Dianne Feinstein is dead.
 
Be grateful. Elvis and Tupac
can’t even get that much. 
 
Witnesses of the same car crash
offer cops different details…
 
Who is right? It doesn’t matter.
Everything goes into the report.
 
And someday it will be you,
likely not in the news cycle
 
because you’re not famous.
The only people invited
 
to speak at your funeral will 
have something good to say.
 
But there will always be others,
ready with their own story.
 
The only truth: you are dead.

Marissa Glover lives in Florida, dodging storms and swatting bugs. Her poetry collection Let Go of the Hands You Hold was released by Mercer University Press in 2021. Box Office Gospel was published by Mercer in 2023. Follow her on X (Twitter) at @_MarissaGlover_.