NIGHT STALKERS

by Kathyrn Ridall

The New York Times, July 16, 2026

2 AM,

loneliness a siren’s song,

a vampire’s kiss. I try

to remember how it felt

to be loved steadfastly

by my husband from the

moment we met until

he left this world.

A shiver in the night

and our 47th president appears—

a six-foot lizard, upright

with orange hair and a red

necktie, his tail a relentless

scythe that levels fields,

each day slashes the fragile

fruits of freedom.

My small dog senses

something outside

the house and launches

from the bed we share,

her barking a spray of bullets.

She wants to protect us

from creatures that bare

their teeth and stalk us

in the night.

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

Kathyrn Ridall is a poet and non-fiction writer. She is the author of the recent poetry collection The  Living Waters Between Us and of the award-winning Dreaming at the Gates: How Dreams Guide Us. She lives in Ventura, CA where she works as a psychotherapist.

AI

by Tricia Knoll

“So-called artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean.” —Pope Leo XIV, Magnifica Humanitas

Under a roof of paper lanterns strung across Jogye Temple in downtown Seoul, a group of monks from the Jogye Order, Korea's largest Buddhist sect, sat across from a postulant awaiting a precept ceremony—except that postulant was the country's first humanoid robot to take part in the ritual. —The Korea Times, May 6, 2026

Summon billionaires. Lawmakers. Researchers. Have they felt confusion?  Must I warn the senior in memory care that her lovey robot dog may not really love her when her son is grateful it does not poop on her rug. Or should I thank the robots diving in Antarctica to assess the salinity, churn, and effect of wind on disappearing sea ice., those that replace cement on the ocean floor to encourage coral building. Or the one that assists in gall bladder surgery. Do I bow beside Gabi, the robot at the South Korean Buddhist Temple, who takes his vows wearing red robes among the hanging lanterns at his initiation ceremony. Asimov’s Zeroth law, the one that says the robot may not harm humanity. Who foresees all hues of harm? The Pope? The head of cultural affairs for Gabi’s order? What hand or eye guides the robot in the war machine?  In confusion, I am not alone. What robot holds my hand? With whom do I pray? 

Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who lives in the woods. She read Asimov a lot many decades ago.

WARM AND CUDDLY BELONGING FOR ALL

by Lynne Barnes

 

 

A hospital patient who managed to talk a man out of detonating a bomb in a maternity wing said the would-be attacker “asked for a cuddle” before standing down. Nathan Newby, who stopped an atrocity through an act of kindness, spoke publicly for the first time about his encounter with Mohammad Farooq before receiving the George Medal [from King Charles, above] for bravery. Farooq, a clinical support worker who took a viable pressure cooker bomb into St James’s hospital in Leeds intending to “kill as many nurses as possible” was jailed for at least 37 years last year. After asking for a cuddle, Farooq told Newby to “phone the police before I change my mind.’ —The Guardian, March 24, 2026

 

 

Oh, the layers of life right now—
sweet family visit with my
thirty-something god-nephew
and our goddess-niece, his wife.
Calming, evocation of
belonging, togetherness, as we
commune deeply with them.
They are artists, teachers, such
loving creatures, here with their
stray-rescued-as-a-puppy-ten-years-ago,
Navajo, to spend the night with us.
 
Bearing down on that layer is
a dangerous one above it,
malignant, narcissistic,
Machiavellian, sadistic,
hanging by a thread—
a heavy concrete cloud,
just above our heads,
visible, threatening,
seeded with stress and dread.
I fly above into
the stratosphere of compassion,
look down through the conflicting,
complex layers of our
human race in this era.
 
Kindness, not war and hate, 
rescues minds from harmful ideas.
Will we learn to weave empathic ropes
to throw, not just to those we love,
but to those who other us as well?
 
Can humanity, we, reel away from our
constant collapse into competing cultiness,
a tendency in all of us?
 
Broader belonging, expansive,
Transcendent Human Tribe is now
our mental moon shot challenge.
 
How will it come? I wonder as I land
back on earth from my imaginary
skyward travel. Perhaps
 
Eroding Othering
should be a sibling category
to the Nobel Prize for Peace.
 
All this I think as anxious rescue Navajo
finally stops pacing, settles out of her
traumatic memories of her early life
on the reservation, on the streets—
packless, othered, bitten, diseased.
 
At last, she welcomes our acceptance,
lets us pet her, relaxes on her
fluffy, gray, perfect circle of bed.

Lynne Barnes' poetry memoir Falling into Flowers won the 2017 Goodreads Rainbow Award for Best Gay and Lesbian Poetry, was a finalist for the 2018 Eric Hoffer Book Awards, and received Honorable Mention in both the Gay and Poetry categories for the 2018 San Francisco Book Festival Awards. 

HOW DO YOU SURVIVE A WAR?

by Bruce Black

 

 

GIF by Glen Le Lievre

It’s the stories that you don’t read 

in the news that break your heart.

The old dog who can’t make it to the safe room

in the one minute you have to get downstairs.

The young children who blow out the candles on their

birthday cakes in the darkness of bomb shelters.

The couples whose weddings are held as missiles explode 

overhead, bride and groom weeping in joy and sadness.

Life, I’m told, goes on in wartime but the war

changes the way you live your life.

Love still exists but hides in the bomb shelter

with you in order to survive.

Kindness still exists but stays out of sight

while the missiles are falling.

Hope huddles under an overpass or in the shelter of underground 

stations where it can breathe and show itself again.

How do you survive a war without losing the ability to love,

to show others kindness, to safeguard and preserve one’s humanity?

Even when you live miles away from the war zone

and can’t hear the bombs exploding.

Even when you can only read about them or watch them fall

on the news or in your Facebook feed.

How do you hold onto faith 

in the goodness of people?

How do you trust in kindness and love

to prevail?

How do you hope and believe—in spite of the bleakness

of the present moment—in a better future?

In a future without war? In a future of peace?

How do you survive a war?

Bruce Black received his MFA from Vermont College. He is the author of Writing Yoga (Shambhala) and editorial director of The Jewish Writing Project. His poetry, personal essays, and stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The MidAtlantic Review, The Amethyst Review, Write-Haus, Bearings, Super Poetry Highway, Poetica, The Lehrhaus, Soul-Lit, and elsewhere. He lives in Highland Park, IL. 

HANDLER'S HANDS

by Michelle DeRose

First skin shrivels

without touch. Parent's

palm to baby's back

an initial prayer

for safe-keeping, offered

in heart's rhythm.

 

How maimed the hand 

that releases the leash

on a dog trained to maul.

Strokes fur to praise puncture,

urges sic, not stay.

Fingers turned incisors

on blue fields of fifty

rip red strips

on a father's back,

pierce our beating core.

A member of a foster family for newborn wards of the state of Illinois as she grew up, Michelle DeRose witnessed first-hand how simple touches soothed some of the many infants her mother nurtured. A life-long dog-lover and -rescuer, she still wonders if she and her husband rescue dogs or they rescue them. The perversion of this most basic of communication--love and calm conveyed when one living being gently touches another--blatantly revealed in ICE's actions in Washington state against Wilmer Toledo-Martinez should repulse us all.

SAY THEIR NAMES

by Pamela Kenley-Meschino

Rep. Jared Moskowitz (D-Fla.) on Tuesday read aloud a passage of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem’s memoir in which she describes shooting her pet dog, Cricket, during a committee markup on a bill related to deporting migrants who harm animals. —The Hill, November 18, 2025

She killed the dog, he said,

reading from her own words,

shot a puppy not yet grown,

its unruliness put down.

 

Fourteen months young,

he spoke the name so we could

witness her transgression,

not the puppy’s—Cricket.

 

Some snickered at the obvious,

a killer of dogs in charge,

rounding up castaways

for gravel pits unknown. 

 

It’s no joke.

 

Some countered stories

from the other side, 

of beagles left behind in labs,

abuse for an abuse.

 

What about that?

 

All agreed that dogs must

not be harmed. 

Save them all from 

cruelty’s bloody hands.

 

We vouch for Cricket’s rights

as we shout for human rights,  

to live without fear or discrimination.

We need to say all their names.

 

She killed the dog; in her own 

words, she hated the dog.

 

Pamela Kenley-Meschino is originally from the UK, where she developed a love of nature, poetry, and music, thanks in part to the influence of her Irish mother. She is an educator whose classes explore the connection between writing and healing, as well as the importance of shared stories.

WALKING THE DOG IN OCTOBER WITH POLICE SIRENS

by Al Ortolani

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

See how the past is not finished

here in the present

                             —WS Merwin

 

Dog, it is not a good time to run off leash.

There is an air of crises behind the wind.

 

Masked agents rip a former student from her children.

She disappears into phone calls from Guatemala. 

 

The President dumps imaginary shit from a jet fighter

and calls it humor. Tonight, 

 

there are more questions than answers.

We listen to the sirens beyond the rooftops, 

 

behind the strip malls and blinking stop lights.

The oaks gasp in the change of seasons.

 

Some nights I imagine the leaves wailing

as they lose their grip and fall.

Al Ortolani, a winner of the Rattle Chapbook Prize, has been featured in the Writer’s Almanac, the American Life in Poetry, and Poetry Town. He’s a contributing editor to the Chiron Review. Recently, his poems have appeared in Rattle, The Midwest Quarterly, One Art, and the Pithead Chapel.

NOW AT THE FOOD CENTER

by Deb Freedman

Our clients are gracious even though all we offer won’t get them through July.

Handicapped stickers hang on their cars’ rearview mirrors;

backseats are strewn with car seats, crumbs, and walkers.

They show us pictures of grandchildren or kittens.

Sometimes, they walk across the bridge.

Sometimes, they tell us they’re hungry.

Two skinny little boys ask if we have any books for them.

When my friend says they can help themselves to as many as they want,

they get so excited, they rock their car.

The older brother tells his little brother to take 4 only books.

The older boy sees one about wolves and growls at me, grinning with a wiggly tooth.

They chorus thank you as their dad drives away.

Anna walks over without her curly, gray-haired dog today.

She says Sadie has a lump on her belly and she’s worried.

The vet will see her sweet baby on the 14^th.

She doesn’t know what she’ll do if it’s serious.

The blonde school bus driver, the size of a 5^th grader, waves

her passport at me.

She takes it everywhere.

Born here, she is afraid to go to the store.

Now is before the “Big Beautiful Bill” passes.

Deb Freedman's poetry has been published in The New Verse News, US I/ DVP Poets Worksheets and most recently, Patterson Literary Review. The Food Center, its clients and volunteers, take up a large shelf in her heart.

TO THE DEMOCRATS WAITING FOR MIDTERMS TO SAVE US

by Jenne Kaivo 

The dog that will bow 

when hearing a growl

to placate the foe

is no longer the way.

 

When our foes have fangs

that are ready and mouths 

that are drooling for blood,

to bite back is good.

 

Remember, they go for the throat

to silence and choke.

Make your mark.

Let resistance be shown

 

instead of unheard.

Leave a scar.

Leave an indelible word.

 

It’s a struggle for life.

You must fight if you can

for the young, for the weak

for the foster kids torn from their homes

for the hundreds in CECOT

for the land they would tear up

and stain. 

Let them know

that protectors remain.

Jenne Kaivo saw this shit coming years ago. She lives in California.

CLIMATE CHANGE

by Michael Gould

Copyright (and/or) © 2025 Earthday.org. This work is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

In a forest, sitting on a fallen log
with my best pal, my gal, my dog
at my side, on constant alert
for any sign of harm or hurt
that might come our way
we’re having fun, so much
on this sunny day
feeling like life has just begun
the air is fresh, spring’s just sprung
and the leaves are newly green
meanwhile city life is dirty and mean.
 
Trees and streams inspire our dreams
so too the sounds of buzzing bees and birdsong
here, far from the smog, I’m breathing
in sync (!) with a dog; lost in thought
fully being who we are
not trying to be what we are not
and I say, we came for the good air
and so that you could wag your tail.
 
Oh, nature
serene and sweet
your perfect scheme has become obsolete
earth’s climate is changing, and here we sit
wondering when the shit will hit the fan.

Michael Gould is a gay Canadian New Zealand writer whose poetry has appeared in publications, academic and popular, in Aotearoa New Zealand, Australia, the United Kingdom and the United States. In 2021, at the age of 71, he was awarded by the New Zealand Society of Authors as an emerging poet. He is also the author of Surrealism and the Cinema: Open-eyed Screening (1976), one of the first English language books on that topic. He lives in Wellington (NZ).

MORNING IN THE APARTMENT, MARCH 2025

by William Aarnes

After Jane Kenyon’s “Afternoon in the House”

This morning’s news has been nothing

but reports of mean-spirited wrong

after misguided wrong—pardons, tariffs,

layoffs, threatened arrests, betrayals.

There’s no hope of a quiet day.

.

We know, though, how the world works—

our dog, who once had a whole backyard

to herself, worriedly snuggles   

next to me on my reading chair.

More carefree, our Christmas cactus

seems healthy, blooming again in March,

every cladode ending in a blossom or bud.

The moving company had refused

to assume responsibility

for keeping the cactus alive on the haul

from South Carolina to Manhattan.

It was at least as old as our daughter

and way older than our dog,

so we couldn’t desert it.

We paid a graduate student

who was driving to a conference in Boston

to deliver it at the curb.

In its pot the plant is so heavy

we’d bought a special tote to lug it

through the lobby to the elevator.

It now sits in its west-facing window,

happy, a show-off content with its home.

We don’t know what it thinks of the news

but it won’t object to hearing a poem.

Nor will the dog, though for her there’s a better pick

than Roethke’s “The Meadow Mouse.”

So I’ll choose something by Kenyon,

good as this morning’s sunlight,

comforting as memories of a fenced-in yard,    

healthy as the hope of enduring

whatever else is going to go wrong,

a bud of a poem flourishing out loud—

a poem about settling in,

though we worry we should move again.

William Aarnes lives in Manhattan.

PRESIDENTS' DAY 2025

a villanelle

by Susan J. Wurtzburg

 

I sit, eyes wide-open, blank gaze,
Slow-panting dog at my back,
Ssh, ssh, soft breeze brushes hair.

 

Newsprint on the breakfast table,

Flaming pain bleeds white-and-black,

I sit, eyes wide-open, blank gaze.

WWII 𝔉𝔯𝔞𝔨𝔱𝔲𝔯 revival, a font label,                           

Brutal as “heil,” a trigger pull’s whack,

Ssh, ssh, soft breeze brushes hair.

 

Dog paw pastiches toes, under table,

Brings heart into mind’s teared track,

I sit, eyes wide-open, blank gaze.

Incomers, like me, toes under tables,

No papers safeguarding their backs,

Ssh, ssh, soft breeze brushes hair.

 

Blitzkrieg anew, focus: all of our vulnerable,

Let strong voices rise, we need to roar back,

I sit, eyes wide-open, blank gaze,

Ssh, ssh, soft breeze brushes hair.

Susan J. Wurtzburg has won or placed in several poetry competitions. She is a Commissioned Artist in Sidewalk Poetry: Senses of Salt Lake City, 2024, and an Associate Poetry Editor at Poets Reading the News. Her book, Ravenous Words, with Lisa Lucas will appear in spring, 2025.