CANVASSING

by Mark Williams

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

If a man’s home is his castle,

he reluctantly lowered his drawbridge. “Is she

a Democrat or Republican?” he asked us.

 

Manicured lawns, foot-high grass.

Porches with fishing rods, feral cats.

“She had three litters before she was fixed.”

 

A woman on oxygen. A man with a cane.

A woman using a walker

who agreed to put up a yard sign.

 

“I always vote Republican.”

“I vote straight Democrat.”

“I’m not registered.”

 

We were offered water, beer;

given thanks, directions, advice,

even hand-wipes. We learned

 

of dogs who’d been rescued, the price

of a condemned house. One woman’s grandson

is studying classic literature in Italy.

 

As for the king of his castle, he said,

nay, shouted, “Get off my land!” which,

as far as he was concerned,

 

wasn’t made for some of you and me.

Mark Williams's poems have appeared in The New Verse News, Poets Reading the News, Writers Resist, as well as The Southern Review, ONE ART: a literary journal, New Ohio Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of the collections, Carrying On and Life. He and his wife, DeeGee, live and canvas in Evansville, Indiana. 

NEW YORK MAYORAL RACE LIMERICK

by Paul A. Freeman

Ass Kicking by Nick Anderson

The Donald was made to take note

(when Mamdani sank Cuomo’s boat)

that normal folk weather

a storm when together,

while billionaires just have one vote.

Paul A. Freeman is an English teacher. He is the author of The Movement, a dystopia-Americana novel set in a future United States. It is available from Amazon as an ebook download and as a paperback. He works and resides in Mauritania, Africa.

BORN AND BREAD

by Adele Evershed

A center-left Welsh nationalist candidate defeated the governing Labour Party and Nigel Farage’s right-wing populist Reform U.K. in a Welsh Parliament special election on Thursday that has been closely watched as a potential bellwether of major upheaval in wider elections next year. Plaid Cymru, a party that supports Welsh independence from Britain, had been vying with Reform U.K…. in Caerphilly—for decades a Labour Party stronghold—amid poor approval ratings for both Prime Minister Keir Starmer’s government and its main opposition, the center-right Conservatives. —The New York Times, October 24, 2025

Welsh is lilting all over the airwaves, with no definite article and plenty of soft mutations. Plaid Cymru won in Caerphilly against the odds, beating that odious little Reform Party—fashioned in the image of MAGAdom, with red hats, pitchforks, and teal (I ask you, teal?) rosettes.

Now, in Wales, we love a bit of scarlet. Jemima Nicholas beat the French back in the day with a pitchfork and a tall black hat, so we don’t mind a prop or two. And although we wouldn’t know teal from turquoise, we’re not colour-biased.

And there you have it—the nub of the thing. I listened to a woman describe herself as born and bred in the cradle of Labour’s heartland—think Keir Hardie and Nye Bevan—but now, because of Reform’s rhetoric, she fears for her sons in the town she grew up in, because her children are biracial.

We all know Farage might talk about the cost of living—how he’ll bring down the price of eggs—but all he cares about is buttering our daily bread with fear. This time he was told to go back to where he came from (and I’m not talking Clacton), but next year he’ll slide out of his gutter again, forked tongue slick with Eton-mess promises. And I’m not sure a Welsh hat will be enough.

full English breakfast—
I ask to swap the beans
for laverbread

Adele Evershed is a Welsh writer who swapped the Valleys for the American East Coast. Her work has appeared in Poetry Wales, Modern Haiku, Flashflood, Free Flash Fiction, Atrium and Literary Mama. 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 forthcoming with Querencia Press. She has published two novellas-in flash, Wannabe and Schooled (Alien Buddha Press), and has a third called, A History of Hand Thrown Walls, (Unsolicited Press). Her short story collection, Suffer/Rage, was recently released by Dark Myth Publications.

INCENDIARY SONG

by Matthew King

Art by Clay Jones

Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’m setting you on fire
You no longer represent me
I’m immediate desire
Our constitution is suspended
on a fence of barbed wire
Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’m setting you on fire

I’ve cancelled your election
I’ve exposed your fatal flaw
Trapped in your reflection
we argued to a draw
The people want perfection
they love to be in awe
Baby you’re the Reichstag
my will is the law

Our union needs annulment
our wedding was a sham
The preacher stole the word of God
now he’s on the lam
He said he’d bless the devil
he didn’t give a damn
Baby you’re the Reichstag
who do you think I am

Like lightning this befell me
not you but I self-crowned
No court can now compel me
my power is unbound
I dare you try to tell me
my methods are unsound
Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’ll burn you to the ground

I’m rounding up your lovers
each one of them a liar
They tell me they don’t know you
say it’s me they most admire
Now I alone can save them
or throw them on the pyre
Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’m setting you on fire


Author's note: Many, not on only one side of the political divide, have been watching for a "Reichstag Fire moment." The thing about historical echoes is you're never sure what you're hearing is exactly what it sounds like, but with some things sounding like them at all is bad enough. A hat tip to Leonard Cohen, whose shade I seem to be channelling in this poem, and who would have turned 91 on Sept. 21. Leonard! thou shouldst be living at this hour; lucky for you you're not, I guess.


Matthew King used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto; he now lives in what Al Purdy called "the country north of Belleville," where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighboring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry. His photos and links to his poems can be found at birdsandbeesandblooms.com.

THE ADMINISTRATION

by Susan Martell Huebner

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

At the kitchen table watching the birds,

a normal comfort, seeing them fly, flit, feed.

 

Jay lands on seed tray, all command blue,

tail feathers angled upward in smart salute.

 

Finches wearing winter beiges swerve

and weave, perch on metal crooks, chittering warnings.

 

Downy woodpecker's folded flat, composed

against the peanut tube, eyeing the suet lock.

 

I drink my coffee, extra cream, admiring

their careless freedom, unworried song

 

when Coopers Hawk threatens overhead

and each bird freezes.

 

On this side of the window, a sharp inhale.

I understand the instinct.

Susan Martell Huebner lives and writes in Mukwonago WI. Her work has appeared in many online and print journals. She writes across the genres. Find her printed work at Finishing Line Press, Kelsay Publications, and Amazon.

THANKSGIVING AFTER THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION 2024

by Tarn Wilson

The people I know have elegant souls.

They wear unfashionable shoes.

They drive raggedy cars.

The people I know have dignified souls.

They have cracks in their walls.

Their sweaters are pilled.

The people I know have radiant souls.

They’re an army of kindness.

They gather in kitchens.

The people I know have royal souls.

They are wise and brave.

They are frightened and brave.

They are warriors disguised.

What they know will save us. 

Tarn Wilson is the author of the lyric memoir The Slow Farm, the memoir-in-essays In Praise of Inadequate Gifts (winner of the Wandering Aengus Book Award), and a craft book: 5-Minute Daily Writing Prompts: 501 Prompts to Unleash Your Creativity and Inspire You to Write. Her essays, poetry, and book reviews have appeared in numerous literary journals, including Assay, Brevity, Harvard Divinity Bulletin, River Teeth, Ruminate, Sweet Lit, and The Sun.

FIRST CONTACT POST ELECTION

by Susan Martell Huebner

Yesterday, my neighbor offered cranberries, 

an ordinary gifting, one baker to another. She chanced the wet, slick grass

between our houses. I put down my anger, unlocked my back door.

Susan Martell Huebner lives and writes in Mukwonago WI. Her work has appeared in many online and print journals. She writes across the genres. Find her printed work at Finishing Line Press, Kelsay Publications, and Amazon.

NEXT MORNING TEXT TO A FRIEND

by Joanne De Simone Reynolds

Detail from “Morning Has Broken” (Oil and Acrylic on Canvas) by Brad Gray, 2017

I was despairing at 4 am—

 

I wrote the poem and sent it off . . .

 

I didn’t choose the illustration

 

Though I knew it was fitting a bit of a shock the bird a blue bird—something

 

Lifted—

 

My father didn’t serve in WWII

For freedom from dominance and division

For me to abandon the principle

 

The impulse—

 

That he passed away 22 years ago today on a Veterans Weekend is fitting—

 

What dawned in me this morning is what someone once called something like

 

Irregular reversal subversion—

 

What a morning like this one (not unlike the lines I wrote before these lines) calls forth or for

 

As if from a haunting (fathers poets birds)—

 

 

Joanne De Simone Reynolds is grateful to The New Verse News. This poem was written in response to her own poem published on the site on 11/9/2024. The words irregular, reversal, and subversion are taken from a letter William Carlos Williams wrote to Harriet Monroe, the editor of Poetry, in 1913.

ON MT. FUJI EXPERIENCING ITS LATEST SNOWFALL IN 130 YEARS

by Carissa Coane

AP image via Republic, November 13, 2024

At first, I think I’ll write an ode:

to the snowdrops finally

crowning this hallowed summit, 

to nature’s ineffable persistence.

I’ll envision the peak blanketed,

not merely dusted, by snow,

postcard-perfect, framed from afar

by scarlet maples. 

I’ll weave the ballot I cast

last week, my hopes fluttering

away in the crisp breeze

of the mountain’s foothills, 

into a feeble metaphor—

It’s never too late—that crumbles

like withered foliage

in my hands. 

Because the only firsts

these days

are ever-higher temperatures,

stretching up to the stars.

The only glass 

being shattered 

encases blood-red mercury.

How it oozes.

I don’t want to think

about where we’ll be

4 years from now,

yet alone another 130.

And, even when reminded

of Fuji’s majesty, 

the only poem

I can bring myself to write

is an elegy.

Carissa Coane's poetry has appeared in Body Odyssey (Heroica), Proud to Be (Laurel Review), and various journals. She is on staff at Asymptote Journal and #FemkuMag. She is 21.

THE DEMOCRATS' POST-MORTEM 2024

by William Aarnes

Graphic credit: Eniola Odetunde  Axios

That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

What tactic worked? Beyoncé’s walk-on song?

We have nobody but ourselves to blame.

Resentful people rule. So why inflame

them more with hopeful talk they hear as wrong?    

That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

You’d think by now we’d play a better game.    

Why hint at climate? Why not go along—

back fossil fuels? We have ourselves to blame.

The ads we ran were far too nice. So tame.

Why not something like Haitians don’t belong?

That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

Our nuanced stances came across as lame.    

Why didn’t we present ourselves as strong  

enough to bring—in days!—world peace? We’re to blame.

Next time let’s make attracting men our aim.

Why didn’t we bring up that golfer’s schlong?

That shamelessness could triumph is our shame.  

We have nobody but ourselves to blame.

William Aarnes lives in Manhattan.

AMISH GOLDEN AGE

by James Schwartz 

America's famously private Amish people are unreachable by phone or email and refuse to have TVs in their homes. But that didn't stop members of the conservative Christian group turning out on polling day in a trend that appears to have helped Donald Trump win Pennsylvania. —MailOnline, November 6, 2024

I'm walking down Piquette,  

& John R.

Past abandoned Harris-Walz signs,

& ochre brickwork,

On a crisp afternoon, 

After the election 

In Motor City,

Coffee & Sugar Sweet Donut ™ 

In hand,

Heading to work, 

Past the 

Construction workers,

Who shout,

Over their machinery din,

"What the election?!...

I'll tell you what happened with the election...

The Mexicans & those racist ass 

Amish people!"

Their laughter,

Carried by the wind,

In our coming Amish Golden Age,

Or 

Old Order Apocalypse. 

James Schwartz is a Detroit based poet and author of various poetry collections including The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America (2011), Punatic (2019), Motor City Mix (2022) and most recently Some Are and Most Aren't and It's Always Been Like That: Selected Poems 2004-2024 from Alien Buddha Press. @queeraspoetry