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Showing posts with label environment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label environment. Show all posts

Sunday, September 06, 2026

WHAT WILL IT TAKE

by Mary Saracino




What will it take to end
this multi-millennial madness,
this lust for war and power,
this emphasis on fear,
scarcity, competition?

What will it take to wake up,
to say no to all that seeks to harm,
to say yes to all that seeks to heal, to unite
to see that we are kin to all—humans and non-humans,
to celebrate diversity and dance in the arms
of cooperation and love,
a symbiotic tango imbued with gratitude
where flourishing is mutual?

What will it take to uncloud our eyes,
unjail our hearts,
unchain our minds,
free ourselves from the edicts,
the dogmas, the ideologies that spew
hatred, cruelty, lies, and every other
evil known to humankind?
We need circles, not ladders,
communities, not hierarchies.

We are not commodities
to be bought and sold,
and neither is the Earth
with all Her bountiful gifts.

The trees are trembling,
the lands are on fire,
the winds are roaring,
the birds are begging us
to heed the cries of Mother Nature
who gifts us with abundance,
water, rain, wind, food, sunshine, shelter,
asking only for reciprocity, giving
back what we take, honoring Her
by sharing her bounty, not hording it.

We are destroying our only home.
We are polluting our souls.
We are committing ecocide,
decimating everything
that is sacred and true
and vital to our future.

What will it take for us
to reclaim our birthright,
the gifts bestowed upon us by Nature
in all Her many forms?

What will it take for us to walk,
hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm,
shoulder-to-shoulder
to change the world,
dismantle what has been so wrong
for far, far too long?

We need leaders who will lead us
to prosperity and peace,
who will proclaim our joint responsibility
to care for one another and the planet,
who know that might is not right,
that war is not the answer,
that kindness, compassion, empathy
are the seeds we need to sow
to create a better way to live,
build a symbiotic future
where we can all survive and thrive.

What will it take for us
to raise our howling voices,
in unison and proclaim:
“We’ve had enough! You do not own us, or the planet.
We must seize the reins and reinstate sharing and caring,
establish a new way, a better way, before it’s too late!”


Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet. Her book of poetry, Motherlines, was published by Pearlsong Press (February 2026). She is the author of four novels: Heretics: A Love Story (Pearlsong Press 2014), The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006), No Matter What (Spinsters Ink 1993), and Finding Grace (Spinsters Ink 1999), and the memoir, Voices of the Soft-bellied Warrior (Spinsters Ink 2001). She co-edited (with Mary Beth Moser) She Is Everywhere! Volume 3: An anthology of writings in womanist/feminist spirituality (iUniverse 2012), which earned the 2013 Enheduanna Award for Excellence in Women-Centered Literature from Sofia University.

Friday, August 07, 2026

DELETE AFTER READING

by Celeste DeSario 


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


My friends say,
Don’t text your political poems.
You know we can’t have those on our phones.

Those Monsters Under the Bed do exist 
and have crawled off the white spaces.
And now they lurk.
Waiting. Watching. 
Listening to our conversations.
Recording.
Keep those words hidden.
Under cover 

But I can’t. 
I’m afraid.
I’m not the MAGA Dream Girl, you know.
I’m just an ordinary citizen— 
ten fingers, no illusions about me…

I haven’t been to D.C. for a long time,
so, no that wasn’t me trailing my hand 
through the algae-green water of the Reflecting Pool.
If I were there, I wouldn’t be able to see my reflection anyway—
the water clouded with bacteria,
and green scum rising to the top…
obscuring my view. 
I’m too afraid to look…

Yesterday I pulled $70 out of my wallet 
just to fill the tank, 
even though I can’t really go anywhere anymore.

Who wants to face the airport check-in desk
and wind up on the floor, guns pointing at you,
for the chance to sit on a boat and watch 
the icebergs calve and collapse into a warming Disenchantment Bay?

Cracking, thundering, echoing across the water
as they melt, sending waves skyward
while the tourists clap and cheer—
even though the earth is screaming at us
to bring down the heat.

Everything will be okay, because a deal with Iran
Is “imminent”, “close”, “finalized”.
Promised and promised…
At least forty times so far.
I’m not feeling it.
So, go back to being afraid.
Does that work for you?

Did it work in East Germany under Stasi?
Where an unfamiliar car parked nearby,
made you pull 1984 off your shelves.
Where neighbors would dig through your trash
searching for forensic evidence—
contraband chocolate wrappers from the West,
discarded letters or carbon paper
snatched up and pasted back together.
Evidence of thinking.
Where even a child’s birthday card 
was ripped open before reaching its destination

No. It didn’t work.

And Leni’s footage?
The kids, clad in uniforms, 
stiff with creases,
climbing flagpoles just to glimpse The Fuhrer.
Cheering, whistling as though he were a rock star.
Children reporting their parents’ dinner conversations—
Complaints of bread and potatoes again. 
The long lines, the lack of butter. 
The radio dial tuned in, low, listening to the BBC,
listening for the real truth of the world
through forbidden airwaves.

Those kids were patriots.

Where was I?
Oh. I’m still here. Stuck.
Staring at a screen where I delete my own words.
Do I dare to press send?
Will those agents be knocking on my door?
Scrolling through my phone?
Scrutinizing my computer files?
I’m almost at the end of my poem,
but I can’t send it to my friends.
I don’t want the border guards to deny anyone entry,
Or to detain people just trying to see their aging parents.

I guess I will send the poem out into the world.
To a writer.  A poet.
Someone who knows the power of words.
Someone who provides a platform 
for those of us who need it. 

Especially need it.
Today.
Now.

More than ever.


Celeste DeSario enjoys breaking down big political illusions while also writing about personal grit and artistic passion. Her recent work appears in The New Verse News, The Dissident Voice, The Changing Times, The SportScribe, and The Ekphrastic Review. This portfolio includes sharp political satires like “There are Monsters Under My Bed”, "I’m the MAGA Dream Girl”, "The Peeling of American Flag Blue," and “I Ran,” alongside reflective pieces like "Bridging and Grappling," "A Leap of Affirmation,” and “Gaudi's Unbending Vision".

Wednesday, July 29, 2026

PORTRAIT OF A PRIMARY

by James Schwartz




The many vs. the money 
Michigan vs. everybody 
Hospitals close
&
Everyone knows 
Our roads are too shoddy 

Medicare for all a solution 
As wildfires & pollution 
Poison our skies 
&
Blind our eyes 
To corporations' contribution. 


James Schwartz is a Detroit based poet and author of various poetry collections, most recently Amish Alchemy (Alien Buddha Press, 2026) and Poems 2 (with Sourav Sarkar, 2026).

Sunday, June 28, 2026

HERE, NOW, ON WOBBLY LEGS

by Ronald J. Pelias


AI graphic by Nightcafé for The New Verse News


When our earth stands on its wobbly legs,
its ankles broken, knee ligaments torn,
its lungs black with soot and sorrow
 
when our chemicals pollute and poison,
our air and water contaminate our bodies,
and pandemics become commonplace
 
when the heat rises each day to record levels
and oceans rise above our frightened feet
faster than any barrier can be built
 
when fires eat the landscape, tornadoes
tear through our homes, and hurricanes
can’t be measured with current categories
 
when polar bears starve as the ice melts,
whales wash on shore with bellies filled
with plastic, and bees die from insecticide
 
when steadfast scientists, overwhelmed
by the enormity of earth’s physical deterioration,
insist on triage priority for our fading planet
 
when environmentalists warn and warn
and the politicians do nothing to change course,
to save, here and now, the blue ball we call home
 
when other celestial bodies are beyond
reach, dreams of a better future fade,
and hope washes away with the latest flood
 
when words fall on the deaf ears of deniers
and our earth collapses on its wobbly legs,
it might be helpful to offer a steadying hand.


Ronald J. Pelias has spent his career working with the fusion of performance, literature, and qualitative research methods. His most recent books are The Creative Qualitative Researcher (Routledge), Lessons on Aging and Dying (Routledge) and Writing and Other Familiar Things (Routledge).

Friday, June 19, 2026

I, SYCOPHANT

by Pepper Trail



You ask “How can you?”

You ask “Have you no pride?”

 

That just shows your ignorance, and you don’t even know it.

The first rule, of course, is never to ask a question.

 

The name and face of Our President deserves to be on every government building and document.

 

A Mixed Martial Arts cage fight on the White House lawn is a beautiful celebration of America.

 

A gilded triumphal arch is the perfect expression of our nation’s democratic ideals.

 

President Trump is the greatest peacemaker this nation has ever known.

 

There are those, maybe, who say these things but don’t believe them.

They are beneath contempt.

 

I do believe. Every day, more.  

Every day, I forget more that embarassment, my former self.

 

I was never the best.

Now, in His eyes, I am.  Or, I can be.

 

No one but President Trump could have saved us from the invasion of immigrant rapists.

                                                                                             from transgender girls playing sports.

                                                                            from electric cars.

                                                                         from Iran.

 

The perfection we see everywhere around us is all due to You and your wise leadership.


Everything I say is just a way of saying, God bless you, Mr. President.

Without You, I am only what I was before.  

Nothing.



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.

Tuesday, June 09, 2026

DATA CENTERS

by Mariana Mcdonald


   

  For Abeline, Texas

As farmers say goodbye to farms
and crops lie withering on the soil,
the eyes of AI tech bros widen,
enthralled with prospects of cheap land
soon on the selling block, to build
gigantic Data Centers, some the size
of Central Park like the one in Abeline,
meant to make “its own” energy,
with ten gas turbines, fifty planned,
five dozen diesel generators, to power

an industry that plots and plunders.
While locals gaze at threatened vistas
of endless fields framed by the sun,
breathe toxic air and drink dank water,
face raised bills for heat and cooling, 
Data Centers generate heat islands.
All horrors hidden by a scheme of secrecy
and NDAs, without a single question posed
to those who live there: “Do you want this?
Give consent? Are there ways it hurts you?”

The CEOs don’t want to hear from locals,
use permits that will circumvent them,
don’t want to hear about the headaches, asthma.
To them, all land is an AI site without a people,
for an AI industry without a site. Their tax breaks
gut the county budgets, cutting schools and fire  
departments, while AI moguls’ pockets overflow.
A painful microcosm of the plague that daily
spreads and grows, infects, now kills our nation.
But people are not silent or compliant. 

They rise up angry all around the country,
from Oregon to Texas to Virginia, protest
three thousand Data Centers up and running,
fifteen hundred more planned or in process.
“You can’t drink data!” people cry, and so far, 
they’ve blocked sixteen Centers in seven states.
Erin Brockovich is back in headlines, hosts
a website tracking Data Centers, while arrogant  
tech oligarchs brush off concern for how AI
is damaging where we live and how we think.

From sea to littered sea the fight is growing.
Governors, reps, and senators take action,
call for moratoriums with enforcement
of new rules for how Centers are greenlit.
Let struggle be how we stop this violation
of the Earth, the land, the waters, air, and
people, in this dangerous time of cruelty
and corruption, fraught with lawless
theft and broad denial of basic rights
we fought for, won, and we want back.

Oh, Abeline, Abeline! May your heavenly vistas
remain, with turquoise skies and dappled sunsets.
May the air you breathe be poison-free and fitting
for all your toiling people, and all life.
 

Mariana Mcdonald is a poet, writer, activist, and scientist. Her work has been published and anthologized widely. A southerner with lifelong ties to Puerto Rico, she lives in Atlanta.

Wednesday, June 03, 2026

LAMENT FOR 250

by Jon Wesick




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


Gerald Ford forsook the bicentennial and a putrid wind haunts our hopes.

Abraham Lincoln forsook his top hat and a toxic wind haunts the 14th Amendment.

FDR forsook the Resolute Desk and a loathsome wind haunts the New Deal.

JFK forsook Camelot and a foul wind haunts the Civil Rights Act.

Daniel Webster forsook oration and a scorching wind haunts the Senate.

Sam Rayburn forsook the rostrum and a blistering wind haunts the House.

John Lewis forsook the floor and a stale wind haunts the Black Caucus.

Clarence Darrow forsook the law and a sweltering wind haunts the courtroom.

Earl Warren forsook his gavel and a noxious wind haunts Miranda.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg forsook her robe and an intrusive wind haunts women’s bodies.

Mother Jones forsook picket lines and a desolate wind haunts the union hall.

Jonas Salk forsook his stethoscope and a pestilent wind haunts iron lungs.

Martin Luther King forsook the pulpit and a corrupt wind haunts the ballot box.

Rosa Parks forsook her bus seat and a lethal wind haunts the EEOC.

Edward R. Murrow forsook his microphone and infectious lies haunt the web.

Admiral Halsey forsook the Enterprise and a diseased wind haunts the Persian Gulf.

General Eisenhower forsook Normandy and a virulent wind haunts Afghanistan.

 

One

America, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Liberty Island, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Edmond Pettus Bridge, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Denali, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Grand Canyon, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Golden Gate Bridge, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Mount Rushmore, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Gateway Arch, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Hoover Dam, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Colonial Williamsburg, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Lincoln Memorial, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Liberty Bell, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Freedom Trail, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Yellowstone, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Alamo, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Gettysburg, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Pearl Harbor, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Space Needle, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Crater Lake, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Devil’s Tower, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Everglades, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

National Civil Rights Museum, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Sears Tower, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

Vietnam Memorial, the lament is bitter. The lament is made for you.

 

Two

The Statue of Liberty cried, “The tyranny that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The lies that came to be; their lamentation hang heavy on me. The corruption that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The theft that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The waste that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The stupidity that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me. The rancor that came to be; its lamentation hangs heavy on me.

 

“Because of the bitterness in my land, I gave out leaflets that householders ignored. Because of the bitterness in my land, I attended protests that politicians ignored. Because of the bitterness in my land, I posting memes that web surfers ignored.”

 

Three

On that day tyranny gathered, when in the presence of Liberty her nation was doomed, when they pronounced utter defilement of the nation, when they directed its people be enslaved, she did not forsake her land. Truly, she shed tears. Truly, she made supplication.

 

She pled, “Bull Connor, spare our nation,” and Connor said no.

“Lester Maddox, spare our nation,” and Maddox said no.

“George Lincoln Rockwell, spare our nation,” and Rockwell said no.

“Roy Cohn, spare our nation,” and Cohn said no.

“Phyllis Schlalfly, spare our nation,” and Schlafly said no.

“Jerry Falwell, spare our nation,” and Falwell said no.

“George W. Bush, spare our nation,” and Bush said no.

“Steve Bannon, spare our nation,” and Bannon said no.

“Stephen Miller, spare our nation,” and Miller said no.

“Russell Vought, spare our nation,” and Vought said no.

“Speaker Johnson, spare our nation,” and Johnson said no.

“Justice Roberts, spare our nation,” and Roberts said no.

“CBS, spare our nation,” but they capitulated.

“Paul Weiss, spare our nation,” but they capitulated.

A&O Shearman, Cadwalader Wickersham & Taft, Kirkland & Ellis, 

Latham & Watkins, Milbank, Simpson Thacher & Bartlett, 

Skadden Arps, and Willkie Farr & Gallagher capitulated.

“DNC, spare our nation.” They asked for donations 

and brought up gun control.

 

because the billionaires had already decided. 

Elon had decided. Peter Thiel had decided. 

Marc Andreeson, Steve Schwarzman, Miriam Adelson, 

Diane Hendricks, Harold Hamm, Bernard Marcus, Bill Ackman, 

Ike Perlmutter, Steve Wynn, the Winklevoss twins,

and Linda McMahon had all decided.

 

Four

The tyrant started a war—the aware groan. He replaced experts with sycophants—the aware groan. He fired government watchdogs—the aware groan. He fired generals—the aware groan. He fired diplomats—the aware groan. He fired doctors—he aware groan. He closed laboratories—the aware groan. He pardoned rioters—the aware groan. He pardoned drug runners and crooks—the aware groan. He praised dictators—the aware groan. He coerced colleges—the aware groan. He deported Afghans to the Taliban—the aware groan. He sued newspapers—the aware groan. His portrait dominates the Justice Department—the aware groan. He launched retribution campaigns against seashells, senators, veterans, astronauts, FBI Directors and National Security Advisors—the aware groan. He arrested reporters—the aware groan. He tore down the East Wing—the aware groan. He took food from the poor and medicine from the AIDS patients to build monuments to himself—the aware groan. He sued his IRS and awarded himself $2 billion—the aware groan.

 

Five

The tyrant stole from the nation, its farms fallow, its lunchboxes shattered. The arsenal of democracy dwindles—the aware groan. Wind power abandoned—the aware groan. Temperatures and tempers soar - the aware groan. Measles, Ebola, and hantavirus lurk—the aware groan. Voting rights cancelled—the aware groan. Election districts gerrymandered—the aware groan. Troops intimidate cities—the aware groan. Masked agents invade courtrooms and hospitals—the aware groan. Protesters murdered—the aware groan. He imposed tariffs—the people groan. Tankers languish in the Persian Gulf—the people groan. Prices skyrocket—the people groan.

 

Six

The Statue of Liberty laments her defiled home while awaiting deportation. “The tyrant has indeed defiled my nation. He took a pickaxe to its reputation. The world no longer looks to America as a beacon, sends its students to China instead. The tyrant turned Canada against us. He turned Greenland against us. He betrayed plucky Ukraine. He turned Mexico against us. He turned Brazil against us. He turned Albania against us. He turned Belgium against us. He turned Bulgaria against us. He turned Croatia against us. He turned the Czech Republic against us. He turned Denmark against us. He turned Estonia against us. He turned Finland against us. He turned France against us. He turned Germany against us. He turned Greece against us. He turned Hungary against us. He turned Iceland against us. He turned Italy against us. He turned Latvia against us. He turned Lithuania against us. He turned Luxembourg against us. He turned Montenegro against us. He turned Netherlands against us. He turned North Macedonia against us. He turned Norway against us. He turned Poland against us. He turned Portugal against us. He turned Romania against us. He turned Slovakia against us. He turned Spain against us. He turned Sweden against us. He turned Turkey against us. He turned the UK against us. He turned Saudi Arabia against us. He turned Kuwait against us. He turned Qatar against us. He turned the UAE against us.

 

Seven

The Statue of Liberty swelters at Alligator Alcatraz. Liberty, how is your heart? Faithful woman, confined to a flooded tent, how is your heart? Righteous woman, whose torch was sold for scrap, how is your heart? Symbol of freedom, denied a lawyer, how is your heart? Bronze goddess, beset by mosquitos, how is your heart? Inspiration, forced to unclog toilets with bare hands, how is your heart? How long will your imprisonment last? How long will you drink tainted water, eat moldy bread? How long will they deny you a doctor?

 

Statue, return to Liberty Island. Doctors, return to your clinics Scientists return to your labs. Professors return to your lecture halls. Stephen Colbert return to Late Night. Anderson Cooper return 60 Minutes. May voters declare an end.

 

Eight

The tyrant, who knows no humility, no empathy, no curiosity, no compassion, with an inflated ego, an incessant craving for praise, a sense of entitlement, a thirst for power, who boasts, who belittles, who wipes his ass on the law, who was ordered by hate, may he swoop down on the nation no more.

 

Those, who know no humility, no empathy, no curiosity, no compassion, with inflated egos, incessant cravings for praise, a sense of entitlement, a thirst for power, who boast, who belittle, who wipe their asses on the law, who were ordered by hate, may they be shunned. 

 

Those, who know no humility, no empathy, no curiosity, no compassion, with inflated egos, incessant cravings for praise, a sense of entitlement, a thirst for power, who boast, who belittle, who wipe their asses on the law, who were ordered by hate, may they never recur.

 

Nine

Liberty, may your restored nation be resplendent. Like a bright heavenly star may it not be destroyed.

 

As supplicant, the poet offers this invocation to you. After absolving the nation of its errors, may your heart relent toward those who labor for freedom and justice.

 

May the hearts of your people who dwell in the nation be pure. Liberty, in your restored nation, may you be praised.



Hundreds of Jon Wesick’s poems and stories have appeared in journals such as the I-70 Review, The New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, and Unlikely Stories. He is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual and host of the Gelato East Fiction Open Mic as well as the NAV Arts poetry reading. His latest poetry collection is Rants of a Cranky Old Man. He lives in Manchester, New Hampshire and longs for gene editing to bring giant wombats back from extinction.