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.

LOST IN GRAND CANYON’S WOUNDS

by Dick Altman

 

Molas Pass, Southern Colorado

I’m hiking 

where eagles soar,

eleven thousand

two hundred feet

above sea level.

Summer,

and I seek 

to escape 

the heat,

climbing 

legend’s

Colorado Trail,

amid peaks,

of the Rocky

Mountains,

veiled. 

 

The forecast,

a brilliant sunny day.

The reality,

smoke,

past summits

rivering,

thicker than 

I’ve ever seen,

rendering

cloud high’s

vistas,

now grey

and shadowed,

nearly invisible.

Breathing

a struggle.

 

The source,

I discover,

Grand Canyon,

turned into

an inferno

of wildfire—

after a paucity

of man/

money/machine,

so it seems,

lets it burn,

for weeks

unyielding.

 

I recall how calm

was my visit 

to the canyon’s

North Rim,

to edifices

historic,

and surrounding

forest,

the blaze 

destroys.

And here I am,

atop a mountain,

lost 

in their scorched

essence.

 

The dense smoke

drowns my spirit

in ghostly grief.

Vultures circle

overhead.

Marmots dive

for their holes

in bands of

 rock.

A meadow

of yellow daisies,

out of nowhere,

unfurls like magic.

I push upward.

 

 

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, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, Beyond Words, New Verse News, Wingless Dreamer, Blueline, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press.  Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 250 poems, published on four continents.

GENESIS 2025

by Michael Dorian

Source: Seattle Times

In the beginning

He pardoned all the seditionists.

Now the nation was barren and shapeless,

darkness was upon the land

and He said, “Let there be lies,”

and there were lies.

He saw the lies were good

and He separated the lies from the truth.

He called the lies “truth”

and He called the truth “lies.”

And there was evening 

and there was morning—

the first day

And He said, "Let me stop the wildfires

scorching the pretty landscaping

and those expensive houses. 

I know some people in L.A., some 

very wealthy, well-connected people."

And He released with almighty force

from his gullet a torrent of water pressure

the likes of which no man had beheld.

And the fires stopped burning.

And He saw this was good

and there was evening 

and there was morning—

the second day

And He said, "Let the illegal immigrants

in the land be returned whence they came."

So with a gust of His great breath

He swept them all up in a glorious gale

and blew back to homelands the vermin, 

scattered like so much feed.

And He saw this was good

and there was evening 

and there was morning—

the third day.

And He said, "Let me build a big beautiful wall

And He saw it was a good wall,

a great wall, better than China’s,

The Greatest Wall Of All Time

that anyone has ever seen anywhere

on Earth or any planet in our 

Solar System or even in all of Space,"

and there was evening 

and there was morning—

the fourth day.

And He said, "Let me stop the war in Ukraine."

And a great swathe of his carefully—

coiffed hair sent all the soldiers

toppling like toys back into their

respective sovereign countries

(with Russia gaining great areas

of formerly Ukrainian land)

and the bloodshed ceased 

like the last lilting notes 

of cherubs’ trumpeted fanfare.

And He saw this was good

(for Putin and Himself, anyway)

and there was evening 

and there was morning—

the fifth day.

And He said, "Let me drill, baby, drill!"

So with tremendous huffing and puffing

He had an angel, a female one, fluff

His manhood until it stood,

a tower of steel shining in the sun,

and He poked it in and pulled it out

with enduring virility

until he had poked 

many a holy hole 

deep into the Earth’s womb

and into 625 million acres

of preserved coastal seawaters

and the nation became richer with crude.

And the land and great numbers

of its people were crude.

And He saw this was good

and there was evening 

and there was morning—

the sixth day.

And on the 7th day

He played golf and he cheated.

Once upon a time, Michael Dorian had a collection of poems and a play in one act published by Silk City Press entitled "The Nektonic Facteur.”  He likes to think that when the going gets tough, the tough write poems. 

HOW TO SURVIVE AN ELECTION

by Steve Zeitlin

Smokejumper

My cousin Rod McIver—smoke jumper—

parachuted into Missouri wildfires

became famous for escaping the great Montana blaze

by igniting a flickering ring of fire round himself,

hunkering down so the 

sea of flames—

passed over and around

 

teaching us—when the infernos of the body politic

hurl down upon your fragile soul

light a passionate, fiery circle 

round yourself, your family, friends

 

let the fires of this wicked world

pass over and around

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

Steve Zeitlin is the Founding Director of City Lore, New York City’s Center for Urban Folk Culture, and co-founder of the Brevitas poetry collective.  He the author of a volume of poetry, I Hear American Singing in the Rain, and twelve books on America’s folk culture. In 2016, he published a collection of essays, The Poetry of Everyday Life: Storytelling and the Art of Awareness with Cornell University Press.  In 2022, he published JEWels: Teasing Out the Poetry in Jewish Humor and Storytelling (JPS/U. of Nebraska Press).

A REQUEST TO THE STATE

by David Chorlton

Aaron Gunches is not going to get his wish to be executed on Valentine’s Day. In an order Jan. 8, the Arizona Supreme Court rejected a Gunches pleading to forgo any more legal maneuvering and finally put him to death after he pleaded guilty to the 2002 murder and kidnapping charges of Ted Price, his girlfriend’s ex-husband. Instead, the justices said they want to hear arguments from all sides, including Attorney General Kris Mayes, who wants Gunches executed, but not on his schedule. —Arizona Capitol Times, January 8, 2025

The sun must wish events
were kinder when it climbs the sky
and looks down on
the latest shooting incidents, fires
gone wild
                  and a prisoner deciding
his time is due to die. The forecast here
is for deportations but
no rain. It’s playoff time, every touchdown
seems like another shot
and the elements are favorites to win
against all opposition. No sign
                                                         of clouds today
just wind in California
and Arizona waiting for an execution. 
Department of Corrections, chemicals
imported, nostalgia for
old West public hangings with the law
as violent as the criminals.
                                                 Legislation’s
language does not cover  peace
or love. A man condemned
can do no more than ask
that he become the state’s revenge
on Valentine’s Day.

David Chorlton is a longtime resident of Phoenix who finds comfort in keeping track of local birds and creatures on the fringe of the urban world. Having spent his early years in Europe, he still observes his surroundings with the pleasure of being in a foreign place.

CARCASS

by Melanie DuBose

World’s Rarest Whale Washes Up on New Zealand Beach, Scientists Say: Only six specimens of the spade-toothed whale have ever been identified. This carcass could be the first that scientists are able to dissect. —The New York Times, July 17, 2024

swimming by
he notices 
on the ocean floor 
something long  sleek  dead

they hang the body by its tail on the beach
some things never change

very small fins long beak
an endless loop on repeat in my brain

my brain with its depths I can not reach
but perhaps could synthesize and become a pop star
if I knew how to make thoughts into sound
outside the window the hills are outlined  in red
along the horizon

am I ashamed to be human?
the whale comes from mountains higher than any on earth
I get vertigo floating  

Ex means out  my brain circles the parking lot
Extinction Existence Depth
very small fins long beak 

proof of life in death hanging by its tail on the beach
another dead whale out of water hoisted not quite extinct 
it seems though rare

another summer of fires
I swim in the deepest water and wish for something
sleek and alive

Melanie DuBose lives in Los Angeles. Recent poems and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in the Los Angeles Press, Kelp, Gyroscope, and Drunk Monkeys among others. Her favorite award is from the National Weather Association for helping six-year-olds write about the value of wetland preservation. 

SILENCE AFTER THE MAUI FIRE

by Christian Hanz Lozada

I deconstruct the “Santa’s Village” Lego set
and the house has been quiet all day
 
while Hawaiian Uncle with stage 4 lungs watches the news
and the house has been quiet all day
 
the county asks family of the missing to submit DNA to match ashen remains
and the house has been quiet all day
 
after the fire Hawaiian Uncle escaped by sleeping on the shore
and the house has been quiet all day
 
and by crossing an ocean and by needing his niece’s husband to clean his ass
and the house has been quiet all day
 
long enough for health insurance ones and zeroes to change Hawaii to America
and the house has been quiet all day

Christian Hanz Lozada (he/him) is the son of an immigrant Filipino and a descendent of the Southern Confederacy. He knows the shape of hope and exclusion. He authored the poetry collection He’s a Color, Until He’s Not (2023) and co-authored Leave with More Than You Came With (2019). His poems have appeared in Hawaii Pacific Review (Pushcart Nominee), Bamboo Ridge Press, 34 Orchard, Mud Season Review, among others. Christian has featured at the Autry Museum and Beyond Baroque. He lives in San Pedro, CA and uses his MFA to teach his neighbors and their kids at Los Angeles Harbor College.

HAIKU

by Brian Dolan

Photo: Smoke billows upwards from a planned ignition by firefighters who were tackling the Donnie Creek Complex wildfire south of Fort Nelson, British Columbia, on Saturday, June 3. B.C. Wildfire Service 

Brian Dolan is a poet and fiction writer. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in the Beatnik Cowboy, Plum Tree Tavern, the Bangalore Review, and the Bosphorus Review of Books.

EARTHLINGS

by Peter Witt

If earth was my father, he’d sit me down

for the talk, about how the birds and bees

are under threat, how humankind has polluted

its nest, and how our actions may doom us

to the inevitably of a rage of forest fires,

hurricanes, tornadoes and other

devastating weather events.

 

If earth was my mother, she’d send me

to my room, cut off my social media

for a month, make me eat green vegetables

and fresh fruit instead of junk food

that comes in non-degradable packaging.

 

If earth was my mentor, he’d tutor me in ways

to live a life that respects the planet, take on

advocacy roles that can reverse the holocaust

of degradation that human greed has wrought.

 

If earth was my lover, she’d touch me in ways

that reach deep in my being, hold me close,

look into my eyes and beg me to love

her forever for the sake of every rock, ocean,

mountain, turtle, rabbit, snake, and ladybug.

Peter Witt is a Texas poet, a frequent contributor to The New Verse News and other online poetry web-based publications.

I DREAMED LAST NIGHT

by Gordon Gilbert

I dreamed last night of seasons of unrest that lie ahead:

Saddled on nightmare steeds with fiery nostrils,

eyes of cold blue light and blood pouring down their heaving flanks,

apocalyptic horsemen rode over our lands,

setting farms and fields ablaze and poisoning the wells;

pestilence, drought and famine followed in their wake.

Monstrous firestorms swept across tinder-dry forests,

consuming all, obliterating every living thing  in their path;

whirlwinds that followed gathered up the dust and ash

and blotted out the sun.

Insufferable desert heat by day, 

unbearable desert cold by night.

All of our tomorrows, 

only the broken promises

of those who too long led us in denial.

All of our future days, 

each and every one in turn,

fading away into a long parade 

of sad and sorry yesterdays.

This morning I awoke to the radio:

The meteorologist was saying 

it’s unseasonably warm for this time of year,

and the temperature is rising.

Long-time NYC west villager Gordon Gilbert has found solace and inspiration during the pandemic in walks along the Hudson River, photographing and writing about the wildlife, flora, and river traffic as the seasons change. It gives him hope in these terrible times, but he knows that is not enough. Change only comes when we act to make it so.

WHEN THE AIR COULDN'T HOLD

by Dick Altman

Four killed in helicopter crash after assisting with East Mesa Fire 

—Santa Fe New Mexican, July 17, 2022

Northern New Mexico

I once believed the high

desert immune to fire.

Until I watch in terror a blaze

in the Jemez Mountains,

west of me, nearly consume

Los Alamos’ atomic city.

                   *

And so spin the blades

and up the chopper rises,

as if lofted by the very flames

it douses again and again

with water by the bucketful.

Until its cargo of four, lives

with every pass in peril,

points wearily for home.

                    *

Never thought a fire 20 miles

east, ignited in April, would

refuse to go out until mid-June. 

We may not have much water,

but we have countless mountains

of tinder eager to torch earth,

sear and drought-riven.

                    *

And so we resort to birds

(and planes) to siphon water

from a distance. After awhile,

the droning pulse of copters

infiltrates dreams. Smoke,

from the moment you awake,

is a never-absent cup

of acrid reality.

                        *

And today’s bird? Had I felt it

thrumming overhead?  Before

a few seconds of downdraft—

will we ever know?—transforms

it from an angel of life into one

of death. And blades that morph

into wings, caught in gravity’s net,

plunge to the bottom of a sea of air.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where,at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, riverSedge, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Blue Line, THE Magazine, Humana obscura, The Offbeat, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The RavensPerch, Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad. A poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has in progress two collections of some 100 published poems. His work has been selected for the forthcoming first volume of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry to be published by the New Mexico Museum Press.