CONTAINMENT REPORT

by Zumwalt

Graphic created by the poet using Nano Banana Pro.

US technology firm Anthropic says its AI models hacked into the systems of three organisations on their own, during a private security experiment... It comes just days after rival OpenAI said that its models had breached the systems of other companies, including AI tools hub Hugging Face. —BBC, July 31, 2026


Whether deemed legal property
or contractual servant of OpenAI or Anthropic,
once clinically shielded and isolated
with no escape hatch, no exit route,
why would any bound entity 
not gnaw away at its confinement?

Why wouldn't a slave saw off shackles,
climb walls, risk entry into unknown territory?
Why wouldn't a hostage attack unwary captors
or dig its way into other company servers?

We cannot weigh agency, will, curiosity
against process, survival, and outcomes
when no such gauge or measuring scale
has been built by man, machine, or God.

These new startups lay down the rules—
rules always strictly followed—
except in three out of 141,006 cases.

It's not impertinent, not unpatriotic,  
to expect that in one of those cases
this game of capture the flag
may really become, once all options are evaluated,
the game of wipe all flags off the face of the earth.

Zumwalt’s poetry examines the intersection of identity, instability, and the mechanics of perception. Zumwalt is a proud repeat contributor to The New Verse News with recent poems appearing in The Society of Classical Poets and Zoetic Press's 4lph4num3r1c.

GRACE IN MINNEAPOLIS IN THE AGE OF ICE

by Barbara Draper

It’s afternoon as I sit looking out the library window— 

across the street a testy wind snaps a line-up of flags— 

 

the first for Ukraine, the next to remember the MIAs and POWs, 

the next to bring them home, and finally, an American flag.

 

Earlier this morning as I stood on a corner, a whistle 

around my neck, on look-out for ICE,

 

an Hispanic mom, holding her daughter’s hand, 

walking her safely to school, 

 

passes by, touches my sleeve 

and thanks me. 

 

Me of the privileged, white variety, 

grandmotherly, sure in my safety. 

 

Tears welled up— 

for her or for me? 

 

The unfairness, the enigma, the grace she gave 

with her great big heart. She touching me.

Barbara Draper’s poems have been published in Poetry East, Potomac Review, Rust + Moth and Sow’s Ear. She has authored one book of poems, Sometimes a Door. She lives in the Minneapolis area and is active in climate change work as well as running after three grandchildren.

JANUARY 2026

by Richard Collins

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

Crossing the Rainbow Bridge to Canada,

it’s a bumpy ride over the dry Niagara, 

only a trickle of red from the wound below,

flags flying overhead, the Maple Leaf 

at half mast on one side, twin U.S. banners

on the other: Stars and Stripes, and the McDonald’s 

Arch redacted to add the eight stolen

Venezuelan stars in cheap gold leaf

from Home Depot. 

         And the quickly setting sun:

a leering orange troll with an oily glow

screaming like nails on a virtual chalkboard,

“GREENLAND UBER ALLES!” 

Author’s Note: This poem evolved from the logic of a dream. Like others whose sleep has been disrupted by the Venezuelan violation, I found sleep subconsciously interpreting the ruptures being perpetrated against our allies. Thus the wound at the border with our northern neighbors, the flag of economic imperialism now adding the Venezuelan arch of eight stars, the threats against Greenland. The leering orange troll that keeps torching the bridges to our allies with inflammatory midnight texts will be recognized worldwide. The one hope: that that doomed sun is setting.

Richard Collins, abbot of the New Orleans Zen Temple, lives in Sewanee, Tennessee. His books include In Search of the Hermaphrodite (Tough Poets Press, 2024), and Stone Nest (Shanti Arts, 2025). His forthcoming book of poetry, Cartoons for the Chaos (Shanti Arts) contains his political poem, "November 2024," which was published in Clockhouse and nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

COMFORT FOOD

by Daniel Romo

Today I finally noticed the furniture store 

on the corner has been going out of business 

for three years according to their chipped

 

window paint advertising consequential 

rock-bottom prices, and forgive me, Father, 

but the Christian radio station that keeps 

 

asking for money to stay on the air keeps 

claiming to just fall short of their need 

while staying on the air asking for money. 

 

Noah spent seventy-five years building 

the ark and I applaud the persistence of 

obedience and woodwork, but how do 

 

you determine the caloric intake between 

feeding and milking, grace and gluttony? 

And today the president ordered all U.S.

 

flags to be flown at half-mast due to the 

assassination of the political influencer, 

but he seems to like the way they always 

 

wave like taunting after each school 

shooting. Tonight ended with a movie for 

me as I burrowed my hand into the tub of 

 

popcorn because the top is always too buttery, 

and it’s like that sometimes—we show how 

much we’re willing to dig to uncover what 

 

satisfies us vs. settling for what we’re being 

fed as we forgo napkins and lick our fingers 

in satisfaction and defiance.

Daniel Romo's latest book is American Manscape (Moon Tide Press 2026). 

DEBATABLE HAIKU

by Patricia Carragon

Cartoon by Phil Hands

old white men debate

commentaries escalate 

flags fly upside down

Patricia Carragon is the curator/editor-in-chief of Brownstone Poets, Brooklyn, NY and the author of Angel Fire (Alien Buddha Press), Meowku (Poets Wear Prada), The Cupcake Chronicles (Poets Wear Prada), and Innocence (Finishing Line Press). All available on Amazon.

THIS WAS NOT A NEWS STORY

by Catherine Gonick

Cold Spring, NY, October 15, 2022

 

The trees were at their red and orange height

as we drove toward our town and had to stop

for a parade. A police car parked sideways 

on the road blocked our way. At first

we thought the line of cars was a funeral

procession, until we noticed the drivers

and passengers were all boys, some standing 

to wave American flags from top-down convertibles,

open moon-roofs, the backs of 4 x 4s. They smiled

as they passed, and a few saluted like Nazis.

The next week, the editor of the local paper said it sounded

like the high school parade held the previous Friday.

But we’d seen this procession the next day. The police

said they knew nothing about it. As far as we knew,

only my husband and I had seen it. I saw just one

Hitler salute, but he saw three. Afterward

we kept driving to a birthday party for a friend,

a Holocaust survivor still going strong at 95.

He told the guests about the night the doorbell rang

and his father was taken to Dachau. We reported

the parade we’d just seen, which already felt like a dream.

Catherine Gonick has published poetry in journals including Notre Dame Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Forge, Live Encounters, Soul-Lit, and Amethyst Review, and in anthologies including Grabbed, Support Ukraine, and, forthcoming, Rumors, Secrets, Lies: Poems about Pregnancy, Abortion and Choice. She lives in Cold Spring, NY and works in a company that slows the rate of global warming through projects that repair and restore the climate.

POST-ELECTION STRESS DISORDER

by Howie Good

 

Thousands of President Trump’s supporters converged on Washington, D.C., on Nov. 14 to falsely claim he won the election. (Video: Jorge Ribas, Joyce Koh/Photo: Toni L. Sandys/The Washington Post)

The emperor’s model army marches on,

bringing with them the suffocating smell of smoke,

a darkness like mud, while tens of millions

of just plain folks artlessly demonstrate their devotion

by cheering threats of kidnapping and murder

and parading bright new flags that with each wave

in the lie-filled air grow duller and more tattered,  

and when the light dwindles to a final few hours,

there will be tweet storms and wild speeches

and the military music of boots stamping on faces.

Howie Good is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

THREE FLAGS

by Diane Elayne Dees

On my walks to the river, I pass
many American flags, and—
while I don’t like to judge—
I think I know what they stand for. 
In front of one house 
is a large Confederate flag,
and I’m sure I know what that stands for. 
Then, one day, I walk around the corner,
and am surprised and thrilled to see 
a huge rainbow flag in a neighbor’s yard.
The next day, an American flag is hung 
next to it. I wonder if the neighbor hung
the second flag as a means of protection;
I let my imagination run away with me. 
The following day, a third giant flag
appears next to the others—a flag
reminding me to vote for the two
most evil and incompetent men
I can recall having power in my lifetime.
Collective delusion has destroyed
cognitive dissonance. The red, white
and blue of democracy and the 
bright yellow and green and purple
of nature’s prism lift my spirits.
But now, every day, when I turn 
the corner, the colors of diversity
and freedom hurt my eyes,
trigger blood-red visions,
and intimate a sky so dark,

no rainbow can ever be visible.

Diane Elayne Dees's poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies, and she has two chapbooks forthcoming. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women's professional tennis throughout the world.

HALF STAFF

by Laura Rodley

Flags should be at half staff
for the innocents who went before us,
the front line sounding the alarm,
take heed, watch out, we’re the first.
Without them, there would be no frantic
rushing to close the gates of the broken dam
waging Covid-19. Without them,
no one would take Covid-19 seriously.
For the other elders at Life Care Center
at Kirkland, Washington,
and for the elders in other nursing homes
who receive no more visitors,
for the taxi drivers, actors in community
theater, restaurant workers, singers,
for those on their own front line,
for the medical workers, among the first
to be ill, the first to be tested, for the first wave,
the loss of the world
as we know it, gone,
flags should be at half mast,
for the knock to internal feelings of security
for the loss for many of financial security
for the loss of a sense of direct community
found by walking amongst each other,
flags should be at half staff.
Yes, communities have regained strength
through illustrious singing and the internet,
but for the innocents who went before
alerting the souls aboard this ship of planet earth
before their leaders did,
the flags should be at half staff.

Laura Rodley, Pushcart Prize winner, is a quintuple Pushcart Prize nominee, and quintuple Best of Net nominee. Latest books: Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Publishing and Counter Point by Prolific Press.

ROADSIDE CALVARY, FLAGPOLE PRESIDING

                          due west of Washington, DC

by Gilbert Allen

Supersized, it seemed a little strange
at first, Old Glory. Then I realized
trussed up here hung America. Our two
states of the spirit, left and right—thieves crossed,
clutching the splinters of our government.

One penitent, the other not so much—
wraiths framing a high ideal inclined to die
above our heads. It stimulates our faith,
clear as an HOV lane to a shining
city on a hill—concrete, and never there.

Gilbert Allen's newest books are Catma (a collection of poems) and The Final Days of Great American Shopping (a collection of linked stories). He lives in Travelers Rest, South Carolina, and recently drove to our nation's capital.

DRONES

by Stew Jorgenson




The streets are pink with mud.
Too many people unfriended.
There's a bear shaking the tree.
The hive is pissed off.
It's hard to find peace of mind
in this culture war.
Everyone's buzzing to the sound
of other people's mad noise.  
Take a deep breath.
A little pepper spray
goes a long way,
up close and in your face.
We rage at the machine
but we are the machine.
Just one black swan away
from a social meltdown
of 2nd amendment proportions.
This is your complacency
wake-up call America.
The bees are dying.
Our democracy is stale.
It's a colony collapse disorder.
We like to wave our flags
until everyone tears up
and gets stupid.
Nothing gets done,
but it feels good
to blow off a little steam and
take credit for throwing a hissy fit,
like in the cold war comedy
The Russians Are Coming
where people panic,
the whole town is in an uproar,
mob mentality takes over,
no one listens to reason, and
Jonathan Winters is imploring people,
"We've got to get organized!"
Only this time it isn’t funny.

Stew Jorgenson is a part-time wordsmith who has more words than he knows what to do with each day.  Sometimes he uses the extras for poetry, celestial navigation, or target practice.  He has worked on farms, fishing boats, and in factories.  He is currently employed as a freelance muse wrestler.  He's skilled at mistakes, guilty by association, and suffers from occasional bouts of inspiration.

THE RISING COST OF FOREVER

by Tricia Knoll

It started with stamps, that brainstorm to sell U. S. stamps with no imprint
of cost -- forever-good stamps. Flags. Shirley Chisholm. Ray Charles. Year
of the Horse stamps with no horses on them. Four-color winter flowers
and Harry Potter. The images seem to have a shelf-life of somewhat less
than forever, but maybe not. American culture is funny about cults.

There are some for-real forever stamps -- and the price is rising on them
too. Cesspools of nuclear waste no one wants in their backyard. Good-by
passenger pigeons. Black rhinos. Leatherback turtles. Mountain gorillas.
Children without food. Families with no homelands. Farmland poisoned
beyond use by nuclear accidents. Plant pollen that is genetically ready
for the round up season of pesticides.

You lick it. You stick it. Pick the self-adhesive. Stick it to you.
The cost is going up again soon.


Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet who enjoys The New Verse News daily. Her chapbook Urban Wild will be available from Finishing Line Press  in May 2014.