FRENCH MEAT PIE

by Michelle Valois

 

 

French meat pie is a greasy wonder of pork, beef, and onion, filling a pie crust that is flaky and buttery. Some parts of French Canada add potatoes, some breadcrumbs. Either way, the additions were intended to stretch the meat, which you had to do if you were poor. My family used breadcrumbs.
 
My Mai Mai taught my mother and she taught me. These days, though, with one of my children vegan, I make a meatless meat pie, using mushrooms and lentils as a substitute for the meat. My relatives and other purists are appalled, but it’s actually not bad.

This vegan daughter of mine is also queer, and all three of my children are Jewish, as is my partner. I just found out that if you can prove that a grandparent was born in Canada you can apply for Canadian citizenship. If what is happening in Minnesota becomes the norm, we may just have to return to the motherland of meat pies, maple syrup, and ice hockey. I hope they won’t mind how I have tinkered with one of their national dishes in the three generations that my family has thrived in this so-called land of the free, but it appears that it is no longer free, which it never really was for people of color; now, though, it’s only free if you are white and MAGA.

My grandparents left their farms in Canada for a better life in the factories of New England. They could never have dreamed that their granddaughter would become a college professor, marry a woman, and be able to afford all the pork and beef she wants (but chooses mushrooms and lentils), the American dream come true.

My father fought fascists in Germany. He could never have dreamed that his children and grandchildren would have to fight them here on American soil, the American dream turned nightmare.

Meatless meat pie? You can make anything, really, without meat, but you can’t make a life without freedom.

Michelle Valois' work has appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Florida Review, TriQuarterly, Pank, Brevity, and others. A chapbook My Found Vocabulary was published in 2017 (Aldrich). She lives in Massachusetts and teach at a community college.

SEASON OF THE WITCH, 2025

by Laurie Rosen

Usha Vance official portrait

The straw brush of my fireplace broom broke free. I refuse 

to throw it away, someone must surely need it. I could refit it, 

attach it to a long branch. I dream of bringing it to Usha Vance, 

insisting she take the broomstick and make for a speedy escape. 

I assure her that sisters and aunties will rise to guide her and her 

children to freedom. 

I might be wrong in offering Usha more protection than I do 

Melania, who seems ruthless, caring only for herself, money 

and comfort. Who can forget: “I really don’t care, do you?”

Usha stays quiet, appears surprised by where she’s been taken 

hostage––her eyes full of terror like a deer in my meadow, 

during hunting season, who looks up from her grazing, realizes 

I’m staring at her. Nudging her fawn, they run for safety. (Though 

many men would hurt them, I never would). 

When they met, Usha was an attorney, a democrat, Vance was 

someone else too. But he’s been remaking himself from the 

beginning. He’s a master of reinvention, like Woody Allen’s Zelig 

or F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Gatsby, altering his name and persona 

again and again. I’m guessing he promised Usha that with him, she 

could have it all, career, kids, an opinion. Instead bit by bit, with each

change, he steals her voice then her power, leaving her unrecognizable 

even to herself.  

Usha, I say, save yourself, your children too. Take the broom, and 

fly, fly, fly away. 

Laurie Rosen is a lifelong New Englander. Her poetry has appeared in One Art: a journal of poetry, Gyroscope Review, Oddball Magazine, The New Verse News, The Inquisitive Eater: New School Food, Zig Zag Lit Mag, Minyan Magazine, and elsewhere. Laurie was nominated for a 2025 Pushcart Prize.

WE’RE RIGHT, BEHIND YOU

by Steven Kent

"Europeans recognize Zohran Mamdani's supposedly radical policies as 'normal'" —The Guardian, November 6, 2025

It's Communist, beyond the pale

Of all our freedom-loving norms,

To look at European forms

So goshdarned guaranteed to fail.

Free healthcare? Transport? Daycare, too?

We ain't about to spring for those,

Since everybody 'round here knows

They can't succeed--oh wait, they do?

Steven Kent is the poetic alter ego of writer and musician Kent Burnside. His work appears in 251, Asses of Parnassus, The Dirigible Balloon, Light, Lighten Up Online, The Lyric, New Verse News, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Philosophy Now, The Pierian, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry, Snakeskin, and Well Read. His collections I Tried (And Other Poems, Too) (2023) and Home at Last (2025) are published by Kelsay Books.

THE FIRST DEATH

by Thomas R. Smith

So a lost brother has taken a bullet.

We grasp after a coherent motive.

Another of the terminally online?

Noticing the victim did nothing to help

protect others from this kind of death.

Said a few deaths are worth his “freedom.”

Would he have considered his own death

by the gun worth it? Are we allowed to ask

whether this is irony or karma?

The mind unmoored from spirit, scrambled

by strange signals, tears loose from the real.

Can we be honest about our part in this?

Life is change, but fear turns change to death,

fear rooted in hatred, self-hatred

of the changing different one within.

I mourn his first death, the earlier one

when he turned away from decency and kindness

to join the church of the desecrated heart.

Thomas R. Smith’s recent books are a poetry collection Medicine Year (Paris Morning Publications) and a prose work Poetry on the Side of Nature: Writing the Nature Poem as an Act of Survival (Red Dragonfly Press). He lives in western Wisconsin near the Kinnickinnic River.

BULLY PULPIT

by Mark Danowsky

was not intended to mean 
what any of us think 
but language changes 
& we change with it 
& you know a bully 
when you see one— 
some preaching leviathan 
who offers a shaky 
social contract
insisting life is
not worth living 
unless we have 
a kind of freedom
from each other— 
say six feet 
or the Grand Canyon 
where your views
stop mattering
unless my views
comfortably overlap
which happens
less & less 
in a crumbling Democracy
while the old guard 
hammers home 
the same tired tales
of Middle Class bliss
with fenced neighbors 
who deep down
share our core 
values & beliefs 
which fall flat  
in the face 
value of daily reminders
hammering home
who we care
enough to protect 

Mark Danowsky is Editor-in-Chief of ONE ART: a journal of poetry and Poetry Craft Essays Editor for Cleaver Magazine. He is the author of several short poetry books. His latest poetry collection is Take Care (Moon Tide Press, 2025). He writes and curates Stay Curious on Substack.

THIS BIRD HAS FLOWN

A Prose Poem

by Howie Good

President Trump and President Vladimir V. Putin of Russia concluded their summit in Alaska on Friday without declaring agreement on any issue, much less the one Mr. Trump said was at the top of his agenda, ending the war in Ukraine. —The New York Times, August 15. 2025

The other day I saw a bald eagle for only the second time in my life. It soared over the treeline on the far side of the marsh. Almost in the same instant that I recognized it from its distinctive silhouette, it was gone, our national bird, symbol of strength and freedom. We are entering the last days of summer. Some of the plants I planted in the spring never grew, and the plants that did grow have begun dying. I dread the coming winter, a hulking, red-eyed monster roving streets of blackened ruins.

Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose poetry collections include The Dark and Akimbo, available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher. 

TRADE-OFFS

by Imogen Arate

The bombs continue to fall. Cartoon by MATE

“Israel's New Gaza Operation Should Be Called 'Chariots of Genocide'” —Gideon Levy, Haaretz, May 14, 2025

I am the long night

that deepens into

a velvet gloom

that rambles the curls 

of your crooked fingers

as you pull irresistibly near

I am the bind

your phobias birthed

that cracks frail bones

rattling of evasion 

I am the deadly silence

strung by the eager

fingers of avoidance

A crystal each missing 

word unspoken 

A precious stone 

each unuttered phrase 

I am the irreplaceable 

treasures you've smashed 

to scatter as dust

while cradling the empty

slogans of freedom 

Imogen Arate is an Asian-American poet in search of hope: that humanity will overcome our self-destructive tendencies to work together against the onslaught of the climate crisis. She's also the Executive Director of Poets and Muses, an award-winning multimedia artist platform that has featured diverse contemporary poetic voices from around the globe. She believes that we will only be able to value lives equally when we lend our ears and hearts to the life stories of those we don't readily recognize as our kin and stop requiring the presence of certain socioeconomic trappings to recognize people’s right to a dignified existence.

NO JOKES

by Peter Witt

Tee shirt detail

The White House Correspondents' Association announced Saturday that its annual dinner will not feature comedian Amber Ruffin, nearly two months after it announced her as its selection. In fact, this year's show won't have any comedic performances at all. —ABC News, March 30, 2025

There’ll be no humor at this year’s
White House Correspondents Dinner,
no jokes to remind the trumpster that 
sometimes he seems more buffoonish
than presidential, no attempts to rib 
the VP for discovering
that Greenland is f’ing cold, 
 
no jokes about butt letting the editor
of the Atlantic into a war plan call
while he sat astonished in a Safeway
parking lot,
 
no jokes about the hint of musk
in the white house, and efforts
to unplug Tesla sales, and no hint
that the president has spent
more money on golfing weekends
than the dogers have saved
through their court contested dismissals. 
 
There’ll be no jokes about Jan 6th
invaders getting pardons, or 
failed efforts to settle the wars
in Gaza and Ukraine on the promised
first day in office, or how Canada
has scored a hat trick as the
president can’t remember
if today he raised or lowered tariffs.
 
The newspeople will gather, eat
drink their cocktails, eat their shrimp,
talk about who will be banned
from next week’s press conference,
listen while the master of ceremonies
talks longingly about freedom of the press,
as the crowd whispers what the jokes
might have been if their leadership
hadn’t cowed to the jokester in chief
who is still out there somewhere 
on the 18th green.

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

WE STILL CALL IT FREEDOM

by Phyllis Frakt

Cartoon by Nick Anderson

Do you still believe 
your world is real?
How medieval! So passé!
Abandon all hope,
enter our new reality—
facts are what we say.
 
We control the news,
can change it at our whim.
Technology will comply,
repeat the truth of every lie
in a thick mix of duplicity
on Fox, Facebook, X, AI.
 
We flood the zone,
you can't catch up.
Chaos is our game!
We still call it freedom.
But when something goes awry,
Joe Biden is to blame.

Phyllis Frakt writes poetry in New Jersey. She has published six previous poems in The New Verse News.

HER CENTENNIAL

by Courtney Hitson

For Flannery O’Connor,  born March 25, 2025

 

You watch from inside my poems, 
especially the ones that try
to dislodge a light beyond the page. You,
so schooled in charming goodness
from a garden snake.
 
Your hands clench these serifs
and spectate another freakshow
of a decade: our three-headed
trillionaire, realities prone
to the warp of beeping boxes,
and a bankrupt, orange business
man leading the way.
 
We’ve grown much too big
for these britches, but storms
this epic? They call for shrunken inseams
and egos. I still wish
that sixty-one years’ worth of spiral
staircase didn’t divide us.
I know you’d hurl God
as if a grenade, hot and hungry
for freedom from your hands. 

Courtney Hitson teaches English at the College of the Florida Keys. As of March, 2025, she has work forthcoming in Kestrel Review, Eunoia, Qu, Sequestrum, and Eastern Iowa Review. In 2024, her poetry received three Pushcart nominations. Outside of writing, she enjoys scuba-diving, freestyle unicycling, and philosophy. Courtney and her husband, Tom (also a poet), reside in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with their two cats.

A FABLE

by Howie Good

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

Someone is shouting, “Freedom!” 
or maybe “Free them!” The shouts
 
echo through gray, empty streets 
and die. I don’t follow the news. 
 
I’m not into politics. I walk down 
a street lined with soldiers and tanks. 
 
I turn up a street named for a tyrant.


Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book The Dark is available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.

WHAT A CHILD NEEDS IN A WAR ZONE

by Jerrice J Baptiste

The impact of armed conflicts on children around the world reached devastating and likely record levels in 2024, according to an assessment by the UN Children’s Fund (UNICEF). —UN News, December 27, 2024

Child searches for sweet embrace
of mother, father or next of kin.
Child finds limbs
along the way, a blueish face once  
known, red eyes that stare 
into bleak unknown.

You, soak dry mushrooms this season. 
Serve warm broth to this child
from a dead zone 
while agile mind can still imagine
a world of peace and freedom. 

You, gather essence of the earth to feed
desolate orphan, fruits, nuts, seeds
moonbeams for dreams.
Child will need your lap to curl on when
the sounds of night 
frighten even ghosts who have seen, 
who have heard explosions of hearts.

Jerrice J Baptiste is a poet, educator and facilitator of poetry for healing and self-expression. Her new book of prose poems is titled Coral in the Diaspora published by Abode Press (August 2024).  Her writing has been published and is forthcoming in The New Verse News, Artemis Journal, Urthona Buddhism and Art Magazine, The Dewdrop, Shambhala Times, The Yale Review, Wax Poetry & Art, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Mantis, Penumbra Literary & Art Journal, The Banyan Review, Kosmos Journal, Silver Birch Press, and many others. Her collaborative songwriting and poetry are featured on the Grammy-nominated album Many Hands Family Music for Haïti. 

FINDING HOPE

by Ron Shapiro

Festive.

Never in my life have I been to a march where everyone is smiling, singing along to the music, waving flags illuminating the space between elbow-to-elbow people of all ages.

Look to my left, women dancing. Look to my right, people hugging.

 

Is this the country I hear about on the news? Divided? Tribal?

 

None of that here. No way. No how.

 

Three mega-screens with the word Freedom surrounded with three stars on each side.

 

Above, wispy clouds and warm sun grace the day eventually evolving into a spectacular sunset of pink and orange clouds.

 

But right now, it’s a party! A celebration!

 

Good to be around so many like-minded folks. The vibe invites me to hope. 

Is that so bad?

You can’t tell me it is. No talking heads here. Just ordinary citizens being what this country could be.

 

Idealism bubbles up from the pessimism, cynicism, half empty, brokenness, anger, hatred and anything else in the raw sewage of lies and fascism.

 

Sitting now on the grass, I can only feel the deep bass shaking the earth and observe moving feet, bouncing bodies grooving with the music. I can’t help but smile. O’Jays “Love Train” rolling down the tracks of hope and love.

 

And if I look over my right shoulder, I can imagine the Washington Monument swaying a little.

 

The most alive I’ve felt during this election season. No news here; just joy of life, of being here now. Unplugged but plugged into the moment. Nowhere else I’d want to be.

 

This  place feels like a shelter from the political storm. Nothing to turn off or turn down here.

 

Just acceptance of how the country’s future could be if sanity, truth and love prevails. Nothing perfect but a baby step in the direction of King's "moral arc" of justice.

 

And should Harris win and repubs undermine some of her policy ideas, at least she will have elevated the English language.

 

Her speeches regularly use words such as hope, idealism, promise, opportunity, joy, rights, freedom, helping, raising, community, love, heroes, happiness, citizenship, compromise, love, new, forward, caring, trust, others, light and truth.

 

As someone who loves words, hearing and, yes, feeling those words at the rally yesterday emerged as one of the highlights for me. Being with 50,000 or so people immersed together in such positive language was deeply inspirational.

 

I think even Orwell would have savored the spirit of this uplifting moment.

 

And perhaps I sipped a bit too much of the celebratory kool-aid at the event.

 

But let me say that it was a delightfully sweet and tasty brew.

Ron Shapiro, an award-winning teacher, currently mentors college essay writing as well as teaches Memoir Writing through George Mason University. He has published writings in Nova Bards 23 & 24, Gatherings, Poets of the Promise, Poetry X Hunger, Minute Musings, Backchannels, Gezer Kibbutz Gallery, All Your Poems, Paper Cranes Literary Magazine and twochapbooks: Sacred Spaces and Wonderings. He lives with his wife and Shanti the Cat in Reston, Virginia.