THERE ARE MONSTERS UNDER MY BED

by Celeste DeSario

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

I jolt awake wondering…
Where do the monsters go at night?
Are they hiding in the shadows?
In my closet? Under my bed?
My curtains, tightly drawn—I’m safe.
But… are the monsters still out there?
Lurking? Waiting? 
Or are they only in my head?
 
Biding their time,
They will creep into the hamlets, villages, towns, cities, 
Seducing men cloaked in blue, gray, brown uniforms, wearing badges, pointing guns.
 Masked. 
 For whose protection? 
Social Media, politicians, distort the truth even as visuals show us snippets of reality,
And now, AI, distorts images using Deep Fakes, making decisions based on values not aligned with ours, well, with values we once held respected, agreed upon. 
Is AI listening to our conversations, recording our fears, sharing them…with? 
We don’t know. That’s why we should worry.
 
Those monsters creep into Judicial chambers,
Where we assign fancy Latin terms, 
Like Mala Fide—acting in bad faith,
Or Proper ex Parte Communication—Defying justice, the court’s authority and dignity.
Tearing down our laws, 
And everything that carefully glues our country together.
Makes us free.
Makes us proud.
Makes us a republic we love.
 
Scenes crafted in sick, twisted minds play out in our towns, on our screens, 
Eventually, in our backyards.
Maybe even our living rooms.
Who is roaming the hallways of our colleges?
Our libraries?
Places we once found refuge for serious thought,
Contemplating futures we understood. 
 
Okay, now you are just listing. Stop being so dramatic.
You are scaring me.
 
Look carefully. The monsters have infiltrated our schools.
They need to get those kids,
Need to inject them with bigotry and hate.
Remember the song, “You’ve got to be carefully taught.”
So, they teach them. 
Yanking books off the shelves that instill dangerous, harmful ideas.
Like tolerance, inclusion, acceptance,
Twisting words and history,
Until we don’t recognize who we once were.
Using Doublespeak, Political euphemisms.
“I am the greatest peacekeeper in the history of the world.”
(Yes, bomb those fishing boats and those on them,
Demonize any country that doesn’t agree with me,
Detain citizens. Call them illegal. I don’t care.
Just do it. 
I’ll keep dancing to distract them. Make them laugh. Make them love me.)
 
They know spectacle distracts us, so,
They organize marches.
Political parades.
Use pennants, colorful flags, music,
Precision marching, a lot of saluting.
Film your leaders from below so they appear all -powerful,
So, they dominate the frame,
And then dominate what lies beyond the frame.
They appear…unstoppable.
But it’s just a trick. A low camera angle. We all know how that works.
See? We can stop them anytime we choose.
 So, do we choose now?
Choose now. 
Now.
I will fill up a cart from Amazon: that will save me.
Click. Sleep mask.  Click. Noise cancelling headphones. Air purifier. Click, click, click.
 
I will upload a new photo on my Instagram page.
See? 
Everything is okay. 
There is Nala the Cat,
Wearing a Superman Cape, and a gold crown.
Doug the Pug wearing funny sunglasses and a hat and a Christmas sweater.
 
Maybe TikTok can save me?
Just upload a new video.
Zach King, we need some of your digital magic,
Your sleight-of-hand.
That’s how it starts. That is also how it ends.
 
When you ask if there are monsters under the bed,
I assure you,
They do exist.
And when they crawl out,
There is little we can do to get them back under.
Except recognize them.
And it starts with that.
It simply starts with that. 

 
Celeste DeSario is an award-winning educator and former tenured professor of Literature and Writing at Suffolk County Community College. She is the recipient of the SUNY Chancellor’s Award for Teaching Excellence and a National Teaching Excellence Award from the University of Texas. After years of teaching the greats, she has stepped out of the classroom to craft her own worlds of impossible choices.

MASS SHOOTING #4

2700 block, W Michigan Ave, Western Michigan University, Kalamazoo, MI, September 20, 2025

by Ron Riekki

I see fog: the feel of San Francisco,
of swamp, of isolation, of Gothic,
 
of Dickens, of Doyle, of death.
A girl's dressed Goth, smoking
outside the bar across the street.
The air is thick with cannabis,
 
so much so that I feel high just
walking.  I get food.  While I
wait, I go to other businesses
nearby.  There’s multiple, all
 
supplying either food or drink,
signs with a bright white VAPE
and a thick red BEER/LIQUOR.
I’ve come late, to get a feel for
 
what it was like at the time that
the shooting happened.  This is
Michigan’s fourth mass shooting
in two months.  We’re borderline
 
on campus/off campus.  I wonder
where in the parking lot that it
happened.  I go to a pizza place
while waiting for my food.  They
 
nod that, yes, they know about
the shooting.  It happened at
the building next door.  I go
across the street, to a bar, ask
 
for water.  They give me some.
I talk to the security guard, ask
him if he knows anything about
the shooting.  He points where
 
it happened, across the street.
I ask if he’s worried about any
more shootings.  No, he says.
I go in Two Fellas Grill.  Its
 
name reminds me of the film
Goodfellas.  “Layla.”  Tommy
gets whacked.  The place is
empty, totally empty, except
 
four employees.  I ask if they
heard about the shooting.
They look me over.  Why’m
I asking about the shooting?
 
One guy looks to see what’s
in my hand.  I’m holding
a notebook.  I don’t take
notes.  The guy says he
 
took video, of the aftermath.
Was he here when it happened?
No.  But he lives nearby.
He came right away.  I ask
 
what caused it.  A girl
behind the counter says
there’s lots of rumors,
maybe gang-related, or
 
maybe somebody got
jumped.  She says that
Kalamazoo used to be
the 4^th most dangerous
 
city, but now it’s 2^nd.
The guy says changes
are going to happen.
I ask what.  He says,
 
Changes.  Like what?
He says that’s being
talked about, but they
used to close at 4 a.m.,
 
but now they’re going
to close at 3 a.m. instead.
I ask about cameras and
he says they have those
 
already.  I tell him that
there must be incentive,
since this is campus and
there’s students to protect.
 
He says we have to protect
everyone.  He asks if I’m
going to order anything.
I can tell he’s done.  I go
 
back to the place where I
ordered food.  I eat next
to another table covered
with boxes, old computer
 
screens, a big bag of soy
sauce, the feel more like
warehouse than restaurant.
I talk to the workers there—
 
a chef, a driver, a guy who
takes the orders.  One says
he lives in Battle Creek, sees
shootings all the time, more
 
than I can count on my hands,
that’s for sure.  I ask what can
be done to lessen the violence.
It can’t be helped.  I ask if there
 
is anything we can do.  All three
say that they don’t think anything
is going to change gun violence
in America.  Nothing.  There’s
 
a tip jar nearby that’s marked:
Tiperoni 😊 Thank yoooooooo
The phone rings constantly.
Nobody eats inside, but Door
 
Dash people keep coming in
and out.  The guy asks me if
I want to see the footage of
the shooting.  I’m stunned.
 
You have it on camera?  He
pulls out his phone and in
a few seconds I’m seeing it
happen in front of me.  It’s
 
five black kids.  Children,
really.  Looking high-school
age.  And it lasts for just
seconds.  Maybe eight or
 
so seconds.  An ugly brawl
where fists are flailing and
it feels a bit like four against
one, except it’s too chaotic
 
to fully know who fights who
and quick, incredibly quick,
so quick that I have him show
me the footage three times:
 
one of them pulls out a gun
and starts shooting.  One kid
shot in the stomach and three
shot in the feet.  This is what
 
I realize—how incredibly
fast someone can pull out
a gun.  Another revelation:
how having a gun doesn’t
 
protect you.  He fired five
shots before I even realized
he’d pulled a gun out.  Where
did he get it? I ask.  It seems
 
like it just magically appeared.
From his pants, the guy says,
taking his phone back.  That’s
how fast, in three seconds, less,
 
you can shoot four people.  I
pull out my phone, time it.
It’s maybe two seconds and
four people have been shot.
 
And all of them could have
concealed weapons/permits
and it would do nothing.
We have this conversation
 
just ten days after Charlie
Kirk’s debating gun violence
was ended by gun violence
and I ask the three in front
 
of me, saying, you must have
some ideas of solutions, and
they say, no, there is nothing
we can do, and I push them
 
on this, but they stick to it,
this feeling of hopelessness.
I leave.  I’ve gone to three
other mass shootings and
 
people there have had ideas
of how to fix things, but now
the feeling is there’s nothing
we can do.  I go to the parking
 
lot and have this revelation that
the shooting happened inside
the restaurant.  I had just seen
the footage.  I’d assumed it
 
was in the parking lot, but
it was inside.  I get in my car.
A podcast starts up.  It’s three
men talking in toxic hyper-
 
masculine language.  I turn
it off.  I start to drive down
the street.  A car is alongside
me, going the exact same speed.
 
They’re in the passing lane, but
they don’t pass, just riding along-
side.  I make a turn I don’t need
to make.  I stop to get some gas.
 
The signs here say:
5 C OFF A GAL
REWARDS
and
 
2 SLICE S OF
P IZZA   &
L G  BI G GLUP
4 W  RE WARDS
 
I’m feeling depressed, but I laugh
at the word “GLUP.”  I pay, sit
down and look up to see another
sign on a pawn shop nearby:
 
GUNS &
AMMO

Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice.

DO WE NOT BLEED?

by Nolan Dannels

Painting (1886) by John Everett Millais of Kate Dolan as Portia.

“Though justice be thy plea, consider this:

That in the course of justice none of us

Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy …”

— Portia, IV, 1, from The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare 

 

The kids caught in the crossfire

never stood a chance—

they just stood there,

wrong place, wrong time,

and we didn’t do a thing,

just let them die

 

as we chose a side,

as if it were a color

in a world of

black and white

that we should have let be

blue and green

 

But who would we be

to dream of peace

when we don’t stand

in the way of the war—

the innocent plead,

we ignore,

so how can

they have hope anymore?

 

And who would we be

to feel a thing?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

If you hurt us,

do we not grieve?

And if you don’t listen to us,

do we still speak?

 

Air raids and bombs… guns and hate—

this is neither the beginning nor the end

And it will only get worse if we wait

We’ll see soon enough even if we are blind now,

but our hands will be slow on the draw,

too little, too late:

we only do good

when the bad has already died down

 

Where will the refugees go

when their camps are attacked

before they can even cry out?

Which way will the world turn

when the sun sets on the other side

than the one it does right now?

 

I wish I knew the answers,

and I wish I could say them loud and clear,

but I can only beg, vocal cords torn,

for a fair and just end to the conflict

But I can only see it getting worse

from day to day and year to year

 

Yet, who would I be

to say a thing?

If you spit in my eyes,

can I still see?

If you put me in chains,

can I be free?

And if you tear out my tongue,

can I still speak?

 

But who are we

to be in need?

If you chase us,

do we not flee?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

 

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

​whether our tears are true

​if they can never leave

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

If you prick us,

do we not bleed?

whether we’re white and blue

​or red, white, black, and green

 

Nolan Dannels is a Persian American poet/musician with a Master's in English Language and Literature from the University of Edinburgh. He is currently a Literature PhD candidate, specializing in modern and contemporary Anglophone poetry at the University of California, San Diego, where he served as the Editor in Chief of Alchemy, Journal of Translation. His poetry and music appear in Kissing Dynamite, Trouvaille Review, Wine Cellar Press, Wishbone Words, Snakeskin Poetry Webzine, and Hare's Paw Literary Journal.

EDUCATION EVISCERATION

by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

"The principal of a Georgia elementary school apologized to parents last week after a guest author who was discussing his research into a co-creator of Batman told a group of fifth graders that the co-creator’s son was gay. The author, Marc Tyler Nobleman, said the principals of two other elementary schools in the district where he was speaking had asked him to stick to 'appropriate' material and omit that detail of his research. When he refused, his remaining presentations were canceled." —The New York Times, August 29, 2023

Save the kids from candid speech.
Push such frankness out of reach.
Don't give kids a chance to smarten.
Keep their minds in kindergarten!

Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has had over 260 poems published in places including American Atheist, The American Scholar, Better Than Starbucks, The Boston Globe, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Down in the Dirt, The Emily Dickinson International Society Bulletin, Free Inquiry, Light Poetry Magazine, Lighten Up Online, The Los Angeles Times, The New Verse News, The New York Daily News, The New York Times, The Providence Journal, Scientific American, Sparks of Calliope, Time Magazine, The Wall Street Journal, and Your Daily Poem. 

SHAME!

 by Pepper Trail

Author’s note: This poem responds to the House passage this week of a bill barring transgender girls and women from participating in women's athletics.  The bill is only the latest Republican attack on transgender youth, an attempt to deny their identity and very existence. In the words of the NY Times, this is "part of a nationwide push by conservatives to restrict transgender rights as they make culture issues a centerpiece of their political message." This has been led by Florida governor Ron DeSantis and former President Donald Trump and enthusiastically taken up by House Speaker Kevin McCarthy and Republican governors and state legislatures around the country.  As the parent of a transgender son, I am horrified at this rush to demonize our most powerless and vulnerable children, a cynical play on ignorance and fear that will unquestionably increase suicide rates and mental health crises.

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.

THE GUNS THAT MADE SOME

by Ralph La Rosa

Guns Don’t Kill People, People Kill People. —NRA Bumper Sticker

 

To kids, the guns in TV’s shows

with cowboys killing Indians

say Play guns beat the red man’s bows.

 

First real shots from cool Red Ryders,

let children’s tiny BBs

kill small birds and sting bike riders.

 

Real guns, 12 gauge and 22,

teach white militias skills,

help killers know what they can do.

 

Guns urge cops on urban beats

to kill with high-tech specials

that threaten US states and streets.

 

Like wild-west six-guns of renown,

some guns make reasoned kills,

but impulse kills both black and brown.

Ralph La Rosa owned several of the guns mentioned until he became a teacher and writer.

MY FLAG

by Marilyn Peretti

At the mic on the sidewalk
some kids say justice
is the meaning of the Fourth,
some say fireworks, some
some say cookouts,
but some say justice.

Did they mean fairness,
decency, moral rightness,
equity, abiding by law?
Is this taught to children now?
Fourth of July means justice?

Maybe these wise children know
that the Fourth does not mean
burning churches of black folks,
battering a man in a police van,
giving up on finding prison escapees,
denying the poor health insurance,
or shooting pray-ers inside a church.

I wave my American flag
for what the children have learned.


Marilyn Peretti, Glen Ellyn, Illinois, is published by The New Verse News and by various journals; nominated for Pushcart Prize; and publishes poetry books on www.blurb.com/bookstore. She writes with fellow poets in Chicago's western suburbs.