HUNTING SEASON

by Alessandra Foster

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

It starts around Thanksgiving, 

a feast of treats

focused on the corpse

of a large dead bird 

who's been gutted, re-filled, roasted.

No thanks there.

Meanwhile, fleet-footed deer

frantic and fearful,

run for dear life

across roads, across farms,

through woods,

without their normal caution,

sometimes tricked and tempted, 

stilled long enough to be killed

by a human with a gun.

Or a car with blinding lights.

So much beauty to be grateful for,

so much thriving diverse life to be part of, 

yet we offer up gratitude for the deaths

of fellow creatures who might, like us,

be thankful just to be alive.

 

Soon we segue to Peace on Earth,

greeting card words that aren't for real.

Not while our hearts and minds,

right here, right now, right at home, 

every day, every holiday,

accept violence and killing as normal, 

as celebration,

as having no season.

 

 

Author’s note: There are environments too harsh, and/or humans too poor, to sustain a non-violent diet. They may need to hunt or fish or farm a couple of domestic animals in order to survive. This poem is not for them.

Alessandra Foster - lifelong and long-lived reader and writer of poetry. Forty-three year vegan. Published: The New Verse News, Literary Veganism, Verse-Virtual, Moss Piglet, Rat's Ass Review.

SAY THEIR NAMES

by Pamela Kenley-Meschino

Rep. Jared Moskowitz (D-Fla.) on Tuesday read aloud a passage of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem’s memoir in which she describes shooting her pet dog, Cricket, during a committee markup on a bill related to deporting migrants who harm animals. —The Hill, November 18, 2025

She killed the dog, he said,

reading from her own words,

shot a puppy not yet grown,

its unruliness put down.

 

Fourteen months young,

he spoke the name so we could

witness her transgression,

not the puppy’s—Cricket.

 

Some snickered at the obvious,

a killer of dogs in charge,

rounding up castaways

for gravel pits unknown. 

 

It’s no joke.

 

Some countered stories

from the other side, 

of beagles left behind in labs,

abuse for an abuse.

 

What about that?

 

All agreed that dogs must

not be harmed. 

Save them all from 

cruelty’s bloody hands.

 

We vouch for Cricket’s rights

as we shout for human rights,  

to live without fear or discrimination.

We need to say all their names.

 

She killed the dog; in her own 

words, she hated the dog.

 

Pamela Kenley-Meschino is originally from the UK, where she developed a love of nature, poetry, and music, thanks in part to the influence of her Irish mother. She is an educator whose classes explore the connection between writing and healing, as well as the importance of shared stories.

MASS SHOOTING #2

E Pasadena Ave and Industrial Ave, Flint, MI, July 27, 2025

by Ron Riekki

“Dandelions bare art of

endurance”

—Semaj Brown, 

First Poet Laureate of Flint, Michigan,

“Black Dandelion” 

            i

 

4 injured, 1 killed, across from a church surrounded by endless fence and on the other side of the fence    concrete           and on the other side of the church more concrete  with piles of rubble fenced off and empty parking spots overgrown with crushed weeds and church windows you can’t see into and           120 air quality Unhealthy for Sensitive Groups        and a NOTICE WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR VEHICLES OR PERSONAL ITEMS on the wall of the building that’s painted pure black jet black onyx black charcoal black the entire building black    and the white-silver moon in the sky cut in half   in the smog sky           and crickets crickets crickets mixed with distant traffic and  the losing wind            and the wall is black every bit of it black with black wall and black garbage can with a full black plastic bag and a big black bucket near the painted black front door with thick white-silver locks thick locks and a gated door and no one to ask questions to nobody no bodies nothing just crickets and clouds and lights of the church and distant loud-soft traffic and a train warns its arrival somewhere on the horizon green overtaking the white-silver concrete and a telephone wire swings in the wind lazily and someone was killed here right here  a long thin orange construction cone leans against the fence like it’s having a smoke            and the wind and the crickets and there is no one anywhere and you feel the sin of corporate decay and the sick concrete clouds and the desperate crickets

 

 

            ii

 

down the street an absolutely massive sign for LEGACY FUNERAL CHAPEL

 

 

            iii

 

and before leaving

 

a security guard

alone

in a white car

on the other side

 

of a fence

 

and I pull over

and I walk up

to the fence

and he gets out

 

and walks up

 

to the fence

and we talk

through the fence

and he’s in white-

 

silver uniform

 

and he’s white

and it’s a black

neighborhood

and he’s white

 

and I ask him

 

if he knows

about the mass

shooting

and he says,

 

“I can’t speak

 

to any journalists

or lawyers”

and I tell him

I’m not trying

 

to solve a murder.

 

I’m trying to

solve Murder.

I don’t say that.

I think that.

 

I’m trying to

 

understand

why there’s so

much violence.

I say that.

 

I tell him

 

he doesn’t have

to talk about

the murder,

but can just talk

 

about how we

 

lessen the violence,

as a human,

how do we lessen

the violence

 

and he says,

 

“I’m not allowed

to comment”

and he’s robotic

and white and

 

I tell him how

 

when I’ve talked

with white people

in the black neighbor-

hoods where

 

the shootings

 

are taking place,

the white people

are corporate

and tell me

 

they’re corporate

 

and tell me

they can’t speak,

that I need to speak

to the police,

 

and I tell him

 

that the black people

I talk with

talk

because

 

they’re invested

 

in helping their

community

and I ask him

if the white people

 

who are corporate

 

aren’t invested

in black communities

and so that’s why

they have nothing

 

to say

 

and he walks away

silently

and gets in his

white security

 

vehicle

 

and drives away

and he is protecting—

seriously?—

what looks like

 

a thousand white

 

vans

all in rows

in a fenced in

parking lot,

 

all of these

 

white white white

vans, a comical

amount of white

vans

 

that he’s protecting,

 

and he fades away

into the night

and I look at him

fading

 

through the fence

 

that seems to be

everywhere

and how it protects

nothing

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

WHAT DO WE DO NOW?

by Karen Marker

Awdah Hathaleen

An Israeli settler has shot and killed a well-known Palestinian activist whose work was featured in the Oscar-winning documentary “No Other Land,” according to witnesses, the latest deadly episode in the Israeli-occupied territory. The activist, Awdah Hathaleen, 31, was an English teacher from the southern West Bank village of Umm al-Khair. Footage he filmed was included in the documentary, which depicted the challenges Palestinians living in the territory face under Israeli rule. —The New York Times, July 29, 2025

An Israeli man whose sanctions were lifted by US President Donald Trump was seen firing a gun at the time of Hathaleen's killing, and has been arrested... It has emerged that Hathaleen was denied entry to the US just last month. He and his cousin were turned back at San Francisco International Airport despite having visas for a peace tour sponsored by faith groups. —WION, July 29, 2025

Let us paint murals
on our temple walls 
like Maxo Vanco did 
inside St. Nicholas Croatian 
Catholic Church in the 1930’s.

Let us make our Palestinian
Mother like Mary who looks 
like us holding a child
who looks like ours
but wasted from starving.
Let her eyes pierce
the hearts of those
who say this 
doesn’t really happen.

Let us paint murals
of all the mothers 
gathered in grief
around their beloved 
sons’ bodies, and the body
of our friend in the South 
Hebron Hills, six weeks ago 
turned back at the SF airport, 
a valid visa in hand, 
two days ago shot in the chest
by a settler in his village.

Let all the unbelievers
see the footage of the murderer
who has been repeatedly
pardoned for crimes. 

Let us paint the Angel of Justice.
Remember this is the time 
for breaking the silence.

Oakland, CA  poet Karen Marker is a social activist and retired school psychologist whose poetry has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including The MacGuffin, The Monterey Poetry Review, the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, WordPeace, and Slant Poetry. It can also be found in the Kent State University May 4^th Special Collections and Archives. Her first poetry book Beneath the Blue Umbrella came out recently with Finishing Line Press and explores family mental illness, stigma and healing. 

BITS AND PIECES

by Lynn White

They waited patiently
standing in line
hunger made them quiet
un-childlike
too quiet for children
standing in line.

Who knew what they’d be
when they grew up
those children
tinker, tailor, soldier, spy
on our side or theirs
whoever the us and them are.

Now we know for certain that 
they’ll be none of those things
now they’re scattered 
in bits and pieces
bombed to bits
just in case.

Futures laid to rest
in bits and pieces
just in case.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.

PILLOW FROM PALESTINE

by Debra Orben

Israeli forces killed at least 60 Palestinians in Gaza on Wednesday, most of them as they were seeking food from a US-Israeli distribution scheme, according to local health authorities. Medical officials said at least 25 people were killed and dozens wounded as they approached a food distribution centre run by the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF), near Netzarim in central Gaza. Later in the day, at least 14 people were killed by Israeli gunfire as they were moving towards another GHF distribution site, in Rafah, at Gaza’s southern border. On Tuesday Israeli troops killed 17 Palestinians around GHF sites. –The Guardian, June 11, 2025

           Resting silently on our couch

        a pillow we have had for a long time

off-white woven fabric, hand embroidery,

four rows of a repeating pattern, star flowers

mingled with hearts that touch and overlap

  stitched only in my favorite color, turquoise

  purchased from a friend of a friend visiting

    from the Middle East, selling handwork

      by women, women sewing designs

          to help their families survive 

            and thrive under difficult  

                       circumstances.

 

                 Today, I gaze at our pillow

              soft and lovely in its simple artistry

         noticing only harsh edges and rough reality

     seeing famished faces, bloodshot vacant eyes,

      people devoid of hope, hungry, and destitute

      and the silence of our gentle keepsake mocks

          the unrelenting screams of unheard cries

            ignores the daily suffering of all in Gaza

            cruelty fueled by the fervor of revenge

               an excess of indifference, what more

                  can we do to end war, change

                            circumstances?

Debra Orben is a retired elementary teacher who believes in life-long learning.  She enjoys volunteering with children, gardening, reading, and writing.  She works to plant trees, protect biodiversity, and address climate change.  As a Quaker she believes that all people deserve a just, healthy, and peaceful world.  She appreciates the beauty and diversity of human beliefs and cultures and the diversity of the natural world.  She has much to learn and writes about it. 

A HAUNTING AND A CURSE

by Patricia Smith Ranzoni

               

     Came a land with no children but many flowers. 

Weeded out by ground thieves, God-given, they thought 

and said. Their right, being most moral to themselves.

     In mothers’ wombs slaughtered sons and daughters. 

In incubators denied power. Refused milk, starved, no matter 

their wails, no rescue or slightest mercy even water.

     Survived to toddle, shot in their heads. Walk or run, 

in knees hobbling for life. Life? Called lawn to be mowed.

At mid-youth, still alive, picked off, 

     thought of as rats on forbidden dumps. And grass 

to be cut. Bombed and drone-shot day and night til nothing

but chunks rolled in dirt like fish in flour 

     from nets also forbidden. Came a land with no 

children, a foot, arm, patch of flesh while rubble baked and 

blew away in the sun, then the absolute misery of winter 

without shelter not a dry or safe space to be had not a meal 

     and the people who wanted it that way, staked and 

claimed, liking it with no children or only childrens’ bones, 

congratulating themselves. No humanitarian aid allowed! 

No humanity for Christ’s sake!

     Came a time their stolen olive trees turned blood red 

fruiting with the colors of newborn eyes watching them.

     Their soiled window boxes boasted the lushest 

greens ever seen, breaking out with poison petals 

startlingly splendid but quick to rot. 

     Their gardens made them sick. Trees never 

stopped boiling over with tears. Yet still, they praised

themselves, thanking their gods. 

     The map to the land with no children can be found 

by the cries the wind is made of. World ‘round, it is named 

shame in laments whispered and screamed forever.

Outback Maine native Patricia Smith Ranzoni is a child veteran of WWII and retired educator nearing the land of 85. Daughter of a woodsworking paper mill rigger and farm woman, she and her second generation Italian-American husband met and married while working their way through the University of Maine (1962). With their three children they have devoted their lives to keeping the family G.I. Bill homestead for three more generations. They were the last on both sides to keep a family cow. Her mostly self-taught poetry has been published across the country and abroad, including numerous times in The New Verse News where she goes for solace.

DIE-OFF

by Pepper Trail

Ocean Heat Wiped Out Half These Seabirds Around Alaska: About four million common murres were killed by a domino effect of ecosystem changes, and the population is showing no signs of recovery, according to new research... [The researchers] believe it is the largest documented die-off of a single species of wild birds or mammals.  —The New York Times, December 12, 2024. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service photos above: A murre colony in the Alaska Maritime National Wildlife Refuge, seen before and after the 2015-16 marine heat wave.

Credit...

The Arctic sea-cliffs are not silent

The birds, the murres, still throng the ledges

Black and white, sharp-eyed, clamorous

Even as half their millions are starved and dead

 

The birds, the murres, still throng the ledges

As we would still fill the New York streets

Even if half our millions were dead, crushed

Beneath weight of heat, a fatality never imagined

 

We would still fill the New York streets

Though senseless with grief, with loneliness

After a heat, a fatality never before imagined

A disaster beyond our comprehension

 

Though senseless with loneliness

The birds still fly, feed, tend their young

Despite a disaster beyond comprehension

Their world changed beyond recognition

 

Here, we would still work, tend our children

There would be no choice, never any choice

But in a world changed beyond recognition

A warning that could no longer be ignored

 

We would have no choice, at last no choice

If the dying took millions from a great city

The warning could then no longer be ignored

But this happened far away, a distant warming sea

 

This dying took millions of only birds

Somewhere far away, a distant warming sea

Just another warning to be ignored

The Arctic cliffs, after all, have not yet fallen silent

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.