THE NEW WHITE HOUSE COOKBOOK

by Virginia Aronson

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

The White House chef
must put together a menu
of special recipes
to suit the diners
of various tastes
from heads of state
to cabinet members
to kids and grandkids
sports stars and celebrities
donors, bankers, billionaires.

 

The most popular dishes
for this Administration
will not surprise you
like Tacos on Tuesdays
(sometimes daily)

or Chicken à la King
(or anything à la King)
Deep Fried Chicken
with Golden Crust
(anything gold, really)

and Orange Chicken
(big fans of chicken 
in the White House)
dishes always served
with a side of fries
with mayo or white sauce
(white the top choice).

The Chicken Liver Pâté
is eaten with a silver spoon
Deported Burritos Grandes
always full of beans
Mafia-inspired Meatballs
comes on a bed of pasta
a bed you make yourself
and lie, lie, lie 
in it if you like
secret recipes try
Catering Truck Popovers
(might leave a bad taste

in your mouth)
or enjoy a gilded platter
of Oysters on the Shell Company
washed down with Diet Coke
or all the hot Bullion
in the entire world
stored by the ton
down in the bunker
where the President sleeps.

Virginia Aronson is the author of many published books including The White House Family Cookbook, re-released recently by the White House Historical Association. New poetry collections include Collateral Damage (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Whiskey Islandand Whiskey Straight Women (Cyberwit Press).

A RISING TIDE

by Gordon Gilbert

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

At high tide the king comes to the shore

and stands upon the sands at water’s edge 

He commands the sea to leave his kingdom

as followers break into loud applause 

TRiUMPhantly he gloats as it recedes 

But alas he tarries far too long 

The tide has ebbed and soon relentlessly

the waters now make their advance

and still the king refuses to retreat

unheeding warnings from his own soothsayers 

He does not, cannot, won’t acknowledge

the inherent truth that laps now at his feet 

All shall soon be swept away

by the waters of the rising tide

just like the foolish pharaoh and his legions

in pursuit of Moses and his people

who when the waters parted chose to follow 

only to be drowned in the Red Sea 

Gordon Gilbert is a New York City west villager. In these trying times, he finds some solace taking long walks along the Hudson River. He keeps hoping things will turn around, waiting on that elusive inflection point, but it keeps receding. Maybe next time… 

Still waiting.

READING THE WEAVING

by Michelle DeRose

It is the job of appointed bards

to blare new fables daily.

All hail the king! what they must sing

even when they know it’s silly.

 

The lyres are loud and always part

of making legends from myth,

like how each king saved everything

with a gift from an underground smith.

 

But there are other ways to tell a tale:

we know by now the value

of a shroud, a drape, of tapestries

because of what they tell you.

 

The besieged weave too, may hide their looms

but know well how to shuttle

‘round the rigid lines of what is warped,

are fully prepared to scuttle

 

the whole design if they’re so inclined–

some yarns are simply cruel.

Unraveling is a strategy

when you’re flanked by fools.

 

Some legends crafted from whole cloth

can be fought with embroidered cunning.

Let linens get thin with what’s not in,

say everything else with couching.

Professor Emerita of English at Aquinas College, Michelle lives and writes (mostly) from Grand Rapids, Michigan. This poem is for all the knitters, crocheters, and Aunt Tifas who were out in public with their arts on No Kings Day, carrying on a tradition at least as old as Penelope.

I SUPPORT THE CONSTITUTION

by Indran Amirthanayagam

Cartoon by Ann Telnaes

I had a community read last night. Yes, a good old 

sharing of verse and opinions about the state 

of things, society, government, the neighbor laying 

a pillow outside the Martin Luther King library 

on G Street in the capital, to spend the night 

al aire libre, in the free air, on the eve of 

the 4th of July. Hey, buddy, do you want 

a dollar? How can I get you to the shelter?

Are the shelters disappearing with the ticker tape

after the Big Bloated Butchery Bill? Oh, how 

easy to go after MAGA, just twist the words 

and support the appointments of former 

insurrectionists to the Department of Injustice, 

to the Uncivil Rights Division, to the god-forsaken 

Black House. How unfortunate colors and 

their associations. Let’s change the popular 

perception. When I from black and he from 

white cloud free. Blake said it almost 

two hundred and forty years ago, 

during  the English campaign against 

slavery then. Now we see ourselves

shackled by the police state, surveilled,

our social security numbers sold to Palantir. 

This is rotten, my friends And yet we 

bring out hot dogs and coca cola today 

to feast the 249th anniversary of 

our independence. How sweet it is. 

How bitter. To say Goodbye to All That. 

To say, hello concentration camps 

in every hamlet. To say, NO. NO. NO. 

And yes I pledged my allegiance 

to the Constitution when I naturalized 

in 1988. I did not sing God Save the King.

Indran Amirthanayagam has just published El bosque de deleites fratricidas ( RIL Editores). Other recent publications include his translation of Kenia Cano’s Animal For The Eyes (Dialogos Books, 2025), Seer (Hanging Loose Press), and The Runner's Almanac (Spuyten Duyvil). He is the translator of Origami: Selected Poems of Manuel Ulacia (Dialogos Books). Mad Hat Press published his love song to Haiti: Powèt Nan Pò A (Poet of the Port). Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (BroadstoneBooks) is a collection of Indran's poems. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly. He hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.

HOW WE ROLL

Prelude to prayer and action

by Darrell Petska

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

Killing. Maiming.
Forever grieving.
That’s how we’ve rolled
since descending from trees
and living in caves.
Rolled with spear, with bow,
with sword, gun, and bomb.
Killing. Maiming.
For power, gold or spite,
god or country, king or knave.
Forever grieving.
Our own graves digging
or those of our loved ones.

Is killing our imperative?
Sorrow forever to yoke our necks?
Or might we have (we must believe
we have) hidden wings
awaiting prayer and act
to relieve us of these roads we roll on,
spill blood on, die on over and over
until life is cheapened, some cruel curse?
Wings we can will to grow,
to spirit away hatred, envy, and fear.
Wings at long last on which to fly
along peaceable skyways promoting
unity, egality, and love.

Darrell Petska is a retired university engineering editor and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Father of five and grandfather of seven, he lives near Madison, Wisconsin with his wife of more than 50 years.

BONES OF THE REPUBLIC

by Earl David Freeland

I weep.

The king didn’t take the throne.
The elephant knelt—
tuskless,
trumpeting fear,
its weight crushing the roots
of a nation it once carried.

Palms open,
backs bent,
offering the crown
wrapped in fear,
cheap flags for bows.
Will there be midterms?
Will it matter?
When power hums the same note,
ballots dusted under a golden sneaker,
lines redrawn to cut out the noise—
cut out us.

Maps don’t divide now.
They silence.
States, neat and obedient,
stacked under a crown.

What world waits for my son?
A place where truth
gets dragged—
hair tangled in fists,
paraded like a lesson.

Freedom?
Traded for chain-slick comfort.
Easy.
Cheap.

The anthem plays.
Hands rise—
not for hearts.

I see it—
the Mouth of Putin,
slick, wide, laughing.
Spitting out slogans,
black seeds rooting into
boots,
barbed wire,
burned books.

Long live the king,
they say.
And mean it.

I weep.

But I’m watching.
And if democracy dies here—
I’ll bury it with teeth.
Bared.
Fists raw.
Tear the ground open
and dig through the bones
the elephant left behind

Earl David Freeland is a mathematician, former cartographer, and teacher whose poetry balances precision with raw vulnerability. His work explores societal critique, existential themes, and human complexity with unflinching honesty. His poems have appeared in Poets Reading the News and reflect a deliberate rejection of polish in favor of visceral authenticity.

DARK TIMES

by Tricia Knoll

“CPAC speech transcript aka Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before” by Jesse Duquette

We talk about now as if ominous shadows smear our thinking toward inevitable end times. Balance the probabilities of the asteroid coming too close with betting on the Super Bowl coverage of who will get more time on the camera: the girlfriend or the President. Trying to understand the ferocious truth of half-time rapper lyrics while dancers recombine the colors of the American flag to taunt a black Uncle Sam. Race. Religion. War. Lies. Impossible alliances. Obsequious sort-of-leaders speak mumbly words. Babies starve inside aid tents flapping in the wind until the tents disappear.  No one is sure where their food is tied up on a dock. We look askance at neighborly birds and ask if we are expected to laugh at a man who would be king. A poet says this is when we sing the dark songs. Few people, not enough for a loud chorus, seem to have learned the words. There are so many dark songs. Another says this is the time to rise. Maybe it is, but the planes are crashing. And I am snow blind. 

Poet Tricia Knoll has four-foot icicles hanging from the eaves of her house in Vermont. She shatters them with shovels as panacea for the angst of these days. She had measles as a child and knows it is no joke. Links to her nine books and dozens of published poems some of which are songs to the dark times at https://triciaknoll.com

THE ONCE AND PRESENT KING

by Ralph La Rosa

Source: Laughter

Viva Joe Biden
Whose power is thriven
A SCOTUS thing
May make him king!

Ralph La Rosa has published prose on major American writers, including Emerson and Thoreau, and has placed short fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and film scripts. These days, he mostly writes poetry, appearing on the Internet, in print journals and anthologies. His books include the chapbook Sonnet Stanzas and full-length Ghost Trees and My Miscellaneous Muse. He Loves The New Verse News!

THE BEES RESPOND TO BEING TOLD THE QUEEN IS DEAD

by Pepper Trail

John Chapple, the beekeeper at Buckingham Palace, reportedly informed Queen Elizabeth II’s bees of her death. Credit Dan Kitwood/Getty Images via The New York Times, September 15, 2022

The rituals must be respected

But we do not pause the work

Choice is not a word we know

 

These corridors are splendid

Glowing, aromatic, and endless

Leading to the golden treasuries

 

It is our life to keep them filled

We will do what we were born to do

But it will no longer be sweet, for a King

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.

LONG LIVE THE LAST KING

by Mickey J. Corrigan

People are saying it’s the biggest

the greatest, the best crowd

this shithole has ever seen

sleek limos slide through, his face

at the bulletproof window 

mouth open, golf cap tight

on his oversize head

People are saying

the crowd's as big as Lincoln's

and everyone wept, even Jesus

the fans wild with joy

racecar thrilled to see him

to be seen by him

the man who would be king

People are not saying

he took an appalling strut

across the world stage

that ended in folly, farce

reflecting internal unrest

bubbling anger, belligerence

and distrust of everyone else

People aren't saying

he was a mad genius

skilled at detecting weakness

in a narrow human range

of emotions others feel

absent in his lurking bulk

under the ruby crown

the bloated expression

of abject fear

People aren't asking

why the devout followers

of this crazy cult

still willing to sicken 

maskless in the face

of scientific evidence, millions

of facts like corpses piling up

vowing to win at all costs

or die trying

 

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes Florida noir with a dark humor. Novels include  Project XX about a school shooting (Salt Publishing, UK, 2017) and What I Did for Love a spoof of Lolita (Bloodhound Books, 2019). Kelsay Books recently published the poetry chapbook the disappearing self. Grandma Moses Press will publish the poetry chapbook Florida Man later this year. 

ELECTION NIGHT AFTER DÍA DE LOS MUERTOS

by Jan Steckel

A blazing stateroom of clapping blondes. 

The President dropped the match. The windows 

blew out like a thousand Kristallnachts.

 

My husband slept through the little Hiroshima.

In the morning we’d have to pour into the streets.

I tried to curl up like the cat and snooze.

 

But voices whispered, “Anyone can march. 

Take up your pen. Write an anthem we can

sing again.” Dead poets filled my bedroom.

 

Victor Jara lifted broken hands.

García Lorca slid down a bullet-riddled wall.

Mandelstam starved and shivered in a transit camp.

 

My dead friend, Berkeley poet Julia Vinograd,

read new poems in my dream, turned to me. 

“Open your mouth,” she said. So hear me:

 

Tomorrow some will march, some write, 

and others sing. Though glass and bone shatter,

America will never bear another king.

Jan Steckel’s book Like Flesh Covers Bone won 2019 Rainbow Awards for LGBT Poetry and Best Bisexual Book. Her poetry book The Horizontal Poet won a 2012 Lambda Literary Award. Her fiction chapbook Mixing Tracks and poetry chapbook The Underwater Hospital also won awards. She lives in Oakland, California.

I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE IDIOCRACY

by Mickey J. Corrigan

Sign at Women's March, January 21, 2017 via diggit

"God grant that men of principle be our principal men."

—Thomas Jefferson

Idiocracy is claiming you are the king
of reality, seeking only ratings
while the rest of us
let the show go on.

Idiocracy is becoming your own smoke-
filled room, your attraction
to wrong-doing unabated
as supporters compromise
integrity on demand.

Idiocracy is having thousands of points of entry
to you
through your businesses
and no one sticks a finger
in that holey dike.

Idiocracy is allowing a transactional businessman
to run the country like a mafia state
while the rest of us watch reruns
of The Sopranos.

Idiocracy is riding the rollercoaster
of presidential whims
ignoring the vast scope
of your childish unruliness.

Idiocracy is standing by
while you self-ignite
self-inflicted crises
daily, glorified
babysitters for the biggest
crybaby in the history
of our crumbling world.

We live in an idiocracy
our government run by loyalists
where narcissism and hegemony,
hateful groupthink,
one-size-fits-all cowardice,
dangerous stupidity
and the end of democracy
being neither
indictable crime nor
impeachable offense
are okay with us.

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes Florida noir with a dark humor. Her books have been released by publishers in the US, UK, Canada, and Australia.  Project XX, a satirical crime novel, was released in 2017 by Salt Publishing in the UK. What I Did for Love was released by Bloodhound Books in October. Kelsay Books is publishing the poetry chapbook the disappearing self in 2020. 

THE LIMITS OF POWER

by Michael Shorb

“Sen. McCain Expects A Permanent U.S. Presence In Afghanistan” —NPR headline, October 7, 2015. Photo: U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan walk away from a helicopter at Forward Operating Base Connelly in the eastern province of Nangarhar on Aug. 13. The U.S. formally ended combat operations in Afghanistan at the end of last year. But nearly 10,000 American troops remain in the country and the U.S. frequently carries out air sorties. Fourteen American military personnel have died in Afghanistan this year. Wakil Kohsar/AFP/Getty Images via NPR.

A king declared the stars
illegal, not to be seen,
each night thousands were
executed for seeing them,
the king ran out of people
before the sky ran out of stars.

21st century Samson’s
swinging a nuclear jawbone
over his head,
21st century Ahab
kills Moby Dick and lights
ten thousand lamps
ten thousand days.
21st century America’s
gonna control the middle east
with drone missile launchers
and federal air support.

I’m the news no-one listens to.
The TV droning on in a corner,
the politician proudly announcing:

“We’re in Afghanistan
for the long haul.”


Michael Shorb was a poet, fiction writer, editor, and children's book author. As an international poet, his poetry has been published in more than 100 magazines and anthologies, including TheNewVerse.News, Michigan Quarterly, The Nation, The Sun, Salzburg Poetry Review, and Kyoto Journal. He was the recipient of a PEN AWARD, won a Merit Award for the Franklin-Christoph Poetry Contest, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He lived in and loved San Francisco. Michael succumbed to GIST, a rare form of cancer in 2012.


Editor’s Note: Michael’s widow Judith Grogan-Shorb sent TheNewVerse.News this eerily timely poem which Michael wrote soon after the United States first invaded Afghanistan.

RIGHT TO WORK FOR LESS

by Paula Schulz

Gov. Scott Walker Monday signed so-called right-to-work legislation banning requirements that private-sector workers pay union fees, prompting one business to say it will add workers in Milwaukee and another to say it will expand in Minnesota instead. --Milwaukee Wisconsin Journal-Sentinel, March 9, 2015

Earliest morning, the moon a mirror,
the sky that deep, hopeful blue.  And for those
few moments all plans are possible.

You feel it--to walk into the world is
to walk into a fairy tale where the king
is a good man who loves the beautiful.

All the old witches grow backward into joy,
straighten up, fly right, drop glittering
educators in Wisconsin schools.

Every child is beautiful, strong, well-nourished:
factory and government jobs pay
a living wage.  Police and protesters

carry potato guns.   After they face
off, all gather ammo, take it to their
local soup kitchen, cook up a rich

chowder, pass warm bread, talk of family.
Governor Walker goes to Washington,
takes his dislike of the arts with him where,

despite his best efforts, a new WPA
is formed and funded and we learn again
each others stories, paint new portraits

of dignity, sculpt a strong citizenry,
paint with bright colors, polka to a new
American song.


Paula Schulz is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, a recent Pushcart nominee and an educator.  She is hopeful, blue.