A POLICY STATEMENT FROM HOMELAND SECURITY

by Pepper Trail

US President Donald Trump on Sunday directed federal authorities to ramp up deportation efforts in Democratic-led cities, doubling down on a politicized anti-immigration drive after major protests in Los Angeles. "We must expand efforts to detain and deport Illegal Aliens in America's largest Cities, such as Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York, where Millions upon Millions of Illegal Aliens reside," Trump said on his Truth Social platform. "These, and other such Cities, are the core of the Democrat Power Center," he claimed, citing debunked right-wing conspiracy theories that undocumented immigrants are voting in US elections in significant numbers. —AFP News, June 16, 2025

Welcome to the New America
Homeland Security will not be interrupted
Agents stand ready with their zip-ties
See? The Senator is thrown to the floor
 
Homeland Security will not be interrupted
No dissent, no questions are permitted
The Senator is thrown to the floor
Understand? You are powerless. You are all powerless
 
No dissent, no questions are permitted
Every immigrant is “the worst of the worst”
Understand? You are all powerless.
Don’t want the National Guard? Here are the Marines
 
Every immigrant is “the worst of the worst”
Every day laborer, janitor, and nanny—a criminal

Don’t want the National Guard? Here are the Marines
Let’s be clear—there is nothing we won’t do
 
Every day laborer, janitor, and nanny—a criminal
Nowhere is safe—no school, courthouse, or church
There is nothing we won’t do
We have a mandate. You have no rights
 
Nowhere is safe—no school, courthouse, or church
We will take you, and you are gone.
You have no rights. We have a mandate
We will dispose of you as we please
 
Our agents stand ready with their zip-ties
We will take you, and you are gone
We will dispose of your rights as we please
Welcome to the New America
 

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.

PANTOUM: THE TALIBAN TALI-BANS WINDOWS

by Steven Croft

No more open casements, no more moments at windows

Bring back the view of flowers and the love-burned orchards

Buildings now a punishment, knowing prisoners love windows

Talibs say: "Seeing women through windows is an obscene act"

Bring back the view of flowers and the love-burned orchards

To bodies now haram, faces now haram, our voices now haram

Taliban warn: "Seeing women as women is an obscene act"

Captive in darkness, dark-bitter roots till these walls come down

To bodies now haram, faces now haram, our voices now haram

At breast, our babies, throats filled with milk and woodsmoke

Captive in darkness, seeds for flowers, till these walls come down

No more subterranean, no more cavemouth blocked

At breast, our babies, throats filled by milk and woodsmoke

In the candlelit square of mirror, I hope myself, hopeless

No more subterranean, no more cavemouth blocked

But for the world I've stopped hoping, hope tombed long ago

In the candlelit ghosts of windows, I see myself hopeless

My pain bleeds down the panes, alone with my punishment

For the world will not see us, our hope tombed long ago

For the world will not see us, it stopped looking long ago

Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, 2023). His work has appeared in Willawaw Journal, San Pedro River Review, So It Goes, Anti-Heroin Chic, The New Verse News, and other places, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

DEBATE PANTOUM

by Dion O’Reilly

AI-generated graphic by Shutterstock for The New Verse News

Nothing's quite right—
ziggurats are toppling, the president’s stuttering, 
the courts are rigged, and it's too damn hot.
Buckle up baby... this shit's happening

—ziggurats, toppling. The president stuttering, 
millennials hating him ‘cause he won't stop a war.
Buckle up baby...this shit's happening. 
—a war that’s been raging for a million years.

Millennials hate him ‘cause he won't stop the war,
they can't buy a house, and they're paying back loans,
—this war’s been raging for a million years,
but now it’s thumb-tapped on our own little phones.

We can't buy a house, we’re paying back loans.
The problem’s too big to even begin,
thank god we can thumb-tap our own little phones.
There are just two choices, and they both look grim,

like problems too big to even begin—
The courts are rigged, and it's too damn hot.
There are just two choices and they both look grim.
Whom to vote for? Nothing feels right. 

Dion O'Reilly is the author of three poetry collections: Sadness of the Apex Predator, a finalist for the Steel Toe Book Prize and the Ex Ophidia Prize; Ghost Dogs, winner of the Pinnacle Book Achievement Award, The Independent Press Award for Poetry, and honorable mention for the Eric Hoffer Poetry Award; and Limerence, a finalist for the John Pierce Chapbook Competition, forthcoming from Floating Bridge Press. Her work appears in The Sun, Rattle, Cincinnati Review, The Slowdown, Alaska Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She is a podcaster at The Hive Poetry Collective, leads poetry workshops, and is a reader for Catamaran Literary Reader. She splits her time between a ranch in the Santa Cruz Mountains and a residence in Bellingham, Washington.

AND IT SHALL COME TO PASS

a pantoum

by Kai Thigpen

i am not a weapon to be used

in the destruction of a people

 

for i was a stranger in the land

of egypt

 

even if my people sharpen themselves to steel points

or round themselves into bullets

 

thou shalt not murder

the destruction of a people

a choking silence

muffles rounds of bullets

 

thou shalt not use the name of 

 

genocide

 

in vain

 

a choking silence 

a temple destroyed again and again over so many centuries, so many times it’s all we can point to with our free hands while our other hands are soaked in blood from genocide

 

in the beginning

 

some of us have killed

some of us have been told

“you will not be safe if we do not kill”

 

 

a temple destroyed again and again over so many centuries, so many times it’s all we can point to with our free hands while our other hands are soaked in blood:

my people take the shards of the temple, of every country

we have been told to leave, of every house

in which we have needed to hide

and sharpen themselves to steel points

 

 

we have killed

 

therefore set these words 

upon your hearts and souls: i am not a weapon to be used

in the destruction of a people.

Kai Thigpen is a white, non-binary, Jewish poet and therapist serving primarily LGBT+ communities. They live on occupied Lenni Lenape land, in Philadelphia, with their partner and two fluffy cats. Kai's poetry chapbook, habitat, is available from Illuminated Press.

IN MY DEFENSE

a pantoum

by Devon Balwit

George Santos

I stand here, not a liar but a fabulist,

my doctored resumé no different than a photo filter,

a burnishing, an enhancement.

The self is always curated,

 

filtered depending

on mood and desired effect.

We expect an exhibition, an exhibitionist, to be curated—

people go to school for that,

 

making audiences cheer the desired effect.

Project success and success will follow.

Ordinary school, work, who wants that?

No one wants to be ordinary.

 

Success is a predictor of talent.

Have I got that backwards?

No one ordinary would have the balls

to do what I’ve done—exactly

 

the man you want, no looking backwards,

able to command seeming,

to calibrate popular resentments exactly,

unapologetically ruthless.

 

The whiners don’t seem to get how,

burnished and enhanced, a superhero,

I stand before them unapologetic,

not a liar but fabulous.

Devon Balwit walks in all weather. Her most recent collections are We Are Procession Seismograph, [Nixes Mate Books, 2017], Dog-Walking in the Shadow of Pyongyang [Nixes Mate Books, 2021] and Spirit Spout [forthcoming with Nixes Mate Books in 2023].

A PANTOUM OF PINK IGUANAS

by Jeannie E. Roberts

Like pigs, flamingos, and roses in bloom 

the shade of lotus, spinel, and queen conch 

sheen of quartz, coral, and Himalayan salt 

the Galápagos’ iguanas wield pink 

In shades of lotus, spinel, and queen conch 

island reptiles conquered Wolf Volcano 

The Galápagos’ iguanas wield pink 

This rare species defeated extinction 

Island reptiles conquered Wolf Volcano 

where fierceness encircles the habitat 

This rare species defeated extinction 

They weather in nests above sea level 

Where fierceness encircles the habitat 

these iguanas face serious danger 

They weather in nests above sea level 

An expedition observed new babies 

These iguanas face serious danger 

Life’s revelations bid hopeful tidings 

An expedition observed new babies 

Scientists will monitor their safety 

Life’s revelations bid hopeful tidings 

Veiled lenses identified the hatchlings 

Scientists will monitor their safety 

The novelty brings news of survival 

Veiled lenses identified the hatchlings 

Years of research garnered discovery 

The novelty brings news of survival 

like pigs, flamingos, and roses in bloom

Jeannie E. Roberts has authored eight books, six poetry collections and two illustrated children's books. Her most recent collection is titled The Ethereal Effect—A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). She serves as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs and is a Best of the Net and an Eric Hoffer award nominee. 

WHAT MOTHERS KNOW ABOUT WAR

a pantoum by Sandra Anfang

"I’ve never liked my daughter’s stroller. I put it on the baby registry without trying it in person and when it arrived the dimensions felt wrong. The button that was supposed to facilitate one-handed folding did not facilitate one-handed folding. But over the weekend I saw a photograph of this stroller—the same style and color—sitting on the platform of a Polish train station, and this was the thing that finally obliterated what was left of my journalistic steel and made me sob about Ukraine. More than a million Ukrainian refugees have now poured into neighboring Poland, most of them women and children. When Polish mothers learned of this, it seems, they went to the railway stations and border crossings where the refugees were arriving, and they began dropping off baby strollers. A photojournalist [Francesco Malavolta/AP] covering the conflict snapped a picture of seven empty ones waiting at the Przemysl Glowny station [at the border crossing in Medyka, Poland]." —Monica Hesse, The Washington Post, March 9, 2022

I never liked my daughter’s stroller

I bought it unseen from an online store

when the box arrived I opened it and cried   

somehow the dimensions felt all wrong 

 

I bought it unseen from an online store

gave it to the family across the square

somehow the dimensions felt all wrong

today I found it—same model, same make

 

I gave it to the family across the square

I felt ungrateful for I had so much

today I found it—same model, same make 

abandoned with others at the Medyka station

 

I felt ungrateful for I had so much

the sight of it triggered deep despair

abandoned with others at the Medyka station

waiting for refugees’ lives to begin 

 

the sight of it triggered deep despair

as we welcome the mothers—one million and more

waiting for their lives to begin again

storming the border, babes at their breasts

 

As we welcome the mothers—one million and more

who pour into Poland on tides of tears

storming the border, babes at their breasts

all that they own strapped like mail to their chests

 

They pour into Poland on tides of tears

packed strollers await them, fit for a prince

infants strapped like mail to their chests

piled blankets and diapers to warm their new lives

 

Packed strollers await them, fit for a prince

refugees flow in wearing thin cloth coats

piled blankets and diapers to warm their new lives

symbiotic survival—mothers’ hard truth of war

 

Refugees flow in wearing thin cloth coats

after heat was shut off, the water lines cut

symbiotic survival—mothers’ hard truth of war

starved by the greed of the Russian state

 

after heat was shut off, the water lines cut

women were forced to flee and to hide

starved by the greed of the Russian state

victims of men’s urges, tossed like ashes

 

women were forced to flee and to hide

and after their flight, raped and tossed again

victims of men’s urges, tossed like ashes

their bodies are beachheads where battles are won

 

after their flight, raped and tossed again

their bodies as shelter, as instruments of war

their bodies are beachheads where battles are won

the things we don’t mention that all mothers know

 

their bodies as shelter, as instruments of war

I never liked my daughter’s stroller

the things we don’t mention that all mothers know

when the box arrived, I opened it and cried

 

Sandra Anfang is a much-published poet, poetry teacher, and visual artist who lives in Northern California. She's been hosting a monthly poetry series since 2013. She walks and writes daily to process her overconsumption of news stories. Her grandparents hailed from Minsk and Budapest, and she feels a deep connection to Ukraine and Eastern Europe.

AIR QUALITY INDEX: 519

by Devon Balwit

SEATTLE, WA - SEPTEMBER 12: A man wearing a mask walks along Kerry Park as smoke from wildfires fills the air on September 12, 2020 in Seattle, Washington. According to the National Weather Service, the air quality in Seattle remained at "unhealthy" levels Saturday after a large smoke cloud from wildfires on the West Coast settled over the area. (Photo by Lindsey Wasson/Getty Images via Seattle PI)

Take a deep breath, the meditation app advises—
I breathe in. I only cough a little.
I can’t see my chickens although I know they’re there.
The redwood’s ghostly one house over.

I breathe in. I only cough a little.
The front door gaps. We keep meaning to fix it.
The redwood’s ghostly one house over.
My usual view is lost to fog.

The front door gaps. We keep meaning to fix it.
Tendrils seep in, the smell of burning.
My usual view is lost to fog.
It’s like London in 1952.

Tendrils seep in, the smell of burning.
I wear a headlamp when I walk the dog.
It’s like London in 1952.
Thousands died. I don’t want to.

I wear a headlamp when I walk the dog.
I pray the coming rain will make a difference.
Thousands died. I don’t want to.
I worry for the mailman, the UPS lady with her dog biscuits.

I pray the coming rain will make a difference.
So many acres are aflame. The firefighters can’t be everywhere.
I worry for the mailman, the UPS lady with her dog biscuits.
The hummingbirds’ wings whisk smoke.

Too many acres are aflame. The firefighters can’t be everywhere.
I can’t see my chickens although I know they’re there.
The hummingbirds’ wings whisk smoke.
Take a deep breath, the meditation app advises—

When not teaching, Devon Balwit chases chickens in the Pacific Northwest. She has two collections forthcoming: Rubbing Shoulders with the Greats [Seven Kitchens Press, 2020] and Dog-Walking in the Shadow of Pyongyang [Nixes Mate Books, 2020]. 

SHE BLEW IN ON LENTEN WINGS

a quarantine poem in four parts
by Jill Crainshaw

Painting M004351 from Life? or Theatre? by Charlotte Salomon at the Jewish Historical Museum.

I

she blew in on lenten winds
i think i’ll stay awhile
be your muse until this thing ends
her left eye winked a suspicious smile

you plan to stay awhile?
she tossed an ancient tweed jacket on a chair
looked at me with a smile
pushed back her fedora, twirled her hair

i eyed the tweed lounging careless on the chair
her costume convinced me—well, almost
the faded fedora, the uncontained wisps of hair
who are you? i smiled—a suspicious host

though her costume convinced me—almost
that she harbored dubious ends
who are you? i smiled—a guarded host
when strangers blow in on lenten winds

II

today i harvest the tomatoes i prayed for yesterday
she’s still here—says she’s a poet but i am unsure
no pen or paper, not much to say
she just watches me, smiles--a quaint saboteur

she’s still here--insists she’s a poet but i am unsure
what are you writing? i’d like to know
she just watches me, smiles—a quaint saboteur
who arrived uninvited, interrupting my flow

tell me again, what are you writing? i am eager to know
it’s not everyday a poet moves into my space
arrives uninvited, interrupts my flow
wearing a faded fedora and a dubious smile on her face

no, i’ve never had a poet move into my space
tell me—how can i rhyme your presence away?
because you are here uninvited, interrupting my flow
while i harvest summer tomatoes i prayed for yesterday

III

the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree
she waxed eloquent when i queried her work
i don’t know what she meant—she’s a shroud of mystery
and her presence here? a self-satisfied smirk

as she waxes eloquent when i query her work
which, if you must know, lacks reason and rhyme
and undermines her presence here, her self-satisfied smirk
what? is writing poetry considered a crime?

well, no—unless it lacks reason and rhyme
okay then—look at your hands, the lines in your face
i’m writing poetry right there and that can’t be a crime
we need to mark the moment—we need to leave a trace

she’s right—i see my hands, the lines in my face
a poem is emerging in the body of me
she’s writing it down; is that such a crime
when we know that the apple falls close to the tree?

IV

she blew in on lenten winds
brought with her a threadbare refrain
i never meant for us to be forever friends
but telling her to go has been in vain

she just keeps repeating her threadbare refrain
“you are dust; to dust you shall return”
and asking her to go has been in vain
her tweed’s still in the chair—no end to her sojourn

“we are dust; to dust we shall return”
she keeps saying—her eyes full of hope
just let me stay—expand my poetic sojourn
let’s rhyme our way together out of this weary worn out trope

she says it again—her eyes bright with hope
shining from beneath her fedora—her hope never ends
let’s rhyme ourselves away from this hackneyed hopeless trope
and see where we can travel if we follow different winds


Jill Crainshaw is an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) and a liturgical theology professor at Wake Forest University School of Divinity in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

SOUND BITES

A Found Poem Pantoum of Shit I Read in the News
by Brady Riddle

More Shit found from #TRE45ON

One day, it’s like a miracle, it will disappear.
We inherited a broken test, a dead system
that didn’t work. One of the worst things that didn’t work.
Great marks for handling the infectious source!

We inherited a broken test, a dead system:
You got it wrong! They didn't use tear gas.
Great marks for handling protesters there!
Pepper spray is not a chemical irritant. 

You got it wrong! They didn't use tear gas—
riot control agents make people unable.
Pepper spray is not a chemical irritant. 
These THUGS dishonor Peace, on his knees, hands up.

Riot control agents make people unable
to rally against the death, the outrage.
These THUGS dishonor Peace, on his knees, hands up.
False and misleading claims, most of them from the past

rally death, outrage, control, downplay the situation—
that didn’t work. None of the things even worked.
False and misleading claims, most of them from the past
one day, like a miracle, will disappear.

Brady Riddle currently resides in Shanghai, China where he teaches secondary English at Shanghai American School. His poems can  be found in Lean Seed (San Jacinto College, Houston, TX), Ottawa Arts Review (University of Ottawa Press),  Spittoon Collective (Beijing, China), and most recently A Shanghai Poetry Zine.

PANTOUM FOR FURLOUGH

by Pepper Trail

Federal workers and contractors rally against the 8artial federal government shutdown in Washington DC last week. Photograph: Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images via The Guardian, January 13, 2019

Empty-handed, we are given furlough
My colleagues and I, turned away
The doors are locked against us
And all the work that we would do

My colleagues and I, turned away
Classified as mere Non-Essential
And all the work that we would do
Deemed to be—what’s the word?—worthless

Classified as mere Non-Essential
National parks, flight safety, food safety
Deemed to be—what’s the word?—worthless
Except as material to build a wall

National parks, flight safety, food safety
Ground into powder, melted into slag
All material to build a wall
Concrete or steel slats, shimmer of hot air

Ground into powder, melted into slag
The integrity of our government
Concrete or steel slats, shimmer of hot air
A mirage, distorted mirror of one man’s ego

The integrity of our government
Sacrificed to trumped-up fear, talk-radio rage
A mirage, distorted mirror of one man’s ego
Beyond, a weary mother, a crying child

Sacrificed to trumped-up fear, talk-radio rage
Empty-handed, we are given furlough
Beyond, a weary mother, a crying child
The doors are locked against us all


Author's Note: The government shutdown is many things. The national media has chosen to focus on how the shutdown is absurdist political theater in the service of one man's fragile ego, and is only now beginning to give attention to the shutdown's devastating financial impacts on many federal workers, its lasting damage to national parks and other public lands, and the huge waste of money that it represents.
     I am a furloughed federal worker. I work at a government science laboratory that carries out cutting-edge work in wildlife conservation. The government shutdown has prevented the lab's dedicated professionals from carrying out this important work for the past 22 days—with no end in sight. We are all classified as 'non-essential.' So are FAA plane safety inspectors, national park rangers, immigration judges, NASA scientists, USDA food inspectors—the list goes on and on.
     The pantoum form, with its repetitions and slow rhythms, seems particularly suited to express the seemingly unending frustration of the shutdown. The doors are locked against us all.

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.

PANTOUM FOR THE ARTISTS

by Alejandro Escudé

A person with the Oakland Fire Department takes a photo of the artwork on the front of the "Ghost Ship" warehouse in Oakland, Calif., on Tuesday, Dec. 6, 2016. The Fruitvale district warehouse caught fire on Friday, Dec. 2, killing 36 people. (Doug Duran/Bay Area News Group via East Bay Times)

The artist dies in a house of fire, the exits unknown.
A wreck bastardized, a crow suspended from spokes.
Why was nothing done? Where has the fire begun?
Separated by the smoke, the artist gags and chokes.

A wreck bastardized, a crow suspended from spokes,
The city rumbling past, a bridge full of nothing-souls
Separated by the smoke, as the artist gags and chokes.
Coffee here, coffee there, cold nights like unlit coals.

The city huffing past, a bridge full of speeding souls,
But the artist seeks more, a hive of unpredictable acts
Sipping coffee here and there, on cold coal-less nights,
Squatting in the cheap happenstance haphazard tracts.

The artists seeks more, the unpredictable hive acts
In such a way that cannot serve the absconding rest
Squatting in the priciest prime premeditated tracts.
Every fire begins in disarray or in an empty chest.

And so, the artist will not serve the absconding rest
And there is nothing to be done. The fire has begun
In the city’s forsaken disarray, in the penurious chest.
Artists live in a house on fire, all the exits unknown.

Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

A PANTOUM MORASS OF SOCIAL MORES

by Joe Amaral 

“He’s winning this. His critics are losing. We’re better for it.” —Tim Kawakami, The (San Jose) Mercury News, September 7, 2016. KHARTOON! by Khalid.

                                                for Colin Kaepernick


They sack their own hypocritical souls,
judging a biracial man sitting down between
Gatorade coolers, bench warmer, while
standing in safe zones chanting anthems.

Character assassinating a person-
hostile when their comfortable tedium
is knelt upon during an incomplete poem,
overheated, entwined in symbolic confliction.

Dislodged from routine surroundings, habits
of public conformity become glare and troll;
despite loafing when the flag waves on private
TV: bloviating from couches about abstract duty.

In my Catholic days I swung suffocating incense
before hearing the priest who married my parents
molested little boys. We spurned the cross in peace.
Pleas from true patriots are treated with violence.

Some only meme, righteous as sacramental fire
while buying foreign cars, clothes and smartphones
made by slave labor, then pout: THANKS OBAMA!
Colin audibles brave; to Hail Mary the fallow loam

of this country, as American as freedom can be, calling
to the knee-jerks and neutrals, even to the haters,
for a healing conversation amongst culpable toxicity—
warming a bench for enemies to connect, sit,
and see.

Joe Amaral likes to spelunk around the California central coast as a paramedic and stay-at-home dad. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in 3Elements Review, Arcadia Magazine, Crow Hollow 19, Writers of the Portuguese Diaspora, Zingara Poet and other awesome places. Joe won the 2014 Ingrid Reti Literary Award. He also hiked Mount Kilimanjaro. It was epic.