THE RISING DARK

by June Hall McCash

In the cold morning, the invaded city

muffles the sound of scuffles in the night.

Traffic drowns the echoes carried by the wind,

cries of the seized and of the children

left behind in empty halls and alleyways.

With the early light, night still casts 

empty shadows left by the unrelenting 

attack on innocence and guilt alike, 

by faces marked with terror 

at the approaching sound of heavy boots 

echoing through the streets, 

of masked and mirthless specters 

with glass-fixed eyes, armed with

guns, tasers, and new electric gloves, 

with violence and cruel indifference.

There is, there was no retreat, no justice,

no escape from lost identity, snatched away

without recourse and chained to a ruthless fate.

 

When all true judges have been replaced 

by sycophants, will we then grasp

that we too are among the fearful, waiting 

in the shadows? Will we know that our time 

too may come, when promises no longer keep,

when pledges and oaths are but empty words

and that the looming shadow can also reach out

to seize upon our weakness—yours and mine? 

Will we recognize it then as the beast it is,

reborn from that cruel phoenix 

we thought our fathers had destroyed 

in the wars of earlier generations? 

Will we concede that evil is perennial, 

relentless as crabgrass in our human soil 

as it invades our city streets and creeps 

its way into our unwary countryside?

 

We have learned already that hope, good will,

and even laws are but fragile ramparts 

against the terror of a tyranny ready to rise 

the moment we let down our guard.

Brave speech flames out when justice dies. 

Already, we can hear the terrible silence.

June Hall McCash is the author of fifteen books of nonfiction and historical fiction, and one book of poetry. She has been twice named Georgia Author of the Year for her novels. Another of her books of historical fiction won first place in the Chaucer competition for Early Historical Fiction, one of the Chanticleer International Book Awards. Now a retired university professor, McCash holds a Ph.D. in comparative literature from Emory University. She divides her time between homes on a Georgia sea island and in Tennessee. 

THE SCRUBLAND

by Sezin Devi Koehler

for Rob Reiner

the humid air streams off the slash pine barks

     the breath of a ghost lover against my neck

the tinnitus buzzing of insects, some vampires some not

     the goth butterfly that lands on my sweaty shoulder

     for a drink—I become nectar

gopher turtles scurry into their burrows at my footsteps

     grumpy Harry before Sally

sugar sand yields under my pink sandals

     when it rains, hungry quicksand 

     isn’t just a threat to Westley and Princess Buttercup

this oak tree is 265 years old, the banyan dripping limbs at least 300

these willows extend a fairy circle in the air

rodents of usual size rut below sawgrass thrones

the path into the forest has been worn by hundreds of feet

the train runs parallel, its mournsome whalesong

     I’m the fifth friend in Stand By Me

     looking for my own dead body in the moist brush

     a phoenix in progress

I didn’t forget my comb here by the tracks

     but I did forget myself in the junkyard of a marriage

     that did not bring us together today

I walk through the woods of your memory

as I wish

     come back to us soon

     come back soon

     come back

Sezin Devi Koehler is a multiracial Sri Lankan/Lithuanian American and author of Much Ado About Keanu: A Critical Reeves Theory (April 2025, Chicago Review Press), a sociocultural deep dive into what makes Keanu Reeves so extraordinary as a performer and artist. Pop-culture writer, entertainment journalist, and Rotten Tomatoes-certified film and TV critic for Black Girl Nerds, Sezin's bylines also include Entertainment Weekly, The Daily Beast, Scalawag Magazine, Tasteful Rude, Teen Vogue, and many more. Her poetry has appeared in Tension Literary. Sezin is a board member of the San Francisco Writers Grotto and wordsmiths from an East Oakland historic landmark that looks uncannily like the house from Practical Magic, where she can see the San Francisco Bay from her own window.  

REWRITING THE BORDER

by David Chorlton

It’s doves and thorns and sunsets
all the way into night, and blue mountains
float away at dusk. The border
isn’t what it used to be, no
Spanish is the Lovin’ Tongue or Marty Robbins
riding out of El Paso. Used to be
a line between the cowboy sky
and shops whose colors overflow
to make tourists feel as happy
as they couldn’t be at home. A hawk still hovers
with each wing in a different country
and ravens cross over with ease when they
dip and dive for joy, but there are
no visas for the jaguars
drawn by the scent of survival. Twenty pesos
for a dollar, undocumented sunlight,
new lives for old and corridos
from the radio playing
on an August roof in Phoenix. Taco Tuesday
in El Norte, deportation
on the menu every day. A flag of wind
still flying west of Lukeville, hammer tap
in a mechanic’s workshop, trucks
with hearts of steel between
Brownsville and Tijuana, highway never
sleeping, flan for dessert. A family lost
and a Rufous-capped warbler
in southern Arizona, slow river
leading a line of cheap labor
to the interstate; wasn’t that a time
when water was the passport
for anybody carrying their first home
in their pockets. Cheap labor on the move,
supply and demand, a cupful of rain
for a day digging fields. A trogon
calling from the oaks and sycamores. Summer 
is his time before the sky opens;
fly south, fly north, never fly at all
for fear that dreams
come only in translation.

David Chorlton is a longtime resident of Phoenix who continues to learn what he can from the desert about writing and art as well as the natural world. 

AFTERMATH — A FOUND SONNET

by Susan Vespoli

—all words in the poem from a KJZZ Interview with Tom Maxedon

Susan Vespoli and her book One of Them Was Mine

What happened? Officer Lindo shot my son

in the back of his head. Blew everything

apart. In the face of powerlessness,

we should say his name: Adam Vespoli.

 

Phoenix Police Department Disciplin-

ary Review Board: cop was found out 

of policy. Immediately resigned. Freedom 

of Information Act. Aftermath. Coping

 

with grief. A molten slosh of pain. Healing

thoughts and hearts. My son, a big believer. 

My mission, words in mouth, to be his voice. 

Lawsuit resolved. Financial settlement. 

 

The    policeman    is    no     longer 

a policeman. He’s driving a truck in Texas.

Susan Vespoli writes from Phoenix, AZ and believes in the power of poetry to create change.

HEAT-STROKE

by David Chorlton

There’s a picture postcard sunrise
back of the apartments
at 48^th and Warner
and a fire truck in the parking lot. Smoke on the second storey,
three bodies, no clues, this neighborhood is zoned
for stillness in the afternoon. Water
for the sparrows, suet for the doves, a whole sky for the hawk
who flew through the yard this morning.
A hummingbird drinks light,
the sun drinks desert
and the desert drinks a hundred years
of silence in a single gulp.
 
*
Dustbathing quail in a hollow; eight half-grown
and one adult, each
with a tremble in its throat. Two flickers
on the tallest palm, a hundred
degrees high and climbing. 
Night on its way, the rabbits are out
to listen for darkness. Sure enough, it’s crossing
the ridge now, leaving nothing
but the bones of light behind. 2:20 a.m. reports
of swimming pool shots,
monsoon clouds arguing again, no arrests
are made.
 
*
An evening when homicide
hangs between the trees
and stops halfway along the path
to where a hawk’s nest is woven into the wind
the sky turns suddenly electric.
All the stars are flashing.
City lights behind the mountain,
Heaven’s rain falling
and thunder wipes the darkness clean.

David Chorlton has long been at home in Phoenix. He has a forthcoming book from The Bitter Oleander Press, Dreams the Stones Have, dedicated to the desert. 

PHOENIX CITY COUNCIL VOTES TO PAY $4 MILLION TO LEGAL EXPERTS TO DELAY RELEASE OF DOJ INVESTIGATION

by Susan Vespoli

During a March 6 Phoenix city council meeting, family members of people killed by the city’s police department demanded that local officials stop interfering with a federal probe. The Department of Justice (DOJ) launched an investigation into the city of Phoenix and the Phoenix Police Department in 2021, citing concerns over the department’s use of deadly force and other potential civil rights violations. —The Appeal, March 14, 2024

The Phoenix City Council voted Wednesday to spend up to $4 million on legal services for representing the city amidst the ongoing U.S. Department of Justice investigation. In 2021, the federal agency announced it was launching an investigation into the city's police department. The results of the DOJ investigation have still not been revealed. City officials have expressed frustration with how DOJ has conducted its years-long investigation and told the federal agency they're unwilling to agree to a resolution that "cedes control to the DOJ" in the form of a consent decree. —12News, May 2, 2024

Squirming-ly Vermin-ly

City of Phoenix

pays millions to legal

teams to squelch facts

in DOJ report.

Accountability?

Hell, no. Deny, delay,

hide, cover ass.

Susan Vespoli writes from Phoenix, Arizona, where the City's police department has been under investigation by the Department of Justice since 2021. Will the report ever be released? Not if the City Council can help it.

PICKING UP THE SETTLEMENT CHECK FROM MY SON’S WRONGFUL-DEATH CASE DURING THE ECLIPSE

by Susan Vespoli

My dead son was in the car 

with me as I drove to the lawyer’s

office to pick up my net-settlement check

and we drove past a laughing-Buddha chihuahua 

running against traffic down the center of Dunlap

 

and we drove through a split of mountain crags 

and we drove past a guy twirling and tossing a red-arrow 

sign at an intersection and my heart and gut felt on fire 

with raw grief and I said, “Well, here we are, Adam,” 

 

meaning the end of the lawsuit 

and even as I wanted to sob and flail

I could feel him smiling beside me, 

saying, there, there, like a benevolent cloud. 

 

When the paralegal handed me the check, 

she beamed as if we should don party hats, throw confetti 

and I wanted to pop every balloon in the place, 

wave the rectangular piece of paper in the air 

and say, this represents my son’s life.

 

Outside, humans were wearing tiny plastic glasses 

and looking up at the sun and the sky 

over the parking lot glowed fluorescent 

and this check felt like me saying it was okay the cop shot my son 

 

but I have fallen into a sort of love

with a man who is ironically a lawyer 

who has helped me interpret the mind-fuck 

of the legal system, understand that money the City 

of Phoenix had to pay caused them pain to spark change

 

and it is springtime on the planet 

where my son’s physical body is only a memory 

and there is a throng of 5’ tall sunflowers 

standing outside my bedroom window 

and the ocotillo in my front yard, mere sticks and thorns 

a month ago, is now covered with soft green and topped with flame-

colored flowers the wind flutters into candles on a cake.

Susan Vespoli lives in Phoenix, AZ, where citizens are still waiting for the release of the DOJ report regarding the Phoenix Police Department's excessive use of force. Her son, Adam, was killed by a police officer on March 12, 2022.

WHAT I WANTED AND WHAT I GOT

by Susan Vespoli

Corporeal Writing Softest Tee

I wanted my son back. 

I wanted the cop who shot him 

to be held accountable. I wanted my son 

to be standing here wearing his Pure-Heart 

t-shirt, handing out food boxes. I wanted him 

to ask for more light clothes for Christmas,

more white socks because he believed light colors 

would help him stay clean. I wanted another cross

for him to carry—mosaic-ed in fractured glass—

another coffee date at Starbucks, another tour 

of his apartment furnished with found lamps 

and a found statue of a bear holding a fish 

that says “Welcome.” I wanted his voice

saying “I love you, Mom,” his fingers 

texting me photos of geese and cats 

and quail eggs laid in a ceramic swan.

What I got was a wrongful death lawsuit, 

a deposition where I was shamed and blamed 

by an eye-rolling smirking bitch of a City 

of Phoenix lawyer who mocked my 12-step beliefs, 

asking sarcastically,     “Did it help?”    

I got my Facebook account invaded by the cop’s 

legal team, two of my poetry books used as evidence 

against my son. I got a gag order—no more speaking 

about or publishing poems about the loss or the case, 

two canceled poetry readings. I got a t-shirt that says: 

“Make art in the face of fuck.” I got the face of fuck. 

I got a pen and more notebooks because the cop’s lawyers 

confiscated my journals and I write anyway and I write anyway 

and I still believe good will prevail. Still believe the spirit of Adam 

stands among us, that his words “I think god has another plan for my life”

will ring and ring and crack the wrecking ball of the cops’ denial 

and out of the shatter—will glow my son’s smile, his essence, his light.

Author’s Note by Susan Vespoli: City of Phoenix is squirming about the upcoming results of the DOJ’s two-year investigation into their use of excessive force, high number of police killings, and unfair treatment of the homeless. The City claims they don’t need oversight. I, as the mother of an unarmed man shot and killed by police on March 12, 2022, shout: “YES. THEY. DO.”

Editor’s Note: The New Verse News has published a number of the poems written by Susan Vespoli in the aftermath of the killing by Phoenix police of her son Adam:   "Before I Knew Adam Had Died,”  "My Ex-Husband Calls… ,"   … In Reverse,” “I Am Finally Handed… ,” “Under Investigation… ,” “Dear 2022,” “Poem for My Middle Finger,” “Dear Gag Order,”

DRY JULY

by David Chorlton

Today the inside knows what the outside’s like,
cats asleep and windows closed
with nobody walking on the street
and birds in the yard waiting for a shadow
to perch on.

                     It’s a hundred-
and-Hell degrees this afternoon, the devil’s
breath for a breeze
and climate change denial melts
when the temperature dances
on the asphalt in the road.

                                                The midnight low
is too high for living outdoors. Another
record falls. The homeless camp
was swept away and a public nuisance
turned into a death threat.

                                                     A dove
has made a dust bath in a bare patch
on the lawn, a man with no address
lies down with his belongings
at a bus stop where there’s shade.

A lizard on the back wall
flashes his lightning scales as he climbs
a few more degrees
                                     of dry heat
and doesn’t stop until he’s safely reached
the air conditioned sky.

David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems often reflect his affection for the natural world, as well as occasional bewilderment at aspects of human behavior. He still produces occasional watercolors and is attentive to the local wildlife.

UNDER INVESTIGATION BY THE DOJ, PHOENIX POLICE DEPARTMENT REVISES USE OF FORCE POLICY

by Susan Vespoli

             “I think god has another plan for my life.” —Adam Vespoli, weeks before he was shot

City of Phoenix

solicits public input

on “Use of Force” policy.

        Officer Donnell Lindo, the cop who shot

               my son is gone.     

Core Principles: Goal 

of every encounter is

to resolve without force.

       Turned in his gun,

               his holster, badge.  

Employees shall make 

every effort to preserve 

sanctity of human life.

      was found by Critical

                Incident Review Board to be in the wrong.   

                Referred for discipline.

Employees shall respect, 

uphold value, rights, liberty,

dignity of all

      Resigned before he was fired.

                (Didn’t resign before he fired the gun.)  

persons at all times.

Always use de-escalation

tactics. Shall be held

      The cop who shot   my son 

                is gone.

accountable for

violating policy. 

Discharge of firearm. 

      Where’d he run?

“He no longer works for the department.” 

    —Clerk at Phoenix Police Public Records

Turned in his badge,

his bullets, gun.

Shooting person close 

range   in the head    is Deadly 

Force       always last resort.

My son is gone.

Author’s note: Words in italics are “found poem” from mail conversation with Police Records and "Use of Force" Proposal.

Susan Vespoli writes from Phoenix, Arizona where she continues to write toward finding some sort of justice for her son, Adam Vespoli, who was shot and killed by police on March 12, 2022.

Editor's Note: The New Verse News previously published five of long-time contributor Susan Vespoli's poems about the killing of her son by police:  "Before I Knew Adam Had Died" and "My Ex-Husband Calls To Tell Me Our Son Has Been Shot By Police," "Police Violence in Reverse," "Dear 2022," and “I Am Finally Handed the Critical Incident Review Board Report.”