WE CAN MAKE IT SO

by Gordon Gilbert

in support of Zohran Mamdani

We say, 

“Nothing changes but we make it so!”   

 

“But change wreaks havoc on our world!” 

say those who would lecture us

on what they say we all should know.

 

It must be said that these "teachers" are older,

more well-off, and very much invested

in this world that they love so,

while we are young and still have little…

 

So we would say to them, 

“That’s a good thing! 

We have little to lose!" 

 

We can be bolder than those older,

and there is so much to be gained! 

And this much we know: 

Nothing changes but we make it so!   

Gordon Gilbert is a NYC west village writer who takes walks along the Hudson River to find some relief in nature from the almost daily unrelenting bad news. But he finds reason to hope for a better 2026 with the new mayor, Zohran Mamdani.

ZAPORIZHZHIA OBLAST

by James Gage

MOSCOW, Dec 29 (Reuters) - President Vladimir Putin on Monday told his army to press on with a campaign to take full control of the Zaporizhzhia region in southern Ukraine after a Russian commander said Moscow's forces were 15 kilometres (9.3 miles) from its biggest city.

Goodbye 

to the merely discarded 

wrenched from their clutches 

and penchants 

and bright pearl-knit bags.

 

Goodbye

to the voices of 

the ironclad poor 

and the hapless yank,

the misanthrope’s trope 

adrift in the mainstream 

at the salon or the square

where Vicky’s mint cookies

and yesterday’s masts read

The Waters Run Red 

From Putin’s Unprovoked War.

 

These unprovoked lies 

rise up like smoke 

over the grim granite markers

in Kiev or Donetsk,  

over the lit cherry blossoms 

and redneck ears

of the keeper 

in pursuit of the truth

because there is only one truth

that will huddle the masses.

 

So live and let live, the gravekeeper pled

and watched from a distance as the leftovers fled.

James Gage is an anti-war poet and songwriter whose work has been published in dozens of periodicals and literary journals including Main Street Rag, Inkwell, Wordrunner, Sand Hills, New Verse News, Mountain Gazette, Oyster River Pages, and others. His first two books of poems True If Destroyed (2016) and True If Not Destroyed (2025) are available from Finishing Line Press.

DROPPING OFF THE NATIVITY

by Tricia Knoll

For the community of Winooski [Vermont], the week following Thanksgiving began with a disturbing absence: a second-grade student’s desk was empty. What followed was a rapid-fire sequence of press releases, emotional pleas, and contradictory reports that have left many Vermonters confused about how a seven-year-old boy went from a holiday road trip to a federal detention center in Texas. —Compass Vermont, December 7, 2025

Handmade of painted paper mâché, the figures of the old nativity scene rest in the tattered box I pick up at the church bazaar for $2. Baby Jesus. A goat. Two men with lambs on their shoulders. Mary. Joseph. Five wise men bearing gifts. Two identical angels hinting this might be a combination from two original sets. A blue angel who cannot stand up. A flimsy barn and dry grass. I leave it on the doorstep where my favorite children live, hoping someone might tell the children the story of outcasts, love and humble housing. How Christmas got its name. Even if they use pagan filters. A text arrives: their house doesn’t do nativity. It’s going to Goodwill. I ask for it back. The news: ICE pulled over a seven-year-old and his mother in Illinois. Originally from Ecuador, they live in the town just upriver from me. The child’s school was the first declared sanctuary school in Vermont. The mother and child are now in detention in Texas. The superintendent of schools works to raise money for legal aid, to help the father contact them. Inside me sounds like sanctuary, mercy, peace, star of hope and love reverberate like the striking of a distant temple bell. 

Tricia Knoll's hometown of Williston, Vermont is the center of ICE's national data collection and the place scouring social media to find evidence of immigrants without citizenship. She is a poet currently writing in prose. Her chapbook The Unknown Daughter was recently a finalist in the New England Poetry Club chapbook contest.

A HOUSE IN GAZA

by Christopher Woods

Shutterstock file photo

In her mind is the locket

She thinks about so much.

Inside it, wrapped in blue ribbon,

A single strand of black hair.

Her firstborn.

She can’t stop thinking about it,

That hair, how it would be

To see it again, how she might hold it,

Go back to the house

That disappeared

When the bombing began.

If she could know this hair again

Her memory might rest.

 

But she won’t open the locket.

She can’t.

Maybe it’s been too long,

The hair might dissolve in the air.

Maybe birds would carry it away.

 

No matter how much she wants to

She will not open the locket.

She keeps it hidden,

Safe in a drawer, in a room,

Inside a house on a small road,

In a dusty village that no longer exists.

Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show Twelve from Texas was performed in NYC by Equity Library Theatre. His monologues have also been performed at The Invisible Theatre in Tucson and the Pro English Theatre in Kiev, Ukraine. He has received residencies from The Edward Albee Foundation and The Ucross Foundation.

AFTER THE SHOOTINGS

by Karen Marker

Hundreds of students walked off Oakland’s Skyline High School campus on Tuesday [November 18], calling for the school and district to do more to counter gun violence. They say the Oakland Unified School District needs to provide more education and better support for students who don’t feel safe on campus after shootings at two Oakland schools last week. Last Wednesday [November 12], a Skyline student was shot during the school day, and two other young people were arrested in connection with the altercation. Just a day later, Oakland’s beloved Laney College Athletic Director John Beam was shot and killed on the junior college campus. Beam, who was featured on the final season of Netflix’s docuseries Last Chance U while he was coaching the Laney Eagles, began his Oakland career at Skyline, leading the school’s football team to 15 championships over 17 years, according to OUSD Superintendent Denise Saddler. (Photo: Gustavo Hernandez/KQED) —KQED, November 18, 2025

I admit I am glad 
it’s no longer my job 
to be called out in a crisis—
part of the Response Team
at Skyline High, first to gather 
students together after 
the shooting, sit them 
in a circle so they can share 
feelings of shock 
between waves of grief 
and anger, between questions
about how much damage 
a ghost gun can do, 
how impossible 
to trace all this 
back to the beginnings
of neglected cries for help 
and so much hunger—
what was said on social media
no one warned about
those who knew the shooter
the student shot
the football coach
shot by a former student—
all those wondering 
where did we go wrong
how do we make our schools 
and city free of violence
would more mental health services 
solve the problems? For so many years 
I was out in the field offering solace, 
seeking solutions but tonight 
with no moon I’m seeing only the shooting 
of a star—the icon, hero coach 
is gone and all this
against the backdrop of news 
alerts from NextDoor 
please people be safe—
badgeless masked ICE agents, 
like ghost guns 
impossible to trace
are now active in neighborhoods 
all over the city we love
while I’m still reeling.

 

Karen Marker is an Oakland, CA. poet activist and retired school psychologist who has committed to  writing a poem a day of protest and hope in response  to current events. Her first poetry book Beneath the Blue Umbrella came out recently with Finishing Line Press and explores family mental illness, stigma and healing. 

JAPAN’S FIRST _________

by Jennifer Schneider

Sanae Takaichi, Prime Minister of Japan

Sanae Takaichi paid 
her own way through higher education, 
her parents didn’t believe school a worthy 
use of change for a girl, even one suited
of big, bigger, the biggest—
reams of dreams,

now, Takaichi holds the country’s highest office, 
a prime minister, my word!

yet       not yet             no, don’t  

In traditional fashion, well-fitted, Takaichi spares 
no hesitation to infuse wrinkles into hopes 
for progress when expressing her limited interest 
in spending or spreading a change of suits
for feminist checklists.

            not yet             no, don’t          amen

Dressed in shades of blue 
that nicely complement the existing political 
climate, Takaichi bows before the men 

who surround 
the camera’s focused lens, 

            smile!  bow     again

dressed on a platform of DNA and policies that ring 
familiar tunes, her maiden voyage–an address 
rooted in conservative values

a sale? at a discount? who’s first? 
a man… amen

Why women don’t need to be first*

1. Because they will bow to men regardless of placement.
2. Because all boats need sales and sailors, not merchants.
3. Because they’ll take their man’s name upon departure.
4. Because others have shown it’s a wasted opportunity.
5. Because all leaders wear suits of spades and kings.
6. Because men will never understand the women’s struggle.
7. Because once a maiden, always a maiden in men’s quarters.
8. Because maiden voyages require too much maintenance.
9. Because all leaders wear pants.
10. Because women’s cycles are enough.
11. Because blue has always been a man’s color.
12. Because women fill in the blanks whenever asked.
13. Because finishing is a man’s work.
14. Because a woman’s interests always come after those of a man.
15. Because it’s a sign of weakness to conclude a sentence with a preposition.

*after “Why We Oppose Pockets for Women” by Alice Duer Miller

Jennifer Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

GATHERING FOR OUR CAVE SOON

by Jerrice J Baptiste

"Justice in the Trump Era" by Nick Anderson

Unfettered and Unaccountable: 

How Trump is Building a Violent, Shadowy Federal Police Force —ProPublica, October 18, 2025

Yesterday, the autumn wind almost blew 
me away. If I were thirty pounds lighter 
like I’ve always wanted, I would’ve joined 

leaves in the lake. I savor figs, dried plums,
mango slices we share together in the royal 
blue ceramic bowl, you gifted for my birthday

in April. And much time has passed and we need 
to gather dried berries and nuts like our friends 
the squirrels and rabbits. We will need to eat only 

one of each roasted almond, white cashew, walnut
at a time. Under the crumpled sapphire-colored 
blanket we will hide flat on our backs in the black 

onyx night, in the cave we will build. Silence, Silence 
and the goddess Artemis will protect us vulnerable 
women and children. We will quickly hush, hush
  
like kindergarteners at play with shadow puppets when 
adults enter a room. Whoever is searching won’t find 
us, when their heavy boots enter our cave, their hands 

shining light in each corner. Artemis will make us
invisible. Now the winds of autumn pick up speed. 
It is a brewing noise of citizens, and leaves. 

Can you hear what’s churning?  Do you feel 
the urgency of the people? The collective shouting, 
shouting, shouting, and not just a handful.  Let us 

gather, gather our portions soon and build our caves. 
Noise increases, increases loud firecrackers. Are you 
the poets who are not afraid of the bombs?

Jerrice J Baptiste is a poet, educator and facilitator of poetry for healing and self-expression. Her new book of prose poems is titled Coral in the Diaspora published by Abode Press (August 2024).  Her writing has been published and is forthcoming in The New Verse News, Artemis Journal, Urthona Buddhism and Art Magazine, The Dewdrop, Shambhala Times, The Yale Review, Wax Poetry & Art, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Mantis, Penumbra Literary & Art Journal, The Banyan Review, Kosmos Journal, Silver Birch Press, and many others. Her collaborative songwriting and poetry are featured on the Grammy-nominated album Many Hands Family Music for Haïti. 

COOKIE BLAZE'S QUESTION

by Anne Harding Woodworth

Cookie Blaze is a persona created by the poet, but 89-year-old Penny Starr (above) stripped on America's Got Talent two years ago.

I’m 81, and I want to ask you

if that’s too old for me to return

to the excellent career I’ve had,

the career that made me happiest.

See, I was a stripper. I stripped

in Lou’s bar there in upstate New York,

and sometimes I sang, and sometimes

I stripped and sang all at the same time.

When you’re 81, you need affirmation—you know,

an assurance that you didn’t live in vain,

that you still have the moves, Cookie,

that your crowds still love you

and want to see your new acts,

that they deny anything’s happened

to your skin and your voice.

Oh, maybe I’m a little off-key at times,

and forget a word here and there.

If the crowds were to notice

these trivial changes, they wouldn’t care.

Tell me, is 81 too old for me

to get back up on the stage at Lou’s?

I feel good when you watch me.

Yeah, watch me.

I’m fine for just a few more years,

maybe four. What do you say?

Anne Harding Woodworth is the author of an 8th book of poetry Gender: Two Novellas in Verse and of a 5th chapbook The Spare Parts Saga which looks at the USPS from the perspective of her trying to mail her 2008 book Spare Parts to a friend in Ireland.

NEW ORLEANS MARDI GRAS

WEIRD WORLD OF JOY AND PAIN

by Mostofa Sarwar

AI-generated graphic for The New Verse News by Shutterstock

I rode the Captain’s Float in Endymion

I saw the frolicking crowd

I enjoyed the rainbow of merriment

undulating its mesmerizing wings,

sprinkling its magical potions

over the revelers

The scintillating curves of human flesh

under the thin veneer of fabrics

The vile sound of the Second Amendment

flashing snippets of life

The dead crawling the crowded streets

I saw the specter of Paul Verlaine

over Saint Charles Avenue

He was catching beads

Was he happy?

He was wearing an MP3 player

Was he listening to Debussy’s incarnation

of his ‘Claire du Lune’?

Or was eternal pain eating his flesh

Like a deadly virus

I saw

Under the veil of merriment

New Orleans, like Bergamo,

hiding

the suffering, 

and poverty, violence, injustice

Let me have a jug of absinthe

And forget this weird world of pain and joy

 

Dr. Mostofa Sarwar is professor emeritus and former associate provost at the University of New Orleans, dean and ex-vice-chancellor and provost of Delgado Community College. His opinion essays were published in The Daily Star and Bdnews24.com of Bangladesh, The Strait Times of Singapore, The Statesman of India, Phuket News of Thailand, The Times Picayune of New Orleans, The Advocate of Baton Rouge, The Acadiana Advocate of Lafayette, The Daily Advent and The Opera News of New York. Recently, his English poems were published in Sangam Literary Magazine and The Seattle Star Magazine. Sarwar published three books of Bengali poems. He frequently appears in Bengali talk shows at cable TV channels (broadcast out of New York, Washington, DC, and Dhaka).

TO MY GRANDSONS IN THE FUTURE

by Cathryn Shea

You benefit today from your innocent
enthusiasm for worms, grasshoppers,
and anthills. You study foxtails
and poppies, wade in the Yuba River.

When you read this in high school,
my hope is that you are in a public one.
Well-funded, or at least with an adequate budget
for the arts. I hope your summer is still
not breaking heat records
and in winter the Yuba does not flood
causing mudslides.

I hope you do not suffer premature neck strain
from bending over your cell phones.
If you have cell phones or know of cell phones.
Perhaps you wear a device attached to your eyes.
Perhaps you wear an embedded chip.

Does anyone mention climate change anywhere?
(That was a euphemism anyway.)
Is capitalism still running rampant?
Does your vocabulary even include such words?
Have robots taken over the classroom?

I ask you too many questions
and I apologize. By the way,
did you know apologia is the root
of apologize? Such a beautiful word

of remorse. I can’t imagine your vernacular.
I digress. (Oh, I can just hear you chiding.
Grandma uses too many strange words.)

I do hope there is still a Nature you can escape to.
Where the din of machinery can’t be heard.
Where artificial radiance
does not vie with the night sky.

Cathryn Shea is the author of four chapbooks including Backpack Full of Leaves (Cyberwit, 2019) and Secrets Hidden in a Pear Tree (dancing girl press, 2019). Her first full-length poetry collection Genealogy Lesson for the Laity is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press in September 2020. Cathryn’s poetry appears in New Orleans Review, Tar River Poetry, Typehouse, and elsewhere. See @cathy_shea on Twitter.

RINSE AND REPEAT

by Rene Mears

Family members embrace following a shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, Feb. 14, 2018, in Parkland, Fla. “Deadliest School Shootings in Modern US History” —VOA, February 14, 2018

Snow falls
Summer calls
                  Crying out for what can not be.
Winter’s chill
Sparrow’s trill
                  Darkness reigns, I can not see.
Many fools
Always cruel
                  The soul, all that remains
Only pawn
Myself gone
                  Invisible, are the chains
Your woe
Strikes the blow
                 So many lying still, asleep
Another gun
Better run
                 I’m left alone, to weep.
Never ends
These trends
                 Infinity. Infinity.  No way to decease
Winter’s chill
Sparrow’s trill
                 Funeral. Funeral. Forget the peace.

Rene Mears lives in Castle Rock, Colorado.  Nurse by day, aspiring writer by night.  This is her first published poem.