THERE IS NOT ENOUGH SNOW

by David A. Goodrum

by Daryl Woods at Dreamstime

To cover the battlefields.

To soften the blows.

To fill the caskets with snowmen.

No blizzard to interfere

with news transmission, offer

the comfort of momentary quiet.

 

The country drifts

into one war then another.

There will never be enough snow 

to blanket the lies of politicians,

which seep out like the blood

of eviscerated rabbits.

Whichever way the wind blows

there is never enough snow

to level-fill the trenches.

There is always a hollow

a depression that shows

where the civilians are buried.

David A. Goodrum is the author of Abrupt Edges (Bass Clef Books, 2025), Vitals and Other Signs of Life (The Poetry Box, 2024) and Sparse Poetica (Audience Askew, 2023). Recent journal publications have appeared in The Orchards Poetry Journal (which awarded his poem “Winter Inquisition” a Pushcart Nomination), Cirque, and Triggerfish Critical Review, among others. David lives in Corvallis, Oregon. 

EXTREME WEATHER REPORTS FOR THE 21ST CENTURY

by Melissa Balmain

“Shouldn’t we name extreme weather events after those contributing most to them? … Last hurricane season, a regular reader… suggested that hurricanes should not be named after random humans, but corporate brand names—specifically those [polluters] that have contributed most to the intensification of extreme weather.”
—Erik Assadourian and Esther Phillips, on Medium

Hurricane Exxon—from Maine down to Mass.—
appears, as we feared, to be hitting the gas.

Macroburst Google is knocking down birches
and churches as rescues lag far behind searches.

Bomb-cyclone Bezos refuses to stop
until it has flattened each mom and each pop.

Superstorm Congress? Crews strive to repair
the damage it’s done with its surging hot air.

And everywhere, Trumpulus clouds keep on raining
fresh plagues on the heads of whoever’s remaining.

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

Melissa Balmain edits Light, North America's longest-running journal of comic verse. Her latest book of poetry is Satan Talks to His Therapist (Paul Dry Books).

STICK BOYS

by Lynne Schilling

© Bidouze Stephane | Dreamstime.com

Like a tower of graceful giraffes, Ethiopian  

boys on bamboo stilts walk high over the land.

 

The boys smile; some have intricate designs

painted on their faces or long, straight legs. 

 

Their aerial travel allows them to spot the cows 

in high grass, avoid the bites of venomous snakes.

 

It makes me think of those who bend the knee,

smudge the line between right and wrong—

 

the bottom-lined CEOs, the well-endowed

university presidents, the media moguls,

 

the politicians and puffed-up agency heads, 

the bonus-hungry citizens—

 

They look weak and cowed on the ground

among the vipers.

While Lynne Schilling has been writing poetry on and off for forty years, she began writing  seriously four years ago at age 75.. She has published in Quartet, The Alchemy Spoon, Rue Scribe, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Lucky Jefferson and others. She has a poem forthcoming in contemporary haibun online. 

COLUMBIA, THE GEM OF THE CENSORS

by Felicia Nimue Ackerman

“The Thinker” on Columbia’s campus. Photo by Jason Zhao at Unsplash.

Academia Confronts a Watershed Moment at Columbia, and the Right Revels. Threatened with losing $400 million in federal funding, the university agreed to overhaul its protest policies and security practices. —The New York Times, March 22, 2025

Seeing all the force you wield,
Thinking we had better yield,
Letting politicians rule,
Why pretend we're still a school?

Felicia Nimue Ackerman is a professor of philosophy at Brown University and has around 335 poems in places including American Atheist, The American Scholar, Better Than Starbucks, The Boston Globe, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Down in the Dirt, The Emily Dickinson International Society Bulletin, Free Inquiry, Light Poetry Magazine, Lighten Up Online, The Los Angeles Times, The New York Daily News, The New York Times, Options (Rhode Island's LGBTQ+ magazine), Politics/Letters, The Providence Journal, Scientific American, Sparks of Calliope, Time Magazine, The Wall Street Journal, and Your Daily Poem. She has also had eleven previous poems in The New Verse News.

DIVERSITY, EQUITY, AND INCLUSION AND HOPE

by Cathy Lee

Today, in a quiet English classroom

In Southeast Ohio,

An English teacher 

And special needs teacher 

Discussed how to incorporate 

The work of students in the special needs classroom

In this year’s school-wide literary anthology

Of poems, stories, and art.

This year’s theme 

is hope. 

Some of these high school students will 

Be able to circle images of pictures

That give them hope.

Some of these students 

Have the ability to write a few sentences

And draw a picture about

what gives them hope.

Most of these students 

Rarely get included 

in school-wide projects,

Often remain hidden

And anonymous

Like Boo Radley.

But we 

are working 

To change that. 

While pompous politicians 

Flaunt their abilities to dismantle 

Programs for DEI, 

We move forward,

Inviting the voices

Of our fellow humans  

Who can name hope

By circling an image of a bird,

Or drawing their dog,

Or writing about a yummy piece of apple pie. 

Mmm, mmm. So good.

Cathy Lee is a wife, mother of almost adulting daughters, one in college and one in high school, and a high school English teacher in Southeast Ohio. She enjoys running, baking, and reading. 

THE DAY AFTER THE UK ELECTION

by Stuart McFarlane

No, this is not Nineteen-ninety-seven,

a new Labour, new dawn, a new Heaven.

We've still not forgotten the stain of Iraq.

For you, Tony Blair, there was no way back!

We are, rightly, sick of all politicians,

we know, only too well, they're not magicians!

We hope there is but minimal disruption,

a growing intolerance of corruption.

Time to govern boldly, to influence our fate,

to shake the wrinkles out of the garment of state;

to pluck the jewel of meritocracy

from the tired, tattered threads of democracy.

Yes, there's jubilation outside Number Ten,

but we, the people, will not be fooled again.

Starmer proclaims 'The economy must grow!'

Tell us something we don't already know!

We're aware your tax plans don't make any sense.

We're all aquainted with pounds, shillings and pence.

We don't celebrate the dawn of a new day,

do not so much cheer, as desperately pray.

You are seeking growth, a spike in GDP?

Then why not start by contemplating the sea?

Europe is still there; a constant underpinning;

panacea, no; but, at least, a beginning.

Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.

THE NEW PANDEMIC

by Ralph Dranow

poster available at amazon

A new pandemic is sweeping the world.

Scientists speculate it started last month

with a six-year-old girl in Indonesia,

a precocious child,

who transmitted it to her parents,

who passed it on to others.

Now it's spreading throughout the country

and other places as well.

The virus surges through the bloodstream,

infiltrating the heart and third eye,

causing people to love one another.

Politicians, CEOs of corporations, and Republicans

are furiously working to contain the virus,

claiming it's bad for business,

suggesting people wear masks and social distance.

But it might be too late.

The virus is very powerful,

seeping through even the strongest mask,

dancing through the bloodstream,

like an ecstatic child.

Ralph Dranow works as an editor, ghostwriter, and writing coach. His poems and articles have been widely published.

THE SILENCED MAJORITY

by Katherine West

Graphic by Katherine West.

The silenced majority

that some day

will decide

which small piece of the sky

belongs to them

—Rigoberta Menchú quoted in Poetry Like Bread.

70% of Americans don’t trust politicians to make abortion policy. —19thNews

                                                                        

Today it is cloudy

I can’t see the sky at all

I have to imagine it

the way it was

when I was young

when life was a blue door

opening

on an even bluer

even bigger sky

Some days

the sky was so blue

it was almost purple

and I could see

all the way

to Mexico

The birds seemed to fly higher

farther

taking me with them

to new lands

where all the women

grew wings

wrote books

started businesses

ran for office

got married, or not

bore children, or not 

became stronger as they aged 

It was a blueberry sky

with something infinite about it, 

an exuberant potential

I gobbled this up

when I was young—

it became my marrow

and a good thing too

since the clouds

seem to be here to stay

I carry infinity

inside me

a multitude of blue doors

that I open

one by one

day by day

And there are others

doing the same

all over the world

The sky is falling

and we

we are patching it

putting it back up

wiping it clean

of clouds

We are passing out binoculars

to those

with faulty vision

We are leaving

blue footprints behind

everywhere we go

We know

there are those who erase

our footprints

who tell everyone

they meet

that we were never here

But we are here

We aren’t going anywhere—

and there are a lot of us

Katherine West lives in Southwest New Mexico, near Silver City. She has written three collections of poetry: The Bone Train, Scimitar Dreams, and Riddle, as well as one novel Lion Tamer. Her poetry has appeared in journals such as Writing in a Woman's Voice, Lalitamba, Bombay Gin, The New Verse News, Tanka Journal, Splash!, Eucalypt, Writers Resist, Feminine Collective, and Southwest Word Fiesta. The New Verse News nominated her poem "And Then the Sky" for a Pushcart Prize in 2019. In addition she has had poetry appear as part of art exhibitions at the Light Art Space gallery in Silver City, New Mexico, the Windsor Museum in Windsor, Colorado, and the Tombaugh Gallery in Las Cruces, New Mexico. She is also an artist.

CLUB Q

by Peter Witt

A vigil was held at All Souls Unitarian Universalist Church. Credit: Daniel Brenner for The New York Times, November 20, 2022

Patrons Subdued Gunman Who Killed at Least 5 at Colorado Club: The authorities credited people inside the gay nightclub in Colorado Springs with stopping the gunman, who police say opened fire with a long rifle just before midnight. More than two dozen were injured.  —The New York Times, November 20, 2022

Club Q, a supposed safe space

where people can let their hair down

or wig it up, where go-go dancers

and drag queens rule, where bartenders

in scanty attired serve tame and not

so tame drinks to similarly minded

customers, a place rife for hate

by people threatened by the idea of

individuality, where people

go to hang out, to feel secure,

without the fear of physical harm,

where in an instant, all changed

when harm walked through the door.

 

Now Sunday festivities are off,

no planned drag brunch, with drink specials

and drag show followed by an evening

Transgender Day of Remembrance

for all those killed or attacked in the U.S.

and around the world…an irony considering

Saturday’s murderous events.

 

Instead, sometime in the days ahead,

the LGBTQA+ community and their supporters

will gather to add the names of all the victims

of a wanton shooter in Colorado Springs.

Some politicians will tweet and send notes

of support, while some will remain silent

and in the days ahead whip up more fear

and loathing with statements about

the biblical repulsiveness of gay marriage,

how drag queens are polluting the minds

of young children during library readings,

and books about LGBTQA+ identity

should be removed from school libraries.

 

On Thursday Club Q planned a Friendsgiving

Dinner, which if held, will turn into

an evening of tears, stories, and hugs

to celebrate those lost and wounded.

Peter Witt is a Texas poet, a frequent contributor to The New Verse News and other online poetry web-based publications.

THE GROUNDHOG SPEAKS

by David Feela

As politicians emerge from legislative 

burrows, leaning on superstition

(believing if it is a sunny day 

the shadow they see must only be 

projected by our former insurgency)

they’ll rush back to their chambers 

for six more weeks of uncertainty.

If eventually the lawmakers choose 

weather to guide a fearful nation, 

will the groundhog please speak up, 

maybe mention the shadow they’ve seen 

is the thick head of their own invention.

David Feela writes monthly columns for The Four Corners Free Press and The Durango Telegraph. Unsolicited Press released his newest chapbook Little Acres in 2019.

WINTRY MIX

by Tricia Knoll

As a forecast this seems like calling for mayhem

until the front moves in and the silence of snow

licks every branch and sticks to each twig’s gesture. 

 

The goldfinch and nuthatches retreat from the feeder

to unseen hideouts. The dogs yawn, and I succumb

to a sleepiness at odds with the morning news

 

of those who call for civil war, the skyrockets

of corona deaths, projections of costs in trust

and cash. The silence of falling snow deepens

 

inch by inch above the ice slick the rain gave 

first. Slow gather and the flurry of politicians

with papers and proof seeking. Such sad news

 

in accumulations inch by inch by inch. 

Tricia Knoll is living out the series of wintry mixes in Vermont where the forecast calls of windchills of -20 in the next few days. Her new chapbook Let's Hear It For The Horses is available February 1, and the horses outside down the road during the day  are all wearing heavy blankets now.

REPEAT PERFORMANCE

by Indran Amirthanayagam

The captain of Afghanistan’s women's wheelchair basketball team Nilofar Bayat and her husband Ramish disembark from the second Spanish evacuation airplane, carrying Afghan collaborators and their families, that landed at the Torrejon de Ardoz air base, 30 kilometers away from Madrid, on August 20, 2021. (Mariscal / POOL / AFP via Getty Images) via The Nation.

We are Americans even after 9/11, or Afghanistan, Vietnam for

its generation, which makes me think that we tempt history too

much, are poor students, never learn. So here we go again,

in helicopters and planes with just a handbag, a couple of

documents, and lives of those we can evacuate before the deadline,

and the country shutters up, and we return to insidious inside

operations because we will never learn, war being diplomacy

by other means, revenge always percolating on the stove, politicians

gnashing teeth to spit out America will be great again, under

their blinkered tutelage, investing in heavy tanks, precision bombers

and strategic plans only to realize that none of these can defeat the rebel

with a cause, who knows the land's dips and rises, who can melt into

the crowd, before springing back in the finest and most colorful robes,

to say bye bye American pie, get back by midnight to your promised land.

Indran Amirthanayagam writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese, and Haitian Creole. He has 19 poetry books, including Blue Window/ Ventana Azul translated by Jennifer Rathbun (Lavender Ink/Diálogos Books, 2021), The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, 2020), and Sur l'île nostalgique (L'Harmattan, 2020). In music, Indran recorded Rankont Dout. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, is a columnist for Haiti en Marche, won the Paterson Prize, and is a 2020 Foundation for the Contemporary Arts fellow.

THE SACKING OF DELHI, 2021

by Joy Dehlavi

Photo by Joy Dehlavi while delivering baked goods to an oxygen camp with medical personnel and Sikh volunteers.

Timur-lane rides again,

to gut the golden bird;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word.

With just a smidgeon

of his novel potion;

The bandit can bludgeon

an entire nation. 

Bringing no horsemen

with bow and scimitar;

He leaves hordes behind

in Samarkand durbar.

Of defending Delhi,

they have lost all clues;

India’s overlords

charading as world gurus. 

In cold corrupt hearts,

no patriotism stirred;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word. 

The billboards are huge,

but the vision small;

The news is fake

and economy in free fall.

Bumbling babus

and malicious middlemen;

Let native immunity wane

and bastions broken. 

Timur plots unguarded

burg’s checkmate;

He gently lets loose

the taj plague outbreak. 

Setting sight on crowds,

the virus veered;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word. 

Lethal contagion wafts

in balmy breeze;

Hard to hide,

from its viperous squeeze. 

Smiting shanty and manor,

mandir and masjid;

Slithering softly with breath,

a malady horrid. 

Froth-corrupted lungs

straining for breath;

Denied relief or air,

no dignity in death. 

Stranded on sidewalks,

calling to be cured;

Dilli my jaan

will have the last word. 

Smoke chokes the city,

from roaring fires;

Trees turn to timber,

feeding endless pyres. 

Remorseless racketeers

cashing in on misery;

Floating carrion speak

of untold butchery. 

Widow women, orphan kids,

aged losing help;

The tormented hear

forsaken pariah's yelp.

Isolation and penury,

pestilence delivered;

Dilli my jaan,

will have the last word. 

Donning face shields 

and suits of plastic armor;

An army arrives

to battle the vile vapor. 

Feeding, sanitizing,

testing and vaccinating;

All castes come together,

in fraught fighting. 

Selfless service ingrained

in their blood;

Steely sardars serve

oxygen to the cursed. 

In succoring the sick,

they dread no hazard;

Dilli meri jaan

will have the last word. 

Ceding sleep and lull,

medicos risk their all;

Even chiefs fall

to the jagged green ball. 

"No one sleeps"

tending the breath machine;

"I will win," says

the nurse to spike protein. 

Hours sweltering,

in stifling protective gear;

They keep on healing,

feeling no fear. 

Dehliwallahs rise up,

audaciously undeterred;

Dilli meri jaan,

will have the last word. 

Soulless charlatans

getting masses misled;

Crack crack crackles

the sky over their head. 

Profiteering politicians

filled with conceit;

Thud thud trembles

the ground under their feet. 

Timur finally falls,

to the common cold;

Heart of Bharat beats,

beautiful and bold. 

With head held high,

it moves forward;

Dilli meri jaan

will always have the last word. 

Author's Note: Dilli is another name for the city of Delhi. "My jaan" means "my life" in Urdu and Hindi. Usually used to address a lover. "Meri" is Hindi for "my". As the poem takes a turn and starts describing positive things that are happening around me, I change to "Dilli meri jaan" as a more intimate way of refering to the city I grew up in. There was a tourism jingle " Dilli meri jaan" used to promote the city to foreigners about 30 years ago. Most people in Delhi or Dehli still use this expression to express their love for the city.

Glossary:

·      Babu - A mid to low level government functionary or clerk (Hindi)

·      Bharat - Another name for India (Hindi)

·      Burg - Medieval fortress or walled city

·      Caste - Stratification system in Indian society with some history of difficulty in working together.

·      Dehliwallah - One who belongs to Dehli/Delhi (Hindi/Urdu)

·      Durbar - Royal court (Hindi/Urdu)

·      Mandir - Place of worship for Hindus (Hindi)

·      Masjid - Place of worship for Muslims (Hindi/Urdu)

·      Native immunity - Scientific term for innate resistance to infections

·      Sardar - Members of the Sikh community known for their courage and charity (Hindi/Punjabi)

·      Taj - Crown or Corona (Hindi/Urdu)

 

References explained:

·      “Crack crack crackles the sky over their head” and “Thud thud trembles the ground under their feet” —Adapted from Urdu poem “Hum dekhenge” by Pakistani poet Faiz Ahmad Faiz. Frequently used as protest anthem against government policies.

·      “Froth-corrupted lungs” — From “Dulce Et Decorum Est “ by Wilfred Owen. Author described effects of poison gas on unmasked soldiers during The Great War.

·      “No one sleeps” and “I will win”— Lyrics translated to English from “Nessun Dorma,” the aria from Puccini’s Turandot popular in Europe as a rallying cry to encourage frontline healthcare workers during the first coronavirus wave in spring of 2020.

·      “With head held high” — Adapted from Bengali poem “ Chitto Jetha Bhayshunyo” by Indian Nobel Laureate poet Rabindranath Tagore. He wrote this as his vision of new and awakened India.

·      Golden bird (Sone ki Chidiya in Hindi) — Refers to the wealthy land of India in medieval times that made it a target for many plunderers from Central Asia.

·      Timur or Timur-lane — Turco-Mongol conqueror who mercilessly sacked ineptly defended Delhi in December of 1398. Infamous for indiscriminate massacre of a large number of city residents.

Joy Dehlavi wrote “The Sacking of Delhi, 2021” drawing from his experiences during the coronavirus spike lockdown that he spent in Delhi, India. Born in India, he now lives in the USA.

DID JUSTICE NOT MOAN?

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

An encounter in 2020 between a Jewish couple in Ijzim, Israel (south of Haifa) and the displaced Palestinians in whose house that couple has lived since 1948 when the Palestinians were denied the right to return to their village and property. Photo from an Al Jazeera video report. At YouTube, you can click on “SHOW MORE” to read an English translation of the Arabic narration.

Did their mothers tell them

Take whatever you want?

Did their fathers say

By any means necessary?

Did the god they concocted assure them

That they mattered more than anyone else?

Did the historians of erasure argue

That until they arrived the land was uninhabited?

Did the cartographers of eradication draw beautiful maps

Haunted by ghost villages?

Do the politicians they vote for promise

A sanitized future cleansed of the Other?

When they faced those they had dispossessed

And claimed not to give them a second thought

Did justice not moan?

Did righteousness not weep?

Buff Whitman-Bradley’s poems have appeared in many print and online journals. His new book is At the Driveway Guitar Sale: Poems on Aging, Memory, Morality (Main Street Rag Publishing). He podcasts at thirdactpoems.podbean.com and lives with his wife, Cynthia, in northern California.

THE GREATEST TRICK

by Damian Balassone

Click for more on this quotation from The Usual Suspects.

The greatest trick 

the devil ever pulled 

was convincing the world

he didn’t exist.

The greatest trick

the politician ever pulled

was convincing the world

he wasn’t a politician.

Damian Balassone is an Australian poet whose work has appeared in over 100 publications, most notably in The New York Times.  He is the author of three volumes of poetry, including Strange Game in a Strange Land.

THE AGE OF MAGA HATS AND A DIMWIT VIRUS

by Lyndi Waters                

 

More Than a Feeling by Matt Lubchansky, The Nib, April 22, 2020

Our generation passes
with both hands over our eyes,
yet moving a certain bluster
through the world as owners,

out the other side
as whimpering eye blinks,
departing roughly the same time
realization dawns

of how the world has carved us,
tumbled us in the rapids
until our edges are smooth.
The preachers wave their cleavers,

hack us apart like fresh fish at market,
politicians widen the space
between the halves
then stuff them with our own fears.

How long will we acquiesce
to rock hunters who pass truth by
in search of people to fit their stories,
characters who have already

been ear-tagged through fable,
pressed into service,
handed scripts and dark glasses.
And yet we continue on with a dimwit virus,

MAGA hats, sippy cups of bleach,
protesters demanding haircuts,
and quiet poets, who navel gaze and describe sunsets
while Denise Levertov rolls in her grave.

Lyndi Waters is a Pushcart Prize nominee, winner of the 2019 Frank Nelson Doubleday Memorial Writing Award, the 2018 Eugene V. Shea National Poetry Contest, and the 2019 Wyoming Writers, Inc. free verse contest. Lyndi’s poems have been published, or are forthcoming, in literary magazines and anthologies such as The Owen Wister Review, Gyroscope Review, New Verse News, Picaroon Poetry, Unbroken Journal, Blood, Water, Wind, and Stone: An Anthology of Wyoming Writers (Sastrugi Press, 2016), and Troubadour (Picaroon Poetry Press, U.K., 2017).

COLLECTOR

by Jonel Abellanosa





I own three mountains of garbage
between pavements that have
memorized our footsteps. Five angels
follow me, sleep where I sleep,
bark, wag like the president.

People are generous, my mountains
tall whether moon or sun. My tin cup
runneth over, furbabies and I drinking
laughter. Leftovers full and fill.
Bones for them, sometimes toys.

I’m a discoverer. I know shards
of glass draw sunlight. I’m an explorer.
For each dig, I find brass or bronze.
I breathe new life to batteries.
Books remind me of Alexandria.

When it rains their yelps make me
cry, and I’m richer. They love sackcloth
for the freeze. They tell me secrets.
Debating politicians need us, so they
can speak in tongues and be bold.

A regular contributor to TheNewVerse.News, Jonel Abellanosa lives in Cebu City, the Philippines. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals including That Literary Review, Poetry Kanto, The Lyric, The McNeese Review and Star*Line and been nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net and Dwarf Stars awards. His poetry collections include Meditations (Alien Buddha Press), Songs from My Mind’s Tree and Multiverse (Clare Songbirds Publishing House), 50 Acrostic Poems (Cyberwit, India), and his politically-progressive collection In the Donald’s Time (Poetic Justice Books and Art). His first speculative poetry collection Pan’s Saxophone is forthcoming from Weasel Press.