OWNERSHIP

by W. Luther Jett

Three people were arrested by Florida Highway Patrol Sunday evening at the Pulse nightclub memorial site, after witnesses say they again attempted to chalk the nearby crosswalk in rainbow colors that were recently removed by the Florida Department of Transportation.—Central Florida Public Media, August 31, 2025. Photo by Nicole Darden Creston/Central Florida Public Media: Early Sunday afternoon, a sign reading "Defacing sidewalk prohibited" stands next to an area of sidewalk chalked with the phrase "You can't erase us." Florida Highway Patrol cars are seen in the parking lot across the street behind the building.

There was chalk

on the sidewalk and they—

the owners of the sidewalk

erased it.

                    Then it rained

while the sun shone—

We all saw the rainbow

before they put up walls

to hide it,

                    But you see

no-one really owned that sidewalk—

no more than anyone could own

the sky where the rainbow 

shimmered.

                    And if anyone

ever tells you they have touched

a rainbow—they are not

being truthful.

                    But I have held

chalk in my hand, chalk

all colors of—well, you know

how chalk dust rubs off—

how it gets

                    all over everything.

W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland and a retired special educator. His poetry has been published in numerous journals as well as several anthologies. He is the author of six poetry chapbooks. His full-length collection “Flying to America” was published by Broadstone Books in 2024, while his most recent chapbook “The Colour War” was released by Kelsay Books in 2024.

SILENCE, A CROW

by Francis Opila

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

Listen
to silence at dawn
the night still holds

you by candlelight
one poem wakes you
compels you to unravel

thread by thread
in breath, out breath
harmony in this moment

your 9 AM appointment
laundry, your next hike
bombs in the Middle East

until from a nearby maple
a crow cackles
arrested for free speech

yet he calls over & over
howls of a distant train
now a dozen crows

in breath, out breath
tapping of gentle rain

Francis Opila is a rain-struck, sun-loving poet who lives in the Pacific Northwest.  His poems have appeared in Willawaw Journal, Wayfinding, Windfall, and other journals. His poetry collection Conference of the Crows was published in 2023. He enjoys performing poetry, combining recitation and playing North American wooden flutes.

AI SHANTY

by Joel Glover

LA Wildfires and AI’s Data Center Water Drain: The explosion of data center demand for AI use is draining water resources. Even with efforts to mitigate cooling demands, municipalities and companies struggle to find a balance. —Information Week, January 17, 2025. 

[Refrain]

Oh, the sea was wide, the sun is high

The land is parched, the soil is dry

And clouds swirl over cooling stacks

And soothing rain is what we lack

[Verse 1]

There’s vapour in the atmosphere

And bubbles form, that much is clear

Pyramids and Ponzi schemes

Built on algorithmic dreams

[Refrain]

Oh, the sea was wide, the sun is high

The land is parched, the soil is dry

And clouds swirl over cooling stacks

And the cooling rain is what we lack

[Verse 2]

Profits for some, for us the loss

Ice caps melted, no more frost

Towns in rolling blackout pall

No showers, storms, or thunder squall

[Refrain]

Oh, the sea was wide, the sun is high

The land is parched, the soil is dry

And clouds swirl over cooling stacks

And the cooling rain is what we lack

Former waiter in a Love Boat themed restaurant, reformed mandarin, and extroverted accountant, Joel Glover lives in the woods of Hertfordshire with two boys, one wife, and not nearly enough coffee. His poetry has appeared in oddball magazine, Little Old Lady Comedy, Radon Journal, 5-7-5 Journal, Epistemic Literary, Pulp Lit Mag, and As It Ought To Be. He published a chapbook Untimely Poetry, taking a cockeyed view at the news of 2024.

NEW YEAR'S EVE IN GAZA

by Donna Katzin

Part of the humanitarian zone, around Al-Aqsa University, west of Khan Yunis. February 2024, compared to December 2024. Credit: Planet Labs PBC via Haaretz, December 31, 2024

There is no shelter to keep out the cold                                     

in Deir al-Balah—no water

safe to drink or mouthfuls of food…

famine claims the children one by one,

even infants who, though barely named,

are loved.

 

Winter winds do not appear to notice,

rip through shreds of plastic

pretending to be tents,                                       

that can no longer hold together

as unspoken words and stifled prayers

stab at throats too dry to utter them.

 

Without knocking, rain pours through the openings,

soaks clothes and bedding to the skin

for days and nights that never close their eyes,

like a lethal benediction

claiming tiny souls of unblessed babies

freezing in their mothers’ arms.

 

A world away, one million revel in Times Square 

awash in bright lights and bubbly 

on the eve of the New Year.

 

 

Donna Katzin is founding and former Executive Director of Shared Interest, investing in South Africa's democratic development, and co-coordinator of Tipitapa Partners, working with Nicaraguan mothers to feed their children.  She is also a member of the Reconstructionist Movement's Tikkun Olam (Repair the World) Commission, and a published poet honored to have been included in The New Verse News.

PANDORA OPENS THE BOX

by Lynda Gene Rymond

In air too warm for any November,
rainy season trumped by drought,
Blue Mountain births a wildfire
moving through tree roots
like soldiers in the dark.
 
The news is bad at 11,
worse at 3, a landslide
by first light —hope bound
and handed over to the bull-roar
of Minotaur triumph.
 
Tomorrow or the next day
we’ll start plucking strands
of resistance. Today is just for
watching the steel-gray clouds
and praying for rain.

Lynda Gene Rymond lives and works on Goblin Farm in Applebachsville, Pa, where she raises fruits and vegetables, goats, chickens, honeybees, poems, and short stories. Find her and her workshops at www.goblinfarm.net

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. 

GHOST LAKE

by Sally Zakariya

A kayaker on Lake Manly at sunset in Death Valley National Park, California on Tuesday. (Bridget Bennett for The Washington Post, March 1, 2024)

They don’t call it Death Valley for nothing.
Dry, desolate desert—who’d expect
an ancient lake to reclaim its old home?

I’m back, the waters whisper to Badwater Basin,
its soil salty with geologic tears, memories
of a time long gone.

Ninety miles long, six hundred feet deep—
that was then, before the last ice age
gave way to a warmer world.

Native peoples, a gold rush, borax mines, 
twenty-mule teams—a busy history 
for the nation’s driest spot.

Now rain, rain, record-breaking rain 
has resurrected the lake, thanks to climate
change gone out of control.

But put your kayak away. Already
the ghost lake is evaporating,
too shallow now for boats.

Farewell, the waters murmur. But
if the humans don’t take care, I’ll
be back before you know it.


Sally Zakariya’s poetry has appeared in some 100 publications and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her publications include All Alive Together, Something Like a Life, Muslim Wife, The Unknowable Mystery of Other People, Personal Astronomy, and When You Escape. She edited and designed a poetry anthology, Joys of the Table, and blogs at www.butdoesitrhyme.com.

MONSOON BLUES

by Geoffrey Philp

Venice is sinking. So are Rotterdam, Bangkok and New York. But no place compares to Jakarta, the fastest-sinking megacity on the planet. Over the past 25 years, the hardest-hit areas of Indonesia’s capital have subsided more than 16 feet. The city has until 2030 to figure out a solution, experts say, or it will be too late to hold back the Java Sea. —Bloomberg, December 6, 2023

Walking along Jalan Tebet Baru Timur where the East Tebet Sugar Plantation once sprawled across the delta on which modern Jakarta is built, cranes hover over a metropolis dotted with blue and black plastic water tanks. The air seems thicker, trapped between the glass and steel towers crisscrossing the city where water supplies wither under a blazing tropical sun, and the city's thirst drains the last drop from depleted reservoirs.
 
While sea levels rise
Jakarta waits for the rain
in the Ring of Fire.

Author’s Note: As coastal megacities like Jakarta sink under the combined weight of rapid development, rising seas, and unstable land subsidence, these converging forces spotlight the harsh realities of climate change threats facing our urban future.

Geoffrey Philp, a Silver Musgrave Medal recipient, is the author of Archipelagos, a book of poems about climate change which was long-listed for the Laurel Prize. Philp’s Twelve Poems and a Story for Christmas retells the nativity story, transporting readers back to that holy night in a fresh yet traditional way. His poem “A Prayer for My Children” is featured on The Poetry Rail—an homage to 12 writers who shaped Miami's culture. He  lives in Miami and is working on a children's book Marsha and the Mangroves.

APOCALYPSE

by Katherine West

detail of the poster for the film Apocalypse Now

I stand with my back to winter 
as if I could hold off blizzards 
with force of will alone 

I am the last dam without a crack 
Water trickles over my shoulders 
Flood whispers in my ears 

I am rain following fire 
tracking its crackle and whoosh 
lowering like a raptor after prey 

I am the final embrace before death 
grabs you by the ankles 
leaving only your soul in my arms 

I am the last mother
carrying a million children on my back 
swimming for safety against the tide 

I am the last dancer, the last poet
the last artist using my own blood 
to paint the last sunset 

I am the last person on Earth 
I have broken all mirrors, all my brothers 
are only songs

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, Southwest Word Fiesta, and The Silver City Anthology. 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.

SABBATH

by Chris Reed

The deepening fall stalls my step,
invites a seasonal sabbath,
a slowing of time, luring me
to witness the dying world,
the retreat of light, warmth, color,
a trail of endings,
this yearly dress rehearsal.

Here is the world. 
Leaves, red-rimmed, rustle silently
like yesterday’s still photos from Gaza,
Israel, Ukraine, blood-tinged. 
The deck is wet from recent rain,
as water runs out in war-torn lands,
runs out for all, as rivers 
and aquifers shrink, while torrents
wash cities into the sea.

A rest. A time away from politics,
like leaving the red-faced relatives,
arguing in the sunroom, laced
with whisky fumes, surrounded
by blue-blossomed African violets.
I’d sneak into the kitchen 
filled with the smells and warmth 
of my grandmother’s baking bread
as she hugged me and nodded,
a knowing smile on her face.

Was it in Coetzee, I read that politics
is just a form we use for the hate
and frustration already there?
Was it in Miller, I read that when
as children, love is denied, politics
and how we treat our own children,
are where we fine-tune our cruelty?

The leaves turn paler, start to yellow,
the sky, a cleaner blue after the rains.
Sabbath is about sitting with gratitude,
sitting with possibilities,
sitting with some kind of god, 
some kind of love.
I wait.


Author’s Note: The seed for this poem was this week's New York Times story about the Amazon River.


Chris Reed is a retired Unitarian minister. Her poems have recently been published in River Heron Review, The NewVerse News, and US1 Worksheets, among other journals.

LAST WEEK, WHEN IT RAINED

by Alice Campbell Romano

This river savaged my neighbor

poured six feet of water into his basement

water higher than his head

In another house

and another

and another

she slopped up onto the first floor,

onto the boards

onto the rugs

ruthless

No sooner did one neighbor

finish his repairs

after the hurricane—

seventy-five thousand dollars—

than the river

bulged,

swelled,

pooled,

in every room,

floated

his new furniture,

gurgled and laughed

and rose up outside to cover cars

parked on the street

And down the street on the corner

the whole corner is lined with everything

the family who lives in the house on the corner

has to throw away

chairs, a sofa, bookcases, baby beds, cabinets,

whatever was contained in the cabinets,

why name them all? Everything stored

until a time when the family would agree on

what to sell and when, and now there’s nothing but

mush and melted glue and sog.

The river today winks and scintillates

under the bridge, well between her banks

while a few early autumn leaves ride her ripples.

Am I not beautiful, she whispers.

Alice Campbell Romano lived a dozen years in Italy where she adapted Italian movie scripts into English, married a dashing Italian movie-maker, made children, and moved with the family to the U.S., where they built, she wrote, and the children grew. Her poems have appeared in—among other venues—Prometheus Dreaming, Persimmon Tree, Pink Panther Magazine, Orchards Poetry, New Croton Review; Beyond Words, Writing in a Woman's Voice, Quartet Journal, Instant Noodles Devil's Press, Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press. In January, she was awarded HONORABLE MENTION in The Comstock Review's 2022 Chapbook contest, "...not an award that we give every year, but an honor set aside for a few manuscripts." Alice swooned. 

STALKING ME / SKEINS OF INCANDESCENCE

by Dick Altman

British Columbia declares state of emergency amid ‘devastating’ wildfires
                                                                             —The Washington Post, August 19, 2023

Another headline, another smoke-filled

front page—the fires all seem so far away—

until they begin to feel as if they’re

pursuing you.

 

I see you, as a child, in the distance, feel you

roar down the block, run to you as if some

plaything—until your touch, in terror, turns me,

my fear, from that day on, drawing you to me.

                                 *

Your essence, swallowing Quebec’s forests,

smothers, with belches of haze blood-red,

our cabin, your breath for weeks choking

throat, mind, sleep.

                                 *

I watch you unfurl in the Jemez mountains,

across Rio Grande’s valley, to attack Los Alamos,

atom bomb’s birthplace, shaken that its labs,

caught in your maw, could blow apart earth.

                                    *

Why do you stalk me, I ask, as I wake to find you

convulsing the next range over, armies of clouds,

raging, towering above me, for months, unstoppable,

our drought-riven tinderscape dissolving in defeat.

                                       *

You come, next time, within a mile of me, no taunt,

but threat real to home and glade, lifetime of work,

bloom, joy—only your joy lies in taking it all away,

and spirits of rain, I pray, drown you to death.

Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, riverSedge, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Blue Line, THE Magazine, Humana obscura, The Offbeat, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The RavensPerch, Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad. A poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has in progress two collections of some 100 published poems. His work appears in the first volume of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry published this year by the New Mexico Museum Press. 

CONTROLLED BURN

by Joan Leotta

 

One might think that in an area 

Used to the force of hurricanes, 

Uncontrolled forces of wind and water

That wreak havoc on the land 

Might better understand

The paradox of their mission.

Setting a “controlled burn”

That’s how it started, they say.

To burn four hundred wooded acres 

to lessen fire’s damage.

“They” ignited the flames, watched, and left, 

not realizing until the next day

embers had reignited, blazed hot

and traveled on the wind

in the night.

Now, as I write, 

a week later,

almost sixteen thousand acres of 

woodland are now ash. Countless

animals, birds have lost homes,

people not as yet,

but the flames are still unextinguished,

blaze still only partly contained.

Red suns at dawn and dusk are beautiful 

but terrifying at the same time.

Wind, fire, water, earth—

four elements have already shown themselves

to be beyond our ability to reign them in.

We poets have known since forever, 

that these are forces beyond our control.

The only true controlled burn is anger.

Forgiveness extinguishes those flames.

We wait now for heaven’s forgiving

soaking rain to quench these flames

to stop this fire’s spread.

Joan Leotta is an author and Story Performer.

MARCH 27, 2023

by Alice Campbell Romano

Bronxville.

The rain is scant at this very moment, 

sky almost blue, but it comes and goes

in pelting drops. Here, just now, balls bounce 

against air: red, yellow, green, until I see

they decorate a transparent, plastic umbrella,

a dome of delight where safe from random drops

a child dances down the sidewalk. A skinny stick 

of a kid, maybe nine, in a long, silly raincoat 

mom must have insisted upon. But who cares.

School’s out now, the umbrella is fun and

soon I’ll be home to snacks and hugs. Oh,

such strong hugs.

Nashville.

One image stays. A face behind a school bus window.

A child, a little girl, the caption says. Yes, that’s right,

but when I first see the picture, she has no age. Her lips 

are bent, stretched open so wide side-to-side they eat 

into her cheeks. Her chin is a crinkled dimple squashed 

against the glass, her frown pulls a hard vee down 

between her eyes to her hot red nose. Her hand presses 

the glass, pushes away what she left outside. I don’t 

hear her scream. Of course not, I’m looking at a picture

taken from outside the bus. The child is frozen behind 

the window glass in the red heat of wordless pain. She 

may scream, may break down and cry, but not yet. 

The photographer—what astonishing luck—releases

this moment of unbearable distortion—her little face, 

the rest of her life. And now I notice, stenciled above 

the bus window, a descriptor—Emergency Exit. There 

are no emergency exits. Voice the scream for her. Take 

to the streets. Make it so children dance as they go home.

Editor's note: The photograph described in the second section of this poem accompanies Marsha Owens' March 27 prose poem in The New Verse News.

Alice Campbell Romano lived a dozen years in Italy where she adapted Italian movie scripts into English, married a dashing Italian movie-maker, made children, and moved with the family to the U.S., where they built, she wrote, and the children grew. Her poems have appeared in—among other venues—Prometheus Dreaming, Persimmon Tree, Pink Panther Magazine, Orchards Poetry, New Croton Review; Beyond Words, Writing in a Woman's Voice, Quartet Journal, Instant Noodles Devil's Press, Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press. In January, she was awarded HONORABLE MENTION in The Comstock Review's 2022 Chapbook contest, "...not an award that we give every year, but an honor set aside for a few manuscripts." Alice swooned. 

THE CHILENO VALLEY NEWT BRIGADE

by Martin Elster

For the past four years, volunteers have spent their winter nights shepherding newts across a one-mile stretch of Chileno Valley Road, a winding country road in the hills of Petaluma. They call themselves the Chileno Valley Newt Brigade, and their founder, Sally Gale, says they will keep showing up until the newts no longer need them. —The New York Times, January 24, 2023

Chileno Valley Road cuts smack across

their migratory path, nestled between

forests and farms and ranches, yet the loss

of newts (small, slender creatures rarely seen

at night) can be acute. It’s time to breed.

Downpours have deluged rivers, ponds, and lakes.

Amphibians wake. They feel an urgent need.

Drivers don’t heed them, nor apply their brakes.  

Dozens of orange forms (wheels can’t dissuade them,

for genes in their amphibian marrow bade them)

slither to the blacktop, blind to dangers.

Yet here’s the noble Newt Brigade to aid them

to reach the primal waters which have made them,

now clinging to the fingers of kind strangers.

The winner of the 2022 Helen Schaible International Sonnet Contest, Martin Elster comes from Hartford, CT, where he studied percussion and composition at the Hartt School of Music and performed with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. Martin, whose poetry has been strongly influenced by his musical sensibilities, has written two books, the latest of which is Celestial Euphony (Plum White Press, 2019).