WHAT HE DID FOR THEM

by Marge Piercy

Cartoon by Ben Jennings / The Guardian

The Epstein files reveal how

the very rich relate entirely

to each other. They live 

in hermetic opulence.

 

Epstein was not only pimp 

but connector. He gave

the rich and powerful what

they wanted, forbidden

 

sex, a sense of always

being in control, someone

they wanted to hang out

with: the connector.

 

We’re way beneath their

gaze, their understanding

any more than we know 

intricacies of ant life.

 

Too small for us to notice,

we step on them casually

as we go on our way, just

as the rich do to us.

Marge Piercy is the author of twenty one poetry collections and seventeen novels, including Woman at the Edge of Time and SEX WARS. A lifelong feminist, socialist, and anti-war activist, her writing has been exploring labor, environmental justice, and the struggle for a more equitable world over the last five decades. 

CONSTRUCTIONS

by Tricia Knoll

AI video created by Nightcafé for The New Verse News.

Bowerbirds do it. Paper wasps. The beaver’s mound accessible from under water.  Such a soft spot we hold for nest builders, from weavings to cups and knot-hole drillers. My two grandsons built two forts of fallen limbs leaned up against beech tree trunks. I can stand up in the bigger one to admire the couch dragged into one corner, a broken log. In the hands of the ultra-rich, the opposable thumb demands grandiose. Outrageous and expensive. Palaces. A home with its own power plant. Walled compounds. Cliff-top villas. Gilded mansions. Subject to the whims of time, rot, fire, and penury. Shelley on the narcissist’s build: “Nothing besides remains.” Prince Prospero’s ballroom could not withstand the contagion of the red death. Vanity and striving after the wind. What happened to the angel who saved three men who refused to bow down to King Nebuchadnezzar’s gold statue. She chastised the sneer of cold command known as retribution. The artifice of blue-tinged pools. As for the Arch, what words carved there would memorialize war, lies, inflation, tears of the hungry, sick and veterans betrayed. Good people disappeared. Such lone and level sands stretch far away. 

Most poets have memorized many of their favorite poems. Tricia Knoll is sort of stuck with Shelley's Ozymandias. In recent months she has moved from free verse to prose poetry. Her chapbook The Unknown Daughter was a finalist in the 2025 New England Poetry Club Chapbook contest. Wild Apples details downsizing and moving 3,000 miles from Oregon to Vermont. She is a Contributing Editor to Verse Virtual.

THE ART OF THE DEAL

by Steve Deutsch

 

 

Cartoon by José Alberto Rodríguez Avila

My cousin Bobby

tells me

the ultra rich

 

are negotiating

for more sunshine

on their compounds.

 

He reasons

that will mean

less sunshine

 

for the rest of us.

“They also want

a full moon

 

every night of the year.”

Bobby’s the nicest guy,

but thinks 2+2 is advanced math.

 

He read about the sunlight

in several feeds

on the internet

 

and now he owns it.

I ask him

who they are negotiating with

 

and he gives me

his poor dumb cousin look.

I drive home past

 

what we know as “the castle on the hill,”

and it seems to me

the hill has gotten higher.

 

The sun sets at my house

at 7:41 tonight—

it’s supposed to set at eight.

 

And I have to wonder

what else they might

be bargaining for.

Steve Deutsch is poetry editor of Centered Magazine and was the first poet in residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum. He has been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes multiple times. He has six volumes of Poetry. One, Brooklyn won the Sinclair Poetry Prize.

BRANKS

by Julie Steiner

Images of Epstein victims as depicted in Feb. 8, 2026, Super Bowl ad. Image of branks from an oil painting by John Willie, pseudonym for John Alexander Scott Coutts, for Bizarre, a sadomasochism magazine published 1946–1959. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Brank/branks: A device formerly used to punish women judged to be noisy and quarrelsome, consisting of an iron curb for the tongue, held in place by a frame around the head. Also called a scold’s bridle.


You have to tell the truth, but tell it slant.
To lay it bare’s unbearable. You’ve tried.
You’d like to leave it buried, but you can’t.

Too few have cared to hear a woman rant
since Homer (“Sing, O Muse, of anger”) died.
You have to tell the truth; but tell it slant,

since, frankly, even Keats would have to grant
this truth’s no beauty. This, you’ve had to hide.
You’d like to leave it buried. But you can’t,

so Dickinson’s advice is relevant.
She’ll be your Virgil, your inferno-guide.
You have to “Tell [...] the truth, but tell it slant— ”

“Tell all the truth.” But don’t get adamant,
“Or every man be blind—,” she qualified.
You’d like to leave it bare. (Read: But you can’t.)

Loud girls get label-gagged: once, Termagant,

Virago, Shrew; now, Bitch. Take that in stride.

(You have, to tell the truth.) But tell it—slant

or no—you must. Omit the bitter. Scant
the pathos. Cut the caustic. Snip the snide.
(You’d like to leave it, buried.) But you can’t

accuse the rich of rape, or lawyers chant,

“No, he’s the victim! She’s a slut who lied.”

You have to tell the truth, but tell it slant.
You’d like to leave it buried. But you can’t.

Julie Steiner is a pseudonym in San Diego, California. Besides The New Verse News, recent venues in which Julie's poetry has appeared include the Ekphrastic Review, Light, Lighten Up Online, and Snakeskin. See more on her Substack, Off-Piste on Mount Parnassus.

3 VERY GOOD YOUNG POOR

by Mickey J. Corrigan

Justice Department under scrutiny for revealing victim info and concealing possible enablers in Epstein files...

     In a 2018 email to Epstein, another redacted individual wrote: “I found at least 3 very good young poor.” 

     “Meet this one,” the person continued. “Not the beauty queen but we both likes her a lot.” 

     —CNN, February 5, 2026

The redacted
they culled
they hawked
they bartered
girls not women
sucked in a nightmare
too young to grasp
escape, recover
now women not girls
faces splashed online
names and nudes
abusers hidden
blacked out shame
very good young poor
splashed in full
nothing on, nothing
protecting them 
from bad old rich
powerful driven
to use, abuse, lie 
in other countries
powerful men
lose positions 
power, face
while in the US
very good girls
young poor
sucked in
spit out
while the machine 
of money, power, abuse
drives on, on
the system as is
only winners winning

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan hides out in the lush ruins of South Florida. Salt Publishing in the UK released Project XX, a satirical novel about a school shooting. Bloodhound Books UK published What I Did For Love, a spoof of the classic Lolita. Poetry has been published in literary journals, chapbooks, and collections.

TAX THE RICH

by Virginia Aronson

Legislators and governors in many blue states are preparing a range of new taxes on the wealthy. At the same time, many red states continue to cut or eliminate income taxes. —CNBC, January 30, 2026

Why is the sky
the limit for them
the gold bars
the shiny cars
the luxury this
exclusive that

starts with a penny
turns into a pound
of toys 
of gold 
of flesh
accumulation
without constraint
changing character
dirtying hands
using up resources
polluting our cities
changing our climate
socializing risks
privatizing rewards
paying for leadership
to hoard their gains:
it's socialism 
for the rich
and capitalism 
for the poor
it's golden visas 
for the rich
and deportations 
for the poor
it's cold streets 
for the homeless
shivering in misery
while the rich sleep well
on their beds of money
while the world burns down
under a blackened sky.

Virginia Aronson is the director of Food and Nutrition Resources Foundation and the author of many published books. New poetry collections include Collateral Damage(Clare Songbirds Publishing), Whiskey Island and Whiskey Straight Women (Cyberwit Press).

CROCKPOT

by Scott C. Kaestner

Dow Jones?
More like Down Jones, right?

Tariff is just another word
for insider trading.

Wake me up when it’s time 
to eat the rich.

I’ll get my Crockpot out
of the cupboard.

Not me but history says
haves vs have-nots.

Is now, always has been
again… not me but history.

This is why powers that be
don’t want it taught in school.

Now history is screaming
haves vs. have-nots.

A white wine reduction
and garlic should do the trick.

Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, writer, dad, husband, and a man of few words but many syllables. Google ‘scott kaestner poetry’ to peruse his musings and doings—maybe even buy a book.

SHORT DIVISION

by Diana Morley

Must cut says the prez-elect

in one of his cozy countless buildings

 

slipping in partners in crime

all the slime that’s fit to fill the void

the bigger the fire the better, he says,

to raise foes’ arm hair along with their hackles

to bring the thrill of campfire tales

all love to chill by, hoping they’re not real.

The public mass, like plants and wildlife,

work daily, yearly, season by season

knowing dawn’s the time to rise 

for the sun to warm, to turn us all toward others—

by nightfall there’s still the rent to pay

and a plugged-in quilt at bedtime

a kitchen cold as an unplayed banjo.

Diana Morley publishes poetry online and in journals. She published Spreading Like Water (2019), a chapbook; Splashing (2020), a poetry collection; and Oregon’s Almeda Fire: From loss to renewal (2021), a documentary of photos and poems.

YEAH, I’M WOKE

by Gordon Gilbert

        My eyes not closed
 
to all the colors of the rainbow;
         this world is not just black and white
 
to men telling women how to live their lives;
         they can’t even manage their own
 
to the rich getting richer;
the rest of us, poorer
 
to the racism everywhere;
how to some, others’ lives don’t matter
 
to the worship of the gun;
some even willing to sacrifice our children
 
to those who have the one, true religion;
they want to impose it on us all
 
to those who profit from these endless wars;
         they are never the ones who fight them
 
    My eyes have been opened
    I see the world more clearly
as it is
                         not
                             as it never was
 
            and so,
              I say it proudly,
                     yeah,
 
       I’m WOKE !

Gordon Gilbert is a writer of poetry and prose residing in NYC's west village. Actively involved in NYC spoken word events since 2008, he has also hosted programs celebrating the beat writers, several African American poets and other poets as well,  including William Carlos Williams. During the pandemic, Gordon found solace and inspiration in long walks along the Hudson River. 

COMMODUS

by Howie Faerstein

Commodus as Hercules, also known as The Bust of Commodus as Hercules, is a marble portrait sculpture created sometime in early 192 AD. It is housed in the Capitoline Museums in Rome, Italy. Originally discovered in 1874 in the underground chambers of Horti Lamiani, it has become one of the most famous examples of Roman portraiture to date. Commodus (31 August 161 AD – 31 December 192 AD) was Roman Emperor from 180 to 192 and the son of the previous emperor, Marcus Aurelius.During his sole reign, he came to associate himself with the Greek hero, Herakles (whose myths were adopted in Rome under the name Hercules), eventually having a bust depicting him as the hero created near the end of his reign.There is speculation of the Emperor's intent by creating depictions of himself as a godlike figure. While some sources say it was Commodus's desire not to be the protege of Hercules, but to be a god, the incarnation, the epiphany of Hercules and others claim instead that he simply desired to be the center of attention and show his intense appreciation for games and spectacles. —Wikipedia

Claiming to be Hercules reincarnated,
Commodus killed one hundred lions
and three elephants single-handedly
and our leader thinks he’s special,
says his I. Q. is one of the highest.
To honor the gods, Commodus had amputees chained together
in the arena and, pretending they were giants, clubbed them to death,
and our president says part of the beauty of me is that I’m very rich.
Late 2nd century emperor, Commodus
renamed Rome Commodius Commodiana,
and our buffoon-in-chief says, I could shoot somebody in the middle
of 5th Avenue and I wouldn’t lose voters.
With his bow, Commodus shot the heads off ostriches in full gallop,
slew a giraffe once, strange and helpless beast.
With each appearance as a gladiator,
he charged the city a million sesterces, depleting the treasury.
Citizens were often killed for making him angry.
He proclaimed a new order
just like T***p
and was assassinated finally
by his mistress, his chamberlain, and his prefect.

Howie Faerstein is the author of two poetry collections: Dreaming of the Rain in Brooklyn and Googootz and Other Poems both published by Press 53. His poetry and reviews can be found in Great River Review, Off the Coast, Rattle, upstreet, Mudfish and on-line in Verse Daily, About Place, Nixes Mate, On the Seawall, Poetrybay, Peacock Journal, and Connotation. He presently volunteers at the Center for New Americans and is co-poetry editor of CutThroat, A Journal of the Arts. 

NO ANSWERS

by Marsha Owens

The poet said she was born “to look, to listen.” I envy her self-awareness, her certainty. Still night lifted, and I languished under warm morning blankets, listened to my breath coming and going, remembered each day’s name, not marked by miracles, yet reliably present after the darkness. Warning-less, reality tromped the sunshine. I felt dragged like trash into the ugliness, the unholiness of the day. “Let them get loans,” the rich man said, “let them find food if they can and insulin. Let them struggle like I’ve never had to. Let them work for a living, like I’ve never had to. I will feed at the trough off of their backsides, a flagrant godfather with not a shred of good intent. Let them be content.”

I screamed into my soul asking what am I supposed to do? For what was I born, dear poet? I’m sure she answered in the silence folding down around the dawn.

Marsha Owens lives and writes in Richmond, VA.

CRIME

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

T***p Administration Mulls a Unilateral Tax Cut for the Rich 

—The New York Times, July 31, 2018

I see him frequently

When I drive downtown,

A small, bent, gray man

Dressed in greasy, ragged clothing

And dragging a wooden pallet,

Piled high with overstuffed black trash bags,

Along the sidewalk

Heading to God-knows-where,

If anywhere.

The effort required 

For each Sisyphean step he takes

Is an act of heroism,

And he trudges on,

Almost doubled over, eyes never looking up,

Past fast-food restaurants and taquerias,

Beauty shops and appliance stores and locksmiths,

Pulling his load 

Like the ant impossibly towing the elephant.

I have seen old women and men on the street,

Our sisters and brothers,

Pushing grocery carts full of torn jackets and frayed blankets,

Broken radios and artificial flowers,

Empty bottles and unmatched shoes,

On their way perhaps to the midnight shelter

Or the encampment under the bridge

Or the cardboard boxes behind the supermarket.

I am 75 years old

With enough resources, 

Barring calamity,

To remain housed and fed

From now until the final tick-tock

At the end of my time,

And what I ask myself is not

By what blind, stupid luck am I not they,

The wretched and exhausted and defeated, 

But instead,

Why does America not take care

Of all those in need?

Why does America create suffering

Rather than relieve it?

Why do some few matter and most do not?

Is the United States of America a country

Or a crime?

Buff Whitman-Bradley's poems have appeared in many print and online journals. His most recent books are To Get Our Bearings in this Wheeling World, and Cancer Cantata. With his wife Cynthia, he produced the award-winning documentary film Outside In and with the MIRC film collective, made the film Por Que Venimos. His interviews with soldiers refusing to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan were made into the book About Face: Military Resisters Turn Against War. He lives in northern California.

NOT A GOOD DAY

by Wayne Scheer





Not a good day for me...

The Republicans pass a tax bill
to help the rich get richer
and the Yankees
don't choose Bam Bam Muelins
as their new manager.

I have nothing against the Yankees' choice,
nor do I care about the rich,
one way or the other.

But it would have been fun
if a guy nicknamed Bam Bam
managed the stately Yanks
and it would have been nice
for those of us without private jets
to believe people in power cared.

Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He's published numerous stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories. His short story “Zen and the Art of House Painting” has been made into a short film. 

CHRISTMAS PAST WITH THE TRUMPS

by Alan Walowitz

Image source: Pinterest

The Q17 would take me past Jamaica Estates—
though I didn’t know then of Trump,
whose pop already was a big deal in Brooklyn,
but I knew this was where the rich folks lived.
And I’m sure young Donald, though a bully even then,
wasn’t the one who pushed me aside
and shook me down for a couple of dimes
in the arcade at the Jamaica Terminal
just to get at the shooting range,
with a rifle that shot light at the little metal ducks that
would shut with a snap like a flock of cheap valises.
A guy like him didn’t take the bus, I learned,
and would have pocketsful of dimes to fill his own machines
that lined his basement finished in teak and kingwood—
and had real guns to shoot at summer camps
with riflery and riding, Western and English,
and cloth napkins that came with service
and they didn’t dare call it mess.

My father would drive us through Trump’s part of the world
this time of year to see the Christmas lights of the rich,
and we probably went by his house a couple of times,
though the really well-to-do never put up lights,
while the newly rich installed just one color—a melancholy blue—
on their mansion’s outer edge so passersby like us might be awed by its size,
in the winter dark, while the family that might have lived inside
was off on a cruise, though they likely left the curtains open,
and the white lights shaped like candles on the huge tree
would illuminate those ten foot ceilings, in those cavernous front rooms
that otherwise were never permitted to reveal
even a shadow.

Alan Walowitz has been published various places on the web and off. He’s a Contributing Editor at Verse-Virtual, an Online Community Journal of Poetry, and teaches at Manhattanville College in Purchase, NY and St. John’s University in Queens, NY. Alan's chapbook Exactly Like Love is available from Osedax Press.