IT’S SUNRISE IN AMERICA

by Michelle DeRose

Click here to see video Bradley posted on X.

Federal agents detained an immigrant woman with a pending asylum case and a work permit inside [Rayito de Sol] a Chicago children’s day care on Wednesday morning, local officials said. —Newsweek, November 5, 2025

The men are large, clad all-black,

balaclavad like ninja costumes

four year-olds wore last week.

Stiff flinty edges vest their chests. 

They wield the only guns.

 

Two-on-one they seize the teacher,

batter-ram the door with her head.

Toddlers stare, she screams, parents 

shake. The sun barely up for the day,

care kidnapped, spirited away.

Michelle DeRose wants to return to writing poems about her recently departed cat and the spot on her dog's back. Too many images from her original home town, Chicago, block that these days.

A PALER BIRD

In Memory of Sinéad O’Connor

by Diane Elayne Dees

She searched for God,

she searched for self,

she searched for a safe place

to build a nest and nurture

the fragments of her soul. 

The Magdalene Laundries

tried to wash her clean;

she suffered alone,

slept with the dying,

and—though forced into silence—

her voice escaped the prison.

Her voice—the voice that sang 

like an angel, the voice that told 

the truth that no one wanted to hear—

could not be silenced.

Her nerves on fire, her joints

inflamed, her past injecting pain

into her flesh and bone every moment— 

she shaved her head, cast off husbands,

cast off criticism, searched harder for God,

lost her child, lost her hope.

She was the pain felt by thousands,

the truth ignored by millions,

the voice of the screaming unheard,

the voice that will never be silenced.

Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbooks, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), The Last Time I Saw You (Finishing Line Press), and The Wild Parrots of Marigny (Querencia Press). Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

WOKE UP THINKING ABOUT THE PEOPLE OF UKRAINE

by Bunkong Tuon

Lightning lit up the night sky

Thunder crashing the world.

My bedroom walls shook.

Windows felt like they were about to explode.

And my foundation crumbled.

I was again back in the jungles.

The fighting happened mostly at night.

The moon hid behind the smoke and branches.

Trees stood still. Everything was quiet but the sounds

Of rifles and rocket launchers and the screaming 

Streaming out of the mouths of children and parents.

There are no winners and losers in war.

There are only civilians who didn’t ask for any of it.

Bunkong Tuon is a Cambodian-American writer and critic. He is the author of three poetry collections and a chapbook. His prose and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in New York Quarterly, Copper Nickel, Lowell Review, Massachusetts Review, The American Journal of Poetry, carte blanche, among others. He teaches at Union College, in Schenectady, NY.

TOO GRAPHIC

a poem found

by James Penha

in “Why the Austin American-Statesman chose to publish video from inside Robb Elementary,” July 12, 2022.

Above: screenshot of the video.

We have also removed

the sound of children

screaming

as the gunman entered

the classroom.

James Penha edits The New Verse News.

KEEP SCREAMING

by Indran Amirthanayagam

March for Our Lives

Keep screaming. I will, Sister. Keep screaming.

I will, Dearest. Keep screaming. The children

will not be forgotten. Keep screaming. The guns

will be stopped, bullets intercepted. With our minds.

Our pens. Here, Senator, is our petition. Here you go

the draft legislation. Don't worry. Take your time

to read every word. We are staying here until

you decide to vote for or against. Not beyond

this line. Not any more. Never again. Not anywhere

in this America. We are not murderers. We are not

going to take the fall for the military industrial

profiteers. We are not going to be quiet. We are

not going to play dead; allow the demon to destroy

what's left of the Dream. Not for Martin. Not for

Malcolm. Not for Ginsburg. Not for John Lewis.

Not for you or me. I was a wretch. We were all

wretches standing on the street while the murderer

walked into the school unopposed on May 24th, 2022.

Keep screaming: Never again. Ban the filibuster.

Never again. Institute background checks,

psychological evaluations. Damn the idiot

argument of arming the teacher and the guardian,

He walked in unopposed. He killed nineteen

children and two teachers. Keep screaming.

Indran Amirthanayagam's newest book is Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (BroadstoneBooks). Recently published is Blue Window (Ventana Azul), translated by Jennifer Rathbun.(Dialogos Books). In 2020, Indran produced a “world" record by publishing three new poetry books written in three languages: The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, New York), Sur l'île nostalgique (L’Harmattan, Paris) and Lírica a tiempo (Mesa Redonda, Lima). He writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese, Haitian Creole and has twenty poetry books as well as a music album Rankont Dout. He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly and helps curate Ablucionistas. He won the Paterson Prize and received fellowships from The Foundation for the Contemporary Arts, New York Foundation for the Arts, US/Mexico Fund For Culture, and the MacDowell Colony. He hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.

FIRE INCANTATION

by Miriam Steinbach

    oh, bitter flame     run
run until you find home again     I know
you tripped over your own skinny legs
behind your mother’s church, knee caps crowned with
     shards of glass     I know
     the sting     I know
the swig, then scorch of vodka trickling over
bare bone, the taste of
     copper and salt     I know
     the screaming days     I know
     the flickering rage     I know
this isn’t death, this is a reset
life will breathe again,
in our garden of ash


Miriam Steinbach is a college student and poet based in Salem, OR. She enjoys being outdoors, playing cello, and posting poetry on her Instagram (@baldmilk).

ALEPPO

by Peleg Held


Source: Twitter, 5:59 AM, December 13, 2016

There is a city.
It is not our city.
Its broken buildings are full of bodies.
They are not our bodies.
In that city syllables are run through and strung
together into long cords of rough names
that, if they were washed clean and laid
end to end, would reach right to our doorstep.
But our names are not rough names like these.

Someone, somewhere behind the wall, is banging on a pipe.
Or are they screaming for help?
We cannot say for sure.
If indeed, there are still words coming
from any body in those broken buildings
they are strange words, not our words
yet.

Source: Twitter, 7:11 AM, December 13, 2016

Peleg Held lives in Portland, Maine with his partner and his dog Emitt. There is also the semi-feral cat, Smudge. And a kid or two. pelegheld(at)gmail.com.

MY DAUGHTER IS PLAYING OUTSIDE

by John Guzlowski

In the quiet space of the dining room
My wife and I lay out the place settings

The forks beside the Wedgwood plates
The spoons and knives in their places.

A napkin in her hand, she pauses
And tells me again of how her mother

Would starch and iron the squares of cotton
Wash the plates by hand and again by machine.

I smile, nod my head and turn to the window
See the roof next door lift, shingles

Exploding like scattered sparrows, and there
It is—the howl of the locomotive wind

And then a pounding at the glass door
And a screaming that will not stop.



John Guzlowski’s writing has appeared in Garrison Keillor's Writers' Almanac, The Ontario Review, Atlanta Review, Crab Orchard Review, and other journals.  His poems about his parents’ experiences in Nazi concentration camps appear in his book Lightning and Ashes.  He blogs about his parents and their experiences at http://lightning-and-ashes.blogspot.com/ .