24/7 PRECARITY

by Mark Danowsky

“The Awakening,” 1941, painting by Colonel Louis Keene, Canadian War Museum

I fear

going to sleep

and waking up

to war

Mark Danowsky is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of ONE ART: a journal of poetry as well as Poetry Craft Essays Editor for Cleaver Magazine. His latest poetry collection is Take Care (Moon Tide Press, 2025). He curates Stay Curious on Substack.

INAUGURATION DAY

by David Rosenthal

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

It’s Monday and the cans are full,
but Friday’s garbage day.
We’ll have to be sustainable,
or else we’ll have to lay

our waste in kitchen corners, or
resort to plastic bags,
and pile them high outside the door
until the old porch sags,

or dig a pit out in the lawn
and bury it down deep,
or burn it all until it’s gone
and crawl on back to sleep.

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

David Rosenthal is a public school teacher in Berkeley, California. He has contributed to Rattle, HAD, Rust & Moth, Birmingham Poetry Review, Teachers & Writers Magazine, and others. He’s been a Nemerov Sonnet Award Finalist and Pushcart Nominee. He’s the author of The Wild Geography of Misplaced Things (Kelsay Books).

PRESIDENTIAL CAMPAIGNS

by Anita S. Pulier

The campaigns are almost over.
The talking heads are on rerun.
I feel a strong urge to mop the bathroom floor.

Things are far from perfect 
and I am not sure
where the fix should start.

The ads have worked. The politics of fear grip me.
Clearly we are not who we were,
but I am not sure who or what we hope to be.

Wide awake I dream of raw power,
calculated intolerance and wrenching violence. 
Surely things were easier

before technology wired the globe,
when the world was vast,
unknowable, exotic.

Wasn’t life once lived day to day
by gut instinct, luck of the draw
take it as it comes?

A parade of bogus claims
line the mantle of my mind cluttered
by endless campaign puffery.

Do I understand so much more now,
about truth, deception
and the fickleness of time?

Still, I yearn for order,
for comfort, truth,
for simple decency,

for the strength to bother
caring, the naivete to believe
a single political promise and
 
the grit to mop the bathroom floor
at midnight, clear my head,

grapple with the paralysis of deep REM sleep.

Anita S. Pulier’s chapbooks Perfect Diet, The Lovely Mundane and Sounds of Morning and her books The Butchers Diamond and Toast were published by Finishing Line Press. Paradise Reexamined came out in 2023 (Kelsay Books). Her new book Leaving Brooklyn is due out in Jan '25 from Kelsay Books  Anita’s poems have appeared in many journals and her work is included in nine print anthologies. Anita has been a featured poet on The Writer's Almanac and Cultural Daily.

A PROSE-BENT ODE: THE HEAVY VULTURES DO APPEAR, NOW

by L. Lois

Source: Florida Wildlife Trappers

The sky is empty, no hint of cloud, the heavy, dark arc of vultures sweeping low over a world of forgetting. They move in silence, gliding like quick lies from innumerable podcast hosts, words slipping through open doors, hands out for cash, voices telling us there’s nothing left but acquiescence. A slumber here, a kind of wasting, my monsters creep like political dinosaurs too ancient to roar, just the hum of their presence, the crazy crawl of flies, the air filled with echoes of something about to be erased. 

I thought once of building something here— 

an arts sanctuary or maybe a place for fragile things, the way my

 mother cupped her hands

 around a broken bird, holding it in her palms.

 Softest down cradled,

 a thing that didn’t know it could die.

 Like a passkey made of wax,

 the promise of security so thin I felt it would slip away

 under the heat of my fingers.

 But we kept pressing forward— 

as if to stave off the tragedies of suffering, 

telling ourselves that calm and order were always enough. 

This is where reason goes to sleep, 

but we forget, in the moments between dusk and dawn. 

We, too, nod along. We’re calling out, offering our liquor to the night, keeping our doors open and lax, hoping something real will slip through and fill the vacuum hissing threats. But, still, here they come— the vultures. Vile promises sweeping low over places we thought too tender and narrow for their wings. In the last pale light, I see my monsters—they may hide, too, as I fall asleep against our best interests. The faintest memory of feathers, floating where they tromped. No noise at all, except the whimper.

L. Lois lives in an urban hermitage where trauma-informed themes flow during walks by the ocean. Her poems have appeared in Alchemy Magazine, Progenitor Journal, Poetry Breakfast, 300 Days of Sun, Twisted Vine, and other literary publications.

THE CATS OF SPRINGFIELD, OHIO

by Gail White

The cats that live in Springfield
lie down secure to sleep,
for no one comes to hunt them
or slaughter them like sheep.

Around the cats of Springfield
no trappers lie in wait,
for they are not as humans
who rise to every bait.

Gail White is a formalist poet and a contributing editor to Light. Her most recent collections are Paper Cuts, Asperity Street, and Catechism. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, with her husband and cats. 

DREAMING SUMMER DOWN

by David Chorlton

Yesterday’s news sent the city to bed
with domestic terror for a nightcap, home grown
it said, easy to fund, you can’t
keep bad men down. And fall begins today
even if summer still has
a scorpion’s tail. A night of interrupted sleep
 
with a dream of far away;
how well those friends of years ago
appeared. Good health among the living
and even better with
the dead. Who would have expected such
 
a fine reunion, or found
the references to erotica made in Vienna?
Outside, it’s Arizona warm
with coyotes wandering the starlit streets
and bus shelters doubling
as bedrooms for the poor. The midnight traffic
on the interstate is singing
 
in a sparkling monotone
and the moon hangs
like half a cup of fire between two
leaning palms. Let the past
 
be the past, say Goodnight
and ride a beam of dreamlight home.
Fumble for the key.
Ignore the splinters in the door where someone
must have brought a crowbar.
Imagine! The cracking wood, the aching
hinge, the next door neighbor’s
 
reassuring words: don’t worry,
it could never happen here.

David Chorlton has considered Phoenix home for several decades. He used to live in Vienna but rarely dreams about it. Much of his poetry comes from life in Arizona, where he has found strains of unrest and social disquiet that he can't ignore.

A POEM FOR UKRAINE

by David James

“Writing My Heart Out,” a painting by Gladiola Sotomayor.

I want to write a poem that will lick

 

your heart clean,

that will make you forget every nightmare,

 

every cut and scrape, every syllable of bad news you’ve ever heard,

a poem that will close your eyes and let you dream

 

of another life, perfect in its arc, where

all things, dead or alive, bow to your smile,

 

all clouds move to your breath, birds and desires and wishes

land on your forearm when you call them.

 

I want to write a poem to send all sadness into exile,

to fit all pain and despair onto one gaudy blue dish

 

that you can toss outside and ignore,

a poem so quiet you never hear it

 

come into your life, sit on your couch, sleep in your bed,

never hear its small footsteps on the floor.

This poem, which must be written under a moonlit

sky with eleven stars and one dog barking in town,

 

will end the world as we know it. No more death

or hunger or war. No more aging or sickness or weeping.

 

No more walking with your feet on the ground.

David James’ most recent book is Alive in Your Skin While You Still Own It.

LULLABY

by William Aarnes

“Lullaby,” lithograph by Henry Moore (1973) via Henry Moore Foundation collection.

for Hale 

 

Sleep, child; we hope       

you stay unharmed 

while you grow wise, 

while you grow wise.   

 

Your mother hopes 

you stay unharmed 

though forests burn    

and oceans rise.            

                                      

Your father hopes 

you stay unharmed 

though despots rule 

with goons and lies.    

 

Your parents hope 

you stay unharmed  

though wars drag on

with drone-filled skies 

 

Sleep, child; we hope 

we stay unharmed  

till you’ve grown wise, 

till you’ve grown wise. 

William Aarnes lives in New York.

DON'T TOUCH MY DREAMS

by George Salamon

Illustration by Beppe Giacobbe for Harper’s Magazine

"Can technology shape our dreams?" 

—Michael W. Clune, "Engineering our dreams," Harper's Magazine, April 2022

My dreams are true, because they occur,

they are false, because only I see them.

It's an awe-inspiring arrangement, it

is both darkness and light, it frustrates

and enlightens, it is a human thing.

The heart beats as we sleep, our

eyes write down the stuff of dreams,

dreams remain within and out of our

world.

Our soul is endowed with two eyes,

one watches the passing of hours on

the clock, the other sees through the

the borders of time, until watching

passes into seeing through, and the

dream endures within us.

I don't want technology to tamper with

this burden and gift.

George Salamon is not happy about what technology has done to "engineer" our engaging and communicating with each other and wants it to keep its metallic hands off our dreaming, the happy dreams and nightmares. 

THE BIG SLEEP: ARE THE AMERICAN PEOPLE WAKING UP?

by George Salamon

“Sleepwalker” sculpture by Tony Matelli at The High Line in NYC.

"...an age when Americans were sleepwalking through history..." —Haynes Johnson,  Sleepwalking Through History, America in the Reagan Years (1991).

It feels like we've been asleep since

The movie star charmed us to sleep,

Since our aspirations and expectations

Were stamped out of date and we decided

To sleep through the times when roles of those

On the national stage became vacant, when

Nothing could move anything to animate the

Emptiness we'd sleepwalked into, when every

Movement failed to resuscitate our consciousness,

We found ourselves alone and blind to what was

Waiting for us beyond the bend in the road, so

Today we cannot tell if everything has stopped,

Waiting for everything to start and we're just

Looking to find the right sequence so we can

Join again and, if all goes well and we the

People can find our voice and finally learn

To play against the rules and the rulers.

Is there reason to hope, or is hoping merely

Lying to oneself and  this poem merely

What I dreamt?

George Salamon lives in America's "heartland," but even so he cannot tell if there is still enough in the heart and vision  of Americans they can share and make known to those who look with contempt and condescension on "bleeding hearts."

WHY BLUE

by Catherine Gonick

“Animated Water” by Dragonlord-Daegen at DeviantArt

of all the light sent by the sun, blue scatters the most in all directions

to be seen by everyone 

 

it fills our sky and waters, most of our planet when seen from space,

yet in the rest of nature blue is rare,  

hard to find in minerals and plants, or food, except in blueberries 

and cheese, and difficult to make, ask any chemist

 

O blue of lapis lazuli, sleep and twilight, moon and Monday, ribbon

and blood, of medieval cathedral windows, glaciers, and forget-me-nots

 

O blue warm and cool, in hues of indigo, ultramarine and aquamarine,

turquoise and teal

 

blue that lowers our pulse rate, warns of poisons, protects against

the evil eye when used in pendants, painted on doors and houses

 

there is a blue of stability and distance, of peace and sadness, 

eyes of people who survived ice

 

a blue of harmony, seen in the flag of the United Nations,

a blue of storms, in uniforms for soldiers and police

 

but for the most part blue is everywhere we’re not—and invites

us to join it

 

of all the light that reaches Earth, blue is the sun’s favorite 

Catherine Gonick's poetry has appeared in literary magazines including Notre Dame Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, and Sukoon, and in anthologies including in plein air and Grabbed. She works in a company that mitigates the effects of climate change.

PARROT THERAPY

by Ellen Aronofsky Cole

Credit: Josh Seong / Verywell

The room is fat with jungle sounds.

Haiku runs three-dimensional laps

around her cage, across the floor,

 

up the bars to her food dish, across

two perches, whistles, rings her bell,

repeats. 

 

Okay, I may be turning into Haiku.

 

My manic pacing, the way I roll

and twitch in bed, unceasing motion.

Pamala, the parrot behavior specialist,

 

tells me Haiku’s a fearful bird.

All parrots are, she says. After all,  

they’re prey. So that explains it,

 

my sleepless nights, how I can’t

concentrate, can’t settle.  The congregation

of monsters salivating outside the door,

 

one named COVID, the one we call

World on Fire, the mendacious Cheeto-hued

one bellowing his own name. 

 

My new doctor says we’ll all sleep better

after November third.  Perhaps, but

fear’s a cold bone that runs deep in me,

 

and sleep’s the promised land. This evening

Haiku grinds her beak, a happiness

behavior that precedes sleep. 

 

The sound soothes me. I marvel again

how she twists her head backwards,

buries it beneath her wings.

Ellen Aronofsky Cole has two books of poetry, Notes from the Dry Country (Mayapple Press, 2019) and Prognosis (Finishing Line Press, 2011). Her work has appeared in Fledgling Rag,  Bellevue Literary Review, Little Patuxent Review, Potomac Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Washington Post Magazine, and other journals, and in The New England Journal of Medicine. Ellen lives in Silver Spring, Maryland with her husband Brian and her parrot Haiku.

WAITING FOR THE ELECTION TO BE OVER WITH

by Penelope Scambly Schott

“Frost on the grass,” photograph by Vladimir Axenov.

The man is asleep,

his arm flung back

toward the headboard of their bed.

He snores lightly.

The dog curls warm and small

at the foot of the quilt.

The dog’s ribs move up

and down under fur.

The woman is awake.

She slips out

from under the quilt

and walks to the window.

She pushes back

the white curtain.

Orion is rising over the shed,

his sword tickling

the top branches

of the neighbor’s cottonwood.

The man is still sleeping.

The woman stands at the window.

She knows Mars has moved west

past where she can see it

from this side of the house.

Winter is approaching.

The man’s hair gleams white

in starlight.

The dog’s fur gleams white.

Frost glazes the lawn.

The woman is ready

to step through the glass

in her long white nightgown.

She would lie on her back

in the white frost,

lie there a long time

under stars,

the flesh of her shoulders,

her buttocks,

the heels of her bare feet

feeling the spin of her planet.

Penelope Scambly Schott is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Her newest book is On Dufur Hill, poems about the cycle of the year in a small wheat-growing town.

NOVEMBER 2020

 by Mary Clurman

Wicked Wind by Tracey Savery Davis

i.
the wind blew wicked hard that day
it howled and blew
it rocked the house
though I slept safe in bed

the storm did rise to hit the house
kill flowers through the land
tear branches down, fell ancient trees
yet did not touch my head 

the storm rose up to strike our house
did everything it could 
yet I and thee so deep in sleep
still breathed, slept easily

ii.
that wind had come to seize our day
it danced and whirled and groaned
to wake up all to hold the land
but somehow let us sleep

why would this wind stop at our bed
why would it prowl away
if not that you and I were here
and sought to sleep that day

That wind has come to call on us
leave eddies, pools in hearts
to cry to you to me who dream
You sleep, you welcome death.


Mary Clurman is a retired Montessori teacher and childcare professional in Princeton, NJ, taking her first class in writing poetry. She has only run for school board but remains aggressively progressive.

VENTILATE

by Ellen Austin-Li

"Breathe," a painting by McKayla Smitson.

Father Yaezel hovers on the veil
between this world and the next.
My mother tells me her parish priest
is in the ICU with COVID and his condition
can’t be good, as the local news put out a call
for plasma donors from survivors.
That’s last ditch, my husband says, but I shush
him with my eyes: Please. He’s one of the good ones.

I see Father Yaezel, his full head of snowy hair,
crossing the street from the rectory, walking
up our driveway. I remember him standing,
head bowed, at my father’s bedside, his right hand
signing the cross in mid-air as he recited
Last Rites. My father didn’t die that day —
wouldn’t die — until Father Yaezel held
my mother in his crystal blues a week later
and gently prodded, Did you tell him it was okay to go?

Some nights, a blast of air wakes me from my dreams
and for a moment I think I am on the unit again,
my patient disconnected from the vent — but instead
of the rhythmic breath coming in waves,
the whoosh is continuous. I become aware
I’m in my bedroom, the tubing popped-off
my CPAP machine. I’ve read they try these
on COVID patients to keep them off ventilators.
I open my mouth to feel the rush of pressure
whispering    breathe ...
I sigh and return to sleep.

Ellen Austin-Li is an award-winning poet published in Artemis, Writers Tribe Review, The Maine Review, Mothers Always Write, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Masque & Spectacle, Green Briar Review, Panoply, and other places. Her first poetry chapbook Firefly was published by Finishing Line Press in 2019. Ellen is a student at the Solstice Low-Residency MFA Program at Pine Manor College. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio.

PANGOLIN STEW

by Fran Schumer

White-bellied pangolin photo by Darren Pietersen.

My son sends a picture of a pangolin;
my husband jokes that lunch is bat soup
and pangolin stew.
My mother calls me, angry at my father
for sleeping all the time,
and leaving her to die alone.


Fran Schumer is the author of Powerplay (Simon and Schuster; NYT bestseller) and Most Likely to Succeed (Random House). Her work has appeared in various sections of The New York Times including Op Ed, Book Review and Sunday Magazine; also, Vogue, The Nation, The North American Review, and other publications. She is the winner of a Goodman Loan Grant Award for Fiction from the City University of New York. She lives and teaches in New Jersey.

TRYING TO SLEEP DURING THE APOCALYPSE

by Lori Desrosiers 

Asthma Society of Ireland

“People with moderate to severe asthma may be at higher risk of getting very sick from COVID-19.  COVID-19 can affect your respiratory tract (nose, throat, lungs), cause an asthma attack, and possibly lead to pneumonia and acute respiratory disease.” —CDC

In histamine driven midnight storm
awakened either by the red cat’s whiskers
or your breath I recall the moments
before my hour’s sleep stumbling upon
a live feed of the northern lights where I
could hear the polar wind its breath

rising and falling the breath of earth
and ice and flow the pulse of sun’s
electric charge. Searching for a good
blank page to place in ink the element
of shift to try to describe how arctic ice’s
flow affects plankton and sea angels and
viruses held for eons in cold embrace.

How does sleep come easy to you my love,
now you are well and this new horror threatens
from beyond our bed? Four years ago, you in
hypothermia and coma after CPR, the nurse
warned me not to hold your hand or touch
your skin so my life force dare not bring you
back just yet, a connection so strong
we could draw the other back from death.

We know little about this plague except
it takes away the very breath, pulls
at the sinews of our imagination.
Panic coursing through my body,
my hand touches your forearm and
immediately my heart rate slows.
You breathe your future, and I sleep.

Lori Desrosiers’ poetry books are The Philosopher’s Daughter (Salmon Poetry 2013), Sometimes I Hear the Clock Speak (Salmon Poetry 2016), and Keeping Planes in the Air (Salmon Poetry 2020). Two chapbooks, Inner Sky and typing with e.e. cummings, are from Glass Lyre Press. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She holds an MFA in Poetry from New England College and teaches in the Lesley University M.F.A. program. She edits Naugatuck River Review, a journal of narrative poetry, and Wordpeace, an online journal dedicated to social justice. She lives and writes in Westfield, Massachusetts.

AS THE WORLD SLEEPS

by Jen Schneider





A man has been left seriously injured after the tent he was sleeping in was removed by an industrial vehicle in Dublin. The man, who is believed to be homeless, was taken to St Vincent's Hospital, where he is reportedly being treated for "life-changing" injuries and remains in a serious condition. The incident, which took place at Wilton Terrace near the city centre of the Irish capital, happened on Tuesday afternoon. —ITV News, January 15, 2020

The Toronto Homeless Memorial now includes the names of more than 1,000 people who died while homeless; a grim milestone that some advocates say underscores the extent of Toronto’s poverty crisis. —CP24, January 14, 2020

In my dreams, the Butterflies dance – 

Monarchs, Swallowtails, and Brush-Footed Beauties.  

Flittering specks of crimson, pale pinks, warm yellows – 

like the cotton patchwork quilt I use to warm myself

as Night falls.

In my dreams, the Radio sings – 

Ellington, Bach, Armstrong

Sweet, sometimes off-beat tunes of jazz, hip-hop, classical notes – 

like the lyrics of childhood verse I sing to calm myself

as Night falls.

Sleep is a Noun, much like any other

until it’s Not:

Regenerative blocks of eight hours, cycles

of REM, light, and deep slumber.

Wakefulness, too.

Sleep is a Verb, much like any other

Until it’s Not:

Engagement in a nightly ritual

of rejuvenation. Eyes close. Muscles relax.

Consciousness suspends, too.

Sleep is a Basic Necessity, much like any other

Until it’s Not:

The lowest, most fundamental tier

of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs turned Off.

Out of reach - a victim of city regulations, zoning boards,

and inked signs informing us of our camps’ demise.

What happens when the steps—Maslow’s, City Halls, 

Bus Terminals—turn off. The music stops playing. 

The dreams turn sour. Strips of yellow and black

ribbon turn bedtime into a nightly scavenger hunt. 

With no treasure or prize.

I’m told we’ve made the News.

Sometimes dreams do come true. Childhood fantasies 

of my name on Billboard Lights.

Arms sway as I belt out verse of the Masters, 

dance with the Monarchs, and look Up to the Heavens.

My focus, now – Down – to the Concrete - for a place to rest.

Down by the Rec Center. 

Down near the Church. 

Down under the Bridge.

A folksong gone wrong, with lyrics all my own.

Sleep is Talk Show Filler, much like any other

Until it’s Not.

Tips, Tricks, and Strategies in the form 

of downloads, software applications and endless talk

of background noise and strict schedules.

What happens when the background noise –

Roaring Interstates, Tree Lined Highways, Dark Tunnels 

is the Bedroom?

What happens when the schedules – 

City Collection Trucks, Patrolling Officers, Slow Moving Vans 

are the Nightmares?

Sleep is…

Shivers turned to blankets of fuzzy warmth.

Arms wrapped around tired bones.

Lights off on social experiments gone wrong.

Until it’s Not. When the lights stay on and the arms arrest.

Sleep simply Ceases to Exist.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Her work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, unstamatic, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.