THE EMPTY CELL

by Lynn White

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

Bosnian Serb war criminal Mladić commemorated in Belgrade, but no state honours: Thousands are expected at Mladić's burial in Belgrade on Monday, which will proceed without serving officials, artillery salutes or ceremonial military presence. Brussels has said earlier any glorification would be "incompatible with the values on which the EU path is built". Mladić died last week while serving a life sentence for genocide, war crimes and crimes against humanity during the war in Bosnia. His remains were flown to Serbia from The Hague on a government plane on Thursday. —EuroNews, September 5, 2026

The Butcher is dead.

His meat decayed bones

broken

burned

buried

now waiting

for him to follow.

His cell is empty

waiting gravely

for those

whose meat 

is fresh

blood

and bones

broken

burned

buried

sometimes in rubble

always in the rubble of words.

So we wait

wanting

them

to be unearthed

the earth

made empty

as the cell

waiting 

for the ones

who are chosen.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.

BITS AND PIECES

by Lynn White

They waited patiently
standing in line
hunger made them quiet
un-childlike
too quiet for children
standing in line.

Who knew what they’d be
when they grew up
those children
tinker, tailor, soldier, spy
on our side or theirs
whoever the us and them are.

Now we know for certain that 
they’ll be none of those things
now they’re scattered 
in bits and pieces
bombed to bits
just in case.

Futures laid to rest
in bits and pieces
just in case.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes.

FINALLY

by Jenna Le

Ke Huy Quan
waited long.
Michelle Yeoh
was told no.
Then, this year,
a path cleared:
we were blessed
with yes, yes.

Jenna Le is the author of Six Rivers (NYQ Books, 2011);  A History of the Cetacean American Diaspora (Indolent Books, 2017), a Second Place winner in the Elgin Awards; and Manatee Lagoon (Acre Books, 2022).

ELECTION NIGHT 2022

by David Radavich

“Waiting for a Pear to Fall” by Jonas Daniliauskas

The sky is clear
and not a word
floats in the heavens
or on the earth.

 

It is the time of waiting.

 

What must be said
has already been said

 

and we 

like perfect fruit,

 

waiting to be peeled
and consumed.

 

What remains
in the eating

 

at the hands
of others?

 

A last hope
that our insides
will be tasty,

 

that our sacrifice
will bring life
and health

 

to a broken state.

David Radavich's poetry collections include two epics, America Bound and America Abroad, as well as Middle-East Mezze and The Countries We Live In. His latest book is Unter der Sonne / Under the Sun: German and English Poems (2022).  

QUEUED

by Annie Cowell

The queue for Queen Elizabeth II's lying-in-state is visible from space in this photo taken Sept. 16, 2022. (Image credit: Satellite image ©2022 Maxar Technologies @Maxar via Space.com.)

We feel

it is a very

British thing,

the queue.

That we 

invented it,

monopolise it,

transformed it

into art. 

We queue,

best foot

forward, wearing

stiff upper lips,

displaying 

plumes of

peacock pride.

For centuries 

we have practised; 

in war time 

ration lines, 

supermarkets, 

airports, 

Wimbledon. 

It agitates 

our sense

of fairness;

we are ready

to be tested, 

to fight 

for our 

rightful

place. 

Now, 

we have

the mother

of all 

queues.

A record 

breaker,

meandering

for miles,

flowing 

like the

Thames through 

the heart 

of London.

A pulsing

tail of 

humanity,

from Britain 

and abroad

eager to 

embrace

a marathon

of waiting

and be a part 

of history.

No agitation

here, instead

a camaraderie

of shared

experience,

of sorrow.

At last,

there is

the end.

A pause,

in which

to bow 

our heads.

Pay respects.

Duty

bound, 

it seems,

to say

farewell. 

Annie Cowell  grew up in Northern England. She is a former teacher who lives by the sea in Cyprus with her husband and rescue dogs. She is widely published in Popshot Quarterly, The Milk House, Paddler Press, and more. Her debut chapbook Birth Mote(s) is now available.

LEAVING IRPIN

by Eugene Datta                                           

                             

Photograph by Jérôme Sessini / Magnum for The New Yorker, March 7, 2022

He was going away; he was leaving 

Irpin—his suitcase still upright, waiting—

 

a trustful dog next to the master’s body:

the hand that held it, half-open, blood-

 

smeared, the right foot pointing away. 

Who’s the one lying close by? A friend? 

 

A brother? A co-escapee? Half-covered, half 

on the sidewalk, across curbstones painted 

 

yellow and white, plastic waste strewn 

around. What’s on the mind of the soldier 

 

kneeling on the monument? Head bowed

in grief, flag in hand, flowers in front of him, 

 

two bodies behind—it’s much harder, he’s 

learned the hard way, to do good than bad; 

 

so many more ways for things to go wrong 

than right. Three men with bags in hands 

 

leaving now—lucky to be late, to be in time, 

lucky to be leaving. A willow weeping 

 

behind a shattered roof, a slate-gray sky 

crisscrossed by overhead lines—

 

a farewell exhaled in haste covering the body, 

the suitcase still upright, waiting—

Eugene Datta's writing has appeared in The New Verse News, Poetry Bay, the Richmond Review, the Far Eastern Economic Review, the Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, West Coast Line (currently Line), and Poetry Salzburg. He lives and works in Aachen, Germany.

ON THE EVE OF THE RUSSIAN INVASION

by David Radavich

They amass at the border

as giant snakes and roaches,

men and their killing

machines, poised

to overrun the resistant

creatures of democracy.

 

Every weapon developed

by man is turned toward

usurpation and control,

as if that could solve

anyone’s need,

historic or personal.

 

Imagine the soldiers

in their invented cause

testing the firing pins,

adjusting the angles, feeding

the first ammunition.

 

Imagine the potential 

victims, defiant, sure 

of their innocence, 

not wanting to be yoked

like pliant oxen

at the master's gate

 

Imagine when the war

happens, its final destruction,

random death, a quagmire

of duty and egos in mud

doing battle like scorpions.

 

We wait with mental

swords drawn to cut what?—

air with our hopes

and expectations that cross

before us against the sun.

Among David Radavich's poetry collections are two epics, America Bound and America Abroad, as well as Middle-East Mezze and The Countries We Live In.  His latest book is Unter der Sonne / Under the Sun: German and English Poems from Deutscher Lyrik Verlag (2022).

WAITING ON TRUDEAU

by Bill Garvey

Editorial Cartoon by Graeme MacKay, The Hamilton Spectator, April 9, 2021.

What would I do without Little Sito,

Her kibbeah, lubbeah and tabbouleh

Or the marinara sauce from Sugo drizzled over a meatball

The size of a softball, or Gus’s beef burrito

Wrapped as tightly as a newborn,

Or the sweet Albanian couple who stuff my donair

With the soul of true communism

And a healthy dollop of Halifax?

I’m waiting it out in Toronto

For Yakitori Don from Coo who

Opens for Take-Out-Only at 5

Behind a plexiglass partition

And a frown from the chef who

Hates that I’m American, I think,

Or just despises the stink of fear that wafts from Bloor

Or maybe the sewer.

I’m waiting for my mask to dry on the windowsill,

For the door to open, the sun to shine,

For the table I reserved for family

Or friends. I’d even sit with the danger of strangers.

I’d kill for linen napkins. A waitress with a bottomless smile

And a bottle of sparkling water.

I’m waiting for the man

On the street to stop veering from me

As if I had leprosy or some ailment far worse

Like, well, you know.

I’m waiting on Justin Trudeau

To answer his phone, to knock on my door,

To come to my rescue

On a horse, maybe, like the RCMP, with a syringe

And champagne.

Published in The New Verse News many years ago, Bill Garvey’s poems have been also published in Margie, The Worcester Review, 5AM, Slant, Diner, Concho River Review, New York Quarterly, and, recently, Nixes Mate Review. Finishing Line Press published his chapbook The Burden of Angels in 2007.  He and his wife live in Toronto for six months and in a tiny fishing village in Nova Scotia the other, warmer six months. Bill is a dual citizen of Canada and the US and has lived in Canada since 2010.

NOW THE DYING WHO ARE ALMOST DEAD, ARE DEAD

by DeWitt Clinton

“The end of the earth,” acrylic painting by Tobi Star Abrams

The end?  Well, we could hardly call it that, as if

Whatever just happened, isn’t found in an old

Paper thin tome nobody’s read for a zillion years,

Instead, the end, or The End, just keeps blistering

The heck out of nearly everyone, though some

Are immune, and will never know when any End

Is just around, looking for hopeless dopes like most

Of us are now, prayers done with, floors mopped

With Clorox, as if that would scare anyone away,

But the Bugs like that deep inhalation we take when

We walk into any room, like sniffing lighter fluid

Right into the lungs where it plans to stay and stay

Until all of us are turned over onto our stomachs

By the kindest of medical staff, hoping the deep

Breaths will pull us out, but most of us have already

Died, and had no clue anything was like The End as

So many are whispering about now, as if Breaking

News isn’t about a new political cataclysm, but rather

Breaking the hearts of so many in so many hugely

Different parts of our world, everywhere even in

Antarctica, and who brought the Bugs in to such a

Pristine, icy world anyway?  ICU’s are now in gift

Shops, chapels, parking lots with unique tenting

Materials and refrigerator trucks behind and out

Of sight, keeping all the dead quite cool until we

Find a place that will prepare the dead without

Ending up as the prepared dead.  That’s our new

World with the best hopes of looking ahead nearly

Two or three years out, and even then, new varieties

Will awaken all of us again, those who aren’t quite

Living any more, but just waiting, you know for what

Don’t you, call it what you want but here, it’s The End.

Recent poems by DeWitt Clinton have appeared in Lowestoft Chronicle, The New Reader Review, The Bezine, The Poet by Day, Verse-Virtual, Poetry Hall, Muddy River Poetry Review, Across the Margin, Art + Literature Lab, One Magazine, Fudoki Magazine (England), and The New Verse News.  He has two poetry collections from New Rivers Press; a recent collection, At the End of the War; and By a Lake Near a Moon: Fishing with the Chinese Masters, poetic adaptations of Kenneth Rexroth’s 100 Poems from the Chinese.  He is Professor Emeritus at the University of Wisconsin—Whitewater, and lives in Shorewood, Wisconsin.

WAITING FOR THE ELECTION RETURNS

by P J Krass

Even the trees are holding their breath
The date by which their leaves should have turned
pumpkin banana blood 
has long passed
Now a kind of dull grey paint
flecked with brown persists
as though the leaves were camouflaged for battle
and something essential they needed from the soil
had gone missing

The cold night serves notice of autumn’s reign
Knowing what’s expected, the trees hold back
Some maybe half dream of rolling back summer
The others look ahead
to blue ice white snow black sleet
they try          though it isn’t easy 
to imagine 
the tender green of spring

Poems by PJ Krass have appeared in journals including Rattle, American Journal of Poetry, Atlanta Review, Stickman Review, Connecticut River Review, Chaleur, Caesura and The New Verse News. He teaches at The Writers Studio, an independent writing school founded by Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Philip Schultz. PJ is also the poetry co-editor of an anthology, The Writers Studio at 30.

YOUR VOICE * YOUR VOTE

by Jen Schneider

I.

Our Vote Is Our Voice. Why Can I Not Hear It?

 

Question 1. 

If my ballot is complete yet not received, do I still count? 

 

Question 2. 

Which of the following words is least like the others? Most?

A.    Vision

B.    Victory

C.    Voice

D.    Vacuum

 

Question 3. 

If I speak yet no one hears, does my voice matter?

 

Question 4. 

Which of the following words is least like the others? most?

A.    Count

B.    Calculate

C.    Curate

D.    Collect

 

Question 5

Which color is least like the others? most?

A.    Blue

B.    Red

C.    Purple

D.    Green

 

Question 6

What percentage of inmates in county jail are innocent of all charges?

What percentage of inmates in county jail are allowed to vote?

What percentage ultimately plead guilty, despite innocence?

What percentage ultimately fail to vote, despite eligibility and desire?

 

Question 7

Define fundamental.

Define right. 

 

Question 8

When Election Day bleeds and blends with the days that follow, does the notion of a 24-hour day persist?

 

Question 9

Define day.

Define vote.

Define right.

 

Question 10

If I lose an absentee ballot, am I too absent?

 

Question 11

Which word doesn’t belong?

A.    Left

B.    Right

C.    Wrong

D.    Accurate

 

Question 12

Which word doesn’t belong?

A.    Territory

B.    Prison

C.    Jail

D.    Shelter

E.    Cell

 

Question 13

How do the following terms differ in meaning?

A.    Suppress

B.    Oppress

C.    Repress

D.    Regress

 

Question 14

If I look like a different person on each of my 3 forms of ID, who am I?

 

Question 15

What word would you add to this list? Why?

A.    Patient

B.    Patience

C.    Poll

D.    Pure

E.    Pacify

 

Question 16

Define Hope. 

Define Crossroads.

How are the two concepts similar?

How are the two concepts different?

 

II.

Where Crossroads Meets Paths Forward

A Crossroads

1.     The color of fear

2.     A bitter flavor, seasoning, and word. Three words. 

3.     A sound that comes from the sky

4.     A sound that comes from the ground

5.     The word for when fear, anger, disbelief, and disillusionment meet 

6.     The word for where fear, anger, disbelief, and disillusionment meet

7.     A favorite hobby

8.     Adjectives that describe your worst qualities - three

 

A Path Forward

1.     The color of a favorite garment

2.     Lyrics from a beloved song. Three words.

3.     Another word for cry

4.     A sound that describes sadness

5.     The word for when hope, empathy, and understanding, and compassion meet

6.     The word for where hope, empathy, and understanding, and compassion meet

7.     A bemoaned chore

8.     Adjectives that describe your best qualities - three

 

Hope

Hope is the color of _1__, the flavor of _2__, and the sound of ___3___ 

and __4__. Hope is ___5__, __6__, and __7__. 

Hope is ___8___.  Hope is everywhere. Choose Hope.

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.