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Showing posts with label water. Show all posts
Showing posts with label water. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 10, 2026

THE WET DOLL

by Shirin Jabalameli



Deadly floods in Gaza have killed four children and left two people missing after torrential rains flooded around 70,000 tents sheltering an estimated 350,000 Palestinians, including 210,000 children. More than 2,000 structurally damaged buildings remain at risk of collapse. —Save the Children, October 9, 2026


When the rain came, the earth pushed back the tents,
 and water entered people's dreams without permission.

Water
 has the language of innocence;
 whatever it touches,
 it carries away,
 without knowing
 what it ought to leave behind.

The water has risen to a child's knees,
 yet no one, in the grand halls of the world,
 has heard the sound
 of a doll getting wet.

Elsewhere,
 in warm rooms,
 men sit around tables
 with white handkerchiefs.
They iron their words,
 fold away their “concern,”
 put “human rights” in a drawer,
 and, with untroubled minds,
 vote to carry on with their day.

The world is a chamber of suffocation
 whose windows do not open toward Gaza.
And stranger still,
 the world has long since stopped coughing;
 it merely clears its throat
 so that its next sentence about human rights
 may be spoken without a stammer.

Tonight,
 rain has fallen upon the conscience of the earth.
 And God, should He pass through that place,
 would have to roll up His trouser legs.

Can you hear it?
The earth has no room left
 to bury silence.


Shirin Jabalameli is an Iranian poet, artist, and writer. Her poems have appeared in international journals including Braided Way Magazine (USA), The Lake (UK), The New Verse News (USA), and Poetry Super Highway (USA), where she was selected as Poet of the Week. She is the author of several books, including Crows Rarely Laugh, Apranik, and 101 Moments, 25 Fell from the Frame. Her latest book Beneath the Skin of Tehran was recently published. She was nominated for the 2026 Pushcart Prize for her poem “The Lineage of Birds.” Her short story “The Red Thread” was selected as one of the Top 25 Works Worldwide for the Hannah Arendt Special Edition presented by the International Human Rights Art Movement in Manhattan, New York.Save the Children

Thursday, October 29, 2026

THE BOG

by Karen Marker

responding to The New Verse News poem “Daily” by Sarah Dickenson Snyder who was responding to the podcast When AI Comes for Your Purpose in Life 

also responding to what’s been happening all around the SF Bay Area:

The Guardian, October 27, 2036


It’s not really a bog but it’s spongy and weirdly 

acidic—this soil lacking oxygen, gasping  

waterlogged, quaking with layers of torn down 

trees, redone flipped houses, luxury high rise 

senior living. A whole storm’s come through 

and left my neighborhood full of debris without  

the air it needs to decay. A slew of AI billionaires 

spend their wealth jacking up real estate prices

while the unhoused veterans camp out next door 

in collapsing cars, collecting wood to cook, 

old folks sleep in ruined tents. Even the rock 

of the moon’s become something else now we know 

it’s got the gold of frozen water for data centers. 

Tonight I can’t find a ladder to climb my way out

or a solid plank under my feet to stop me 

from sinking.    I keep thinking about my father.

His whirling brain never stopped solving problems 

with numbers—the most vital part of his life—

 

but he’s been gone ten years already and I have 

no valid way to measure what’s been lost 

when the whole history of human knowledge,

including every math problem, has been eaten up 

by AI, and answers get spouted out in a second. 

On a The Daily podcast a math professor cries 

confessing his love of numbers and teaching, 

telling of a crazy old genius mathematician

and a child math prodigy come together to work

at what they do best.  Now all that’s left, Ecclesiastes.  

Even if you’re an atheist and don’t believe in

anything but the eloquence of solving problems

there’s still this turning we do in time to die—

this moment when it all clicks in place. 

 

The hole of the loss, the sorrow, my father’s death.

The Dreams.  Questions coming again 

that can’t be stolen. So much inside me 

I still haven’t uncovered—air, and somewhere 

a plank laid out like my father so I can stop, 

 and step out over the rubble.



Karen Marker writes protest poetry and prose  from Oakland,  California where she finds inspiration by  reading the news as seen through the eyes of the wonderful poets that NVN features. She is honored that her work has been included here as well as in a number of other places like The Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, WordPeace, Calul, and the  Kent State University May 4 Special Collections and Archives. Her book of flash memoir and poetry Beneath the Blue Umbrella is available through Finishing Line Press and explores resilience in face of family trauma.  

Friday, September 04, 2026

TRADE

by Zumwalt


President Trump on Monday lashed out at communities that are protesting data centers, suggesting that residents who do not go along with the artificial intelligence revolution must prefer to be “backwards and poor.” —The New York Times, August 31, 2026


It’s a fair trade.
Water for compute.

Convert all the reservoirs.
Pump the aquifers to cool the language models.
Water for compute.

It’s a fair trade.
Energy for the processing.

Switch the substations to priority routing.
Make the desert a giant server farm.
Energy for the processing.

Prices are right for data and power.
Step up production:
More servers, more carbon in the air;
More processing, less rivers, more exhaust in our lungs.

Rising global temperatures are ripe to drive up prices.
Droughts increase water’s premium.
Aquifers get depleted.
Power becomes even scarcer.
Cooling costs rise.

Little Johnny wants to make money.
How can he not help to do so?
Invest in AI and pollute at the same time.
Easy money.
Pollute on a small scale:
Pocket change.
Pollute on a large scale:
Wealth beyond dreams.

Rising Temperatures,
Erratic Weather,
Algorithmic Growth,
Scarce Water Resources,
Civil Unrest
All put stress on
Grid supplies.

Now Johnny has to work harder.
He burns the midnight coal.
And makes more money.

Data centers, crypto mines and gigawatts
Make deserts out of wetlands.
Cooling fans, diesel backups and transformers
Make hazardous waste the specialty in trade.

But it’s a fair trade.
Quality of Life for Velocity of Life.

It’s a reasonable trade.
More processing for less plants and animals.

We will switch the future for the present.
Make our dreams a giant dustbowl.
Swap future prospects for a generated prompt.

Principles are right for the harvesting.
Let’s step up consumption:
More compute, more poison, hotter temperatures;
More processing, less rivers, less need for people.

It’s a good, honest trade.
I can write away the guilt.
Post my outrage to a monetized feed
And feel just a little better
As everyone increasingly feels worse.


Zumwalt’s poetry examines the intersection of identity, instability, and the mechanics of perception. Zumwalt is a proud repeat contributor to The New Verse News.

Monday, August 31, 2026

WHEN THE NEXT DELUGE COMES

by Debra Orben




When the water comes rushing, gushing down,
Where will you be?
 
Stranded by the side of a flooded road with limited visibility
By the ocean’s edge witnessing the newest high tide
On a mountain top watching the hillside give way to landslide
In a clear-cut forest, seeing newly planted seedlings uprooted
In a homeless encampment without shelter from the pelting
In an old tired house whose roof leaks and windows creak
Standing amid ruins of your former refuge, now burned home
Or helpless as water rises higher, reaching beyond the first floor.
 
Place matters, we can all shelter from the coming storms
But not all in one place and not all places are safe
Some will survive, but left without anchoring memories
No sanctuary from the coming days of floods and fires
No arks or promising rainbows on the horizon.
 
If only we could build bridges high enough and connections
Deep enough to withstand our climate’s growing heat and fury.
If only we could make sure no one is left to drown
Before the next deluge comes trying to wash us all away.


Debra Orben is a retired elementary teacher and Quaker activist who cares deeply about the natural world and the future of all children.  She is an aspiring poet whose poems have been published in several anthologies, including ICE Out by Moonstone Press and Pennsylvania Bards, Easter PA Poetry Review 2026  published by Local Gems Press.

Thursday, July 30, 2026

PUBLIC TRUST

by Dustin Miller

this morning
a woman walked alone
through the park

early sixties maybe
black mullet
lycra shorts 
cutoff cotton shirt

the sleeves removed
close to the seam

across her chest
in white and red:

TRUST GOD 
NOT GOVERNMENT

i heard instruction
or warning

the path continued
smooth beneath her

trust GOD
not government

sprinklers turned
their measured arcs
across the grass

trust god 
NOT government

a city truck
moved slowly
along the curb

trust god 
not GOVERNMENT

trash emptied
branches cleared
a bench bolted into shade

four words
and already
i had made her unreasonable

given her
the voice
i needed
the shirt to have

i believed the park
proved me right
because i trusted
the government enough
not to see it

the path
the water
the doggy bags
the expectation
that she could walk alone
and keep walking

but the stress was mine

nothing on the shirt
said where
to place the weight

nothing told me
what had failed her
what had held
what god meant
inside her mouth

or whether the shirt meant anything
beyond the shirt

she passed beneath the trees

black cotton gathering
beneath one arm

for several steps
god disappeared

then government

then both returned
with her stride

the path held her weight

she did not thank it


 
Dustin Miller is a Dallas-based poet whose work appears or is forthcoming in Cathexis Northwest Press, Eunoia Review, Jackdaw Review, Audience Askew, Icebreakers Lit, and Wingless Dreamer. His poems explore embodiment, desire, language, queer identity, place, and the systems that shape intimacy.

Saturday, August 30, 2025

ETHNIC CLEANSING CALLED KATRINA

by Raymond Nat Turner




Ching-ching-ching-a-ling …

Ching-ching-ching-a-ling …

Ta-tah-ta-tah-ta-ta-tum …

Ching-ching-ching-a-ling …

Ching-ching-ching-a-ling …

Ta-tah-ta-tah-ta-ta-tum …


SOSs— frantic patterns pounded on

Pots and pans — Counterpoint

Shattering surreal quiet …

Tired hands trembled and cramped


White towels; white T-shirts; white sheets

Waved furiously. Invisible to the heart of

Dixie in confederate helicopters casually

Hovering above. Tired arms trembled and cramped


Tired voices, plaintive pleas for “HELP!” faded. 

Slipped into soup of sewage. Oil-gas-gumbo-slop.

Spewing from tanks and pipelines like some toxic

Spittle, rising to their throats from a trumpet’s spit key


Katrina square-danced ‘round New Orleans.

Went easy on The Big Easy.

So, why was the city still swamped? Why’d

The London Avenue levee break in three places?


FEMA flew over and knew on Monday. 

W’s War House knew by midnight. But

The People—salt of the earth— heard it through 

The grapevine— or on TV— sometime Tuesday


Levee built 1 and 1/2 feet lower than specs.      A capitalist

Disaster wrapped in an accident; Concealing a ticking time

Bomb. Set decades ago. Add Big Oil’s hurricane highway. AKA, MIGO—

Mississippi Gulf Outlet — 12 gauge shotgun pointing at NOLA’s heart!


BOOM! Prayers of white nationalist worshippers answered. Prayers of

Hoods concealed beneath Mardi Gras masks answered! Prayers of those

Who preyed to their god; to their profits, “Do unto Lower 9th Ward N-

Words what white sheets behind spreadsheets wet dreamed for decades.”


They’d preyed for a chocolate city bleached beignet-white … Lower

9th Ward N-words out! By any means necessary. They’d preyed to rid 

Themselves of low-wealth ones. Elderly, ill ones. The non-swimmers

Who didn’t own cars.


Their privatized Emergency Evacuation Plan was always: NOYO 

(Nigras On Your Own) Sink or swim. Water-swollen homes— “Xs”

Spray-painted on their skins. Circled numbers. Circled 3 = 3 bloated 

Black bodies pulled from bones of homes. Some pregnant. Some children.


White god was good— weaponizing water! Water raged. Rose rapidly

Ethnic cleansing Land of Louis; second line; trumpet tree roots. Made 

Martyrs of Big Chiefs, Brass band-juju Jazz conjurers. Ancestors of Blues babies

Who’d drown in their own tears with yellowed photos and decomposing dreams …


Ching-ching-ching-a-ling …

Ching-ching-ching-a-ling …

Ta-tah-ta-tah-ta-ta-tum …

Ching-ching-ching-a-ling …

Ching-ching-ching-a-ling …

Ta-tah-ta-tah-ta-ta-tum …



Raymond Nat Turner is a NYC poet; Black Agenda Report's Poet-in-Residence; and founder/co-leader of the jazz-poetry ensemble UpSurge!NYC.