Today's News . . . Today's Poem
The New Verse News
presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.
Guidelines
Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com. No simultaneous submissions. Use "Verse News Submission" as the subject line. Send a brief bio. No payment. Authors retain all rights after 1st-time appearance here. Scroll down the right sidebar for the fine print.
Tuesday, November 10, 2026
THE WET DOLL
Thursday, October 29, 2026
THE BOG
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| 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
Monday, August 31, 2026
WHEN THE NEXT DELUGE COMES
Thursday, July 30, 2026
PUBLIC TRUST
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
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.



