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Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com.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.
Showing posts with label whistle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whistle. Show all posts

Friday, January 23, 2026

GRACE IN MINNEAPOLIS IN THE AGE OF ICE

by Barbara Draper





It’s afternoon as I sit looking out the library window— 

across the street a testy wind snaps a line-up of flags— 

 

the first for Ukraine, the next to remember the MIAs and POWs, 

the next to bring them home, and finally, an American flag.

 

Earlier this morning as I stood on a corner, a whistle 

around my neck, on look-out for ICE,

 

an Hispanic mom, holding her daughter’s hand, 

walking her safely to school, 

 

passes by, touches my sleeve 

and thanks me. 

 

Me of the privileged, white variety, 

grandmotherly, sure in my safety. 

 

Tears welled up— 

for her or for me? 

 

The unfairness, the enigma, the grace she gave 

with her great big heart. She touching me.



Barbara Draper’s poems have been published in Poetry East, Potomac Review, Rust + Moth and Sow’s Ear. She has authored one book of poems, Sometimes a Door. She lives in the Minneapolis area and is active in climate change work as well as running after three grandchildren.

Sunday, February 09, 2025

IT CAN’T HAPPEN HERE

by Jim Burns

with echoes of Buffalo Springfield


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


it can’t happen here 
they say
and go on 
with their day, 
but are they sure,
do they remember a time 
way back in their prime 
when they raised voices and sang
that something’s happening here,
it’s not exactly clear,
but we’d better beware
and look what’s goin’ down
what’s that sound, 
it ain’t exactly clear, 
but something for sure 
is happening here, 
the Constitution, institutions, 
are biting the dust, 
like used up metal 
they’ll dissolve into rust 
while we whistle 
in the dark, 
take a walk 
in the park, 
say it’ll be alright
and forget 
that what follows
the dark 
is the night


Jim Burns was born and raised in rural Indiana, received degrees from Indiana State University and Indiana University, and spent most of his working life as a librarian. After retirement he turned to an earlier love of writing and has been fortunate to have seen over 20 of his poems and prose published either online or in print. He lives with his wife and dog in Jacksonville, Florida.