A VALENTINE FOR MINNEAPOLIS

by Lisa Shulman

 

I love the crunch of your boots in the icy streets,

the rhythmic beat of your mittened hands,

the steam of your breath and the heat of your words 

in this brutal cold and ice-clapped world.

I love the chapped red of your cheeks, your dripping nose

the ice crystals on your eyebrows, your hair,

as you carry signs and bags of food and offer your arm

to that woman on the ground.

I love the street medics with their packs,

the rolling neighborhood patrols,

and the cafes open for free soup and coffee.

I love your cousins in Chicago, Portland, L.A.

I love the way you bang on drums, on cans and dumpsters,

your raucous all-night singing,

your harmonies as you kneel on frozen sidewalks,

your whistles and car horns.

I love your walking school buses,

your inflatable frogs, and knit red hats.

I love the warm and flowing river of your bodies

pouring through your city—

blood pulsing through its veins.

I love your courage that ignites our own,

fire melting ice.

I love your heart.

 

 

Lisa Shulman is a poet, children’s book author, and teacher. Her poetry has appeared in Sheila-na-gig, About Place, Anacapa Review, Inkfish, Kitchen Table Quarterly, New Verse News, and elsewhere. Her new chapbook is Fragile Bones, Fierce Heart. A Pushcart nominee, Lisa teaches poetry with California Poets in the Schools, and workshops for women in recovery.

TO THE REPUBLIC

by Athena Kildegaard

It is hard, right now, to think

of America, my country, it no longer
holds together inside its borders. 
Four decades ago, every school day, 
I asked one of the twelve-year-olds
in my charge to lead us in the Pledge
of Allegiance. It was the law, this recital.
As good a way as any, I thought, to begin.
Words, words, slippery as jello cubes,
hardly join, now, to anything real.
My heart beats, my hand firms itself
to my chest—this friction, this viva—
but my tongue dare not lift, my lips
not open, my body not burst
with air, with light. America, where
have you gone?

You are in Minneapolis,
America, handing out scarves and hats,
standing beside your neighbors, lifting
whistles to your lips because your lips
have power, your breath has power,
you are teaching us how to be Americans.

Athena Kildegaard is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Prairie Midden (Tinderbox Editions), winner of the WILLA Literary Award. 

OILING THE WHEELS

by Lynn White

Art by Shields

The days of saving

Vietnam from Vietnamese

or Afghanistan from Afghanis,

are here again.

‘We’ will run things

especially

in countries of long words

like Palestine and Venezuela.

Democracy is another of them.

short words like ‘we’, ‘US’ and ‘oil’

will save Venezuela from Venezuelans.

An unelected foreign government

will save Venezuela from elections. 

Oh, the words are getting bigger again,

Venezuela and democracy are very big words

so we must run things there,

to oil the wheels of democracy,

or something like that,

and, with nice short words,

save Venezuela from Venezuelans.

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.

AVERAGE DAY IN AMERICA

by Tina Williams

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

I’m not hearing so well lately 

and as my audiologist enters 

values on her computer 

my eye catches her cup 

which has a goat on it 

and I remember the time

I was at the coffee shop

named for a ruminant 

and there was a woman 

sitting outside

with a latte in one hand, 

paperback in the other, 

and a goat jumped 

on her table and with 

one jerk snatched 

the book and began

to eat it, whole 

chapters at a time, 

looking her in the eye 

all the while while 

everyone watched.

What could any of us 

have done at such 

a moment in history?

It was an average day.

All the words were there. 

Then they were not.

 

Tina Williams lives in Texas where the ACLU tirelessly monitors and battles the banning of books from libraries.

ENDANGERED SPECIES / WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE?

by Dick Altman

An Indonesian father of an infant with special needs, who was detained by federal agents at his hospital workplace in Minnesota after his student visa was secretly revoked, will remain in custody after an immigration judge ruled on Thursday that his case can proceed. The day before [Aditya Wahyu] Harsono’s bond hearing, DHS disclosed their evidence against him. Besides stating that his visa had been revoked for the misdemeanor graffiti conviction, for which he paid $100 in restitution, they also mentioned an arrest from 2021 during a protest over the murder of George Floyd. That charge was dismissed. Harsono is Muslim and frequently posts on social media in support of humanitarian relief for Gaza. He also runs a small non-profit, which sells art and merchandise, with proceeds going to organizations aiding Gaza. —The Guardian, April 29, 2025. Peyton Harsono (pictured above) and Madison Weidner have organized a GoFundMe to support Harsono’s family in these dark days.

I dream,

every now and then,

of an army newsreel

the colonel

across the street,

shows

two ten-year-olds,

his daughter and me.

We are old enough,

he says,

quoting Burns,

to witness “man’s

inhumanity to man,”

a phrase lost on us,

until he turns down

the basement lights,

and the 16-mm film

begins to unwind.

 

It opens

on a city street

of old buildings,

older than anything

I know of America.

The sidewalks busy

with baby carriages,

people shopping,

children skipping.

When,

out of a doorway,

two men abruptly

drag a man

into the street.

They punch him,

until he falls

to the ground,

and then begin

to kick him.

We can only stare.

The colonel,

as if reading

our minds,

says

they’re beating him

because he’s Jewish.

And the voiceover

starts to explain.

*

When I awaken,

my mind grinds

incessantly

on the words

endangered species.

Grinds on the video

of a woman in white—

a student protester

of foreign extraction,

here in America—

converged upon

by three men in black,

who arrest her.

A chilling reminder

of the colonel’s

newsreel.

Echoing

across the nation’s

landscape,

across mountain,

prairie and sea.

 

Endangered species.

My mind trembles

over the syllables,

as I imagine them

enclosing themselves

around the laws

and institutions

that nourish

and drive

our democracy.

 

Endangered species.

I strangle on the words,

here in Indian Country,

where a holocaust

nearly drove a people

into extinction.

We have a history,

I say to myself.

Can we,

as a nation,

change course?

I can almost

imagine

a raging knock

at the door,

as I write.

“You and

your words—

they’re coming

with us,”

I hear

a voice yell.

 

And I think

of the eyes

that might read

these thoughts.

And of the lines

and lives

that didn’t survive

during

and between

last century’s

Great Wars.

And I confess—

I fear those eyes.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American 

Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press,

Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, Beyond Words, and others here and abroad. His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems, published on four continents.

ON CRUELTY: RILEY MOORE AT CECOT

by Jennifer Browne

What makes human hands unique? The human opposable thumb is longer, compared to finger length, than any other primate thumb. This long thumb and its ability to easily touch the other fingers allow humans to firmly grasp and manipulate objects of many different shapes. —American Museum of Natural History 

1. 

The hand can wield a weapon. The hand can soothe the lost, can smooth a tear-streaked cheek. The hand can navigate a loving body. The hand can pull an infant from a blood-smeared body. The hand can make a meal for a child, can feed a child. The hand can lead a person away from his home by the arm. The hand can pull a hood over a head. The hand can dig a grave in which to place a body. The hand can join in prayer. The hand can hold the grey-painted bar of a cell. The hand can close and lock the door of a grey-painted cell. There is so much to carry, to hold, to grasp. The hand can hold the reins and lead a clattering cart speeding into a ditch. The hand can hold a marker, can scrawl and sign a document. The hand can hold a tool. The hand can hold the tools that crack and crumble what felt sure. The hand can shape itself into a fist. The hand can shape itself into a fist and shake out its futility.

2. 

thumb (n.)—“shortest and thickest digit of the human hand, next the index finger and opposable to the others," Middle English thoume, from Old English þuma, from Proto-Germanic *thūman- (source also of Old Frisian thuma, Old Saxon, Old High German thumo, German Daumen, Dutch duim "thumb," Old Norse þumall "thumb of a glove"), etymologically "the stout or thick (finger)," from PIE *tum- "swell," from root *teue- "to swell" (source of tumor, tuber).

3. 

"Rep. Riley Moore posted photos of himself giving a thumbs up in front of imprisoned people at CECOT, an El Salvador prison notorious for human rights violations. The Trump administration has deported hundreds of immigrants without due process to CECOT, some by mistake. Moore also praised President Trump's handling of immigration in the post." —“Rep. Riley Moore Does Not Belong in Congress,” ACLU West Virginia

4. 

In its base state, the hand is empty.  

5. 

thumb (n.), ctd.—The figure of being under (someone's) thumb "controlled by that person's power or influence" is from late 14c.

6.

Look into the palm of any human hand, any primate hand, and see your own, see yourself. Interlace your fingers and feel the wealth of nerves that let you feel. Think of holding hands, holding faces, your beloved, the innocents within your care. Think of any of the harms you’ve wrought. The speed with which those harms happen, the carelessness.

7. 

We have stood at this door before, this terrifying new.

8.

"The photographs tell it all. In one, Private England, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, is giving a jaunty thumbs-up sign and pointing at the genitals of a young Iraqi, who is naked except for a sandbag over his head…In another, England stands arm in arm with Specialist Graner; both are grinning and giving the thumbs-up behind a cluster of perhaps seven naked Iraqis, knees bent, piled clumsily on top of each other in a pyramid." —Seymour M. Hersh, “Torture at Abu Ghraib,” The New Yorker, April 30, 2004

9.

Look into these photographs. Into whose ears do you want to speak some solace? Whose shoulders do you want to wrap with care? 

10. 

I cannot hold the want of wrath that rises from a place I have no name for in my body. 

11. 

thumb (n.), ctd.—Thumbs up (1887) and thumbs down (1906) were said to be from expressions of approval or the opposite in ancient amphitheaters, especially gladiator shows, where the gesture decided whether a defeated combatant was spared or slain. But the Roman gesture was merely one of hiding the thumb in the hand or extending it. Perhaps the modern gesture is from the usual coachmen's way of greeting while the hands are occupied with the reins.

12. 

There is something that I need to say, need to sing, need to scream into the ears of any who would listen, but the ones who would listen also want to scream. I have no words. There is something I need to say about power, about influence. There is something I need to say about how power swells. There is something I need to say about bloodsport, about the merciless. There is something I need to say about what can be manipulated even out of reach of a thumb, a finger, a hand. Look into these photographs. There are so many who are also raising thumbs, who are saying good, good, who are saying they are monsters. They are monsters. 

13. 

I have too many words. I have no words.

Author's note: My grandmother was born in 1906 in Elkins, WV, a city in West Virginia's 2nd congressional district, currently represented by Riley Moore. 

Jennifer Browne falls in love easily with other people’s dogs. She is the author of American Crow (Beltway Editions, 2024) and the poetry chapbooks Before: After (Pure Sleeze Press, 2025), In a Period of Absence, a Lake (Origami Poems Project, 2025), whisper song (tiny wren publishing, 2023) and The Salt of the Geologic World (Bottlecap Press, 2023).

DISCOURSE FLAMED OUT

by Kenneth Johnson

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

Words once enlightening,
now smoldering on a trash heap,
thoughts unraveled like smoke
rising, intertwined, undecipherable.
The air, thick with thieves,
is a place where meaning
crumbles, dissolves
before it can be formed.
Voices that once nurtured
dialogue now carefully hone 
their obsidian edges.
Once, we built conduits,
word by word,
constructed to withstand scrutiny,
to span great divides.
Now, we stand at the ruins,
watching the remnants 
flicker out into darkness.
Discourse flamed out,
the ashen particles
becoming less dense
as they float aimlessly,
finally disappearing.

Kenneth Johnson is a Pushcart-nominated poet and visual artist living in Claremont, California. He is the author of the chapbook Molten Muse.

SADLY, NO ONE HAS NOTICED

by Sister Lou Ella Hickman

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

during this past terrible season of pain

with its headlines and news stories

of voice gun metal cacophony

the screams

becoming louder and longer

            

the plague of words

feeding on each other

a frenzy of fear…

sadly, no one has noticed

hope’s sacred pity

as she kneels weeping

amid the carnage

Sister Lou Ella Hickman, OVISS is a former teacher and librarian whose writing appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Her first published book of poetry is she: robed and wordless (Press 53, 2015) and her second, Writing the Stars (Press 53, 2024). She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017 and in 2020. Using five poems from her first book, James Lee III composed “Chavah’s Daughters Speak” first performed at 92Y in New York City.