I LIVE IN A COUNTRY

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

"Oil and Distraction" by Ann Telnaes

I live in a country
Proud to invade
Proud to destroy
Proud to kidnap and murder
The leaders of other sovereign nations
 
I live in a country
Too brutal
Too lacking in a sense 
Of our shared life on the planet
Too impatient and inarticulate 
To negotiate its aims
So it vociferates instead
Using bunker-busting bombs.
 
I live in a country 
With an embedded elite
That controls massive amounts of wealth
And leaves millions
Lacking in the wherewithall 
Necessary for a decent 
Productive and creative existence.
 
I live in a country without leaders
Only capos
Without a vision of a better world
Only hackneyed slogans
And faded old Batman comics
Without the music of hope
Only the cracked ballads of despair
Played on one-string shoebox guitars.
 
I live in a country
That fervently worships
Only itself
Mad with the fear
That it is rapidly losing its place
As the hegemon
A country that is 
Flailing away hysterically
Demanding that the rest of the world
Keep paying tribute and obeisance
And endlessly fawning
Like a Hollywood lacky
Assuring the fading star
“You are still beautiful.”
 
I live in a country whose mountains
And prairies and woodlands
Rivers and lakes and streams
Are beautiful
Whose ordinary citizens
Are still mostly good and kind
But whose leaders
Are a pack of craven 
Crooks and scammers and parasites
Who use their positions and powers
To bully the populace
And upholster their own pockets.
 
I live in a country whose leaders
Make it a very difficult land
To love
But let us all keep standing 
With our neighbors against
The cruelty and criminality
The self-absorption and toxic greed
That prevails in high places
And raise another banner on the flagpole
The banner of universal humanity.
 

 Buff Whitman-Bradley podcasts his poetry at thirdactpoems.podbean.com

LIBRE VENEZUELA

by Chris L. Butler

Art by Clay Jones

Animus aggression
unhinged & unchecked.

Jet propulsions
accompanied by
mass explosions.
Convicted felons
claiming criminality.

An ironic eruption.
Manifest destiny?
No, even worse.
Manifested violations
of international law.
A cruel collective
giving dangerous
directions to gain
crude investments.
Got other nations
quaking each time
he utters the word

liberation. Cabinets who
claim to be peacemakers 
yet the traits exhibited
are the total opposite
of Quakers. Some see

a circle of friends.
To us? We see a circle
of dictators. Perpetrators
of neo neo colonization.
It’s like we learned nothing
from Iraq, Afghanistan,
Vietnam, Libya, or Syria.
Forget our issues in America
if oil money is on the table.
Copy & paste a country name
here enters Venezuela.

How is this any different?

Chris L. Butler is a Black American-Canadian poet from Philadelphia, PA living in Southern Ontario outside of Toronto. He is the author of the forthcoming chapbook Melodies of the Oppressed (Ethel Zine, 2026) and four other chapbooks. Chris' work has been featured in Variety Pack, Poems for Persons of Interest, Ghost City Review, Pinch Journal, Southern Florida Poetry Journal, and more. He is a 3x Pushcart Prize nominee, and a 1x Best of the Net nominee.

ATTENTION SPANS

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

Ten years ago, a shocking headline captured the world’s attention: “Human beings now have an attention span shorter than that of a goldfish!” This claim, though horrifying, was totally bogus. The stat in question—that our attention spans had shrunk to a meagre eight seconds—was founded on two spurious and unverified sources and widely spread by a Microsoft Ads “study” published in 2015… Even if we haven’t quite hit goldfish levels, is there some truth to the assertion that human attention spans are dwindling? The short answer is a resounding “yes”, according to research. —Independent (UK), December 14, 2025

Attention spans in humans have declined

Tremendously since tech bros honed their apps

To deluge us with clickbait that's designed

Expressly to cause frequent mental lapse,

Necessitating countermeasures that

Try earnestly to put the genie back

Inside the bottle, but a TikTok chat

Or YouTube video resists attack,

No matter how you try to disengage—

Safari, Chrome and Edge don't miss a trick:

Psychology will keep you on their page,

And amplify your brain rot as you click...

No antidote for dumbing down is known—

Save ditching both your laptop and your phone!

Mike Mesterton-Gibbons is a Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England. His poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, The New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, WestWard Quarterly, and other journals.

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.

HATE IS LEARNED, THEY SAY

by D. R. Goodman

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

Hate is learned, they say. I say it’s born
and hunting for a target from within,
coiled like a cat and patient, weapons worn
 
in secret, sheathed and still. As claw, or thorn,
it catches what comes close and pulls it in.
Hate is learned, they say. I say it’s born:
 
a hollow place the world must fill with sworn
invented enemies. Beneath the skin,
coiled like a cat, impatient, weapons worn
 
in fancied self-defense, it levies scorn
against whatever hapless prey strays in.
They say that hate is learned. I say it’s born,
 
innate and natural. We cannot warn
away what lives inside us, burrowed in
and cat-like, coiled and patient, weapons worn
 
then sharpened once again—keen claw, spike-thorn.
Our work is to expose love’s mirror-twin.
They say that hate is learned. I say it’s born.
It coils like a cat within us, weapon-worn.
 

D. R. Goodman is the author of Greed: A Confession from Able Muse Press, a past winner of the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award, and twice winner of the Able Muse Write Prize for poetry. Her poems have appeared in Ted Kooser's American Life in Poetry, as well as in many other journals and anthologies. She is founder and chief instructor at a martial arts school.

MADURO MADNESS

by Catherine McGuire

Art by Nick Anderson

Listen my children and you shall hear

of the midnight raids, as Trump interferes –

just past the end of 2025

with Miller and Marco, he did connive

to throw the world into chaos and us into fear.

 

He said to Bondi, “since he’s already charged

with drug crimes, that makes it all right

to drop bombs on Caracas then barge

into the palace, kidnap and take flight.

Drag them onto our ships, then launch out to sea

where your crooked lawyers had better be

ready to lie and make hash of the arm

of our law, claim criminal harm

which we will prosecute; thus Epstein’s disarmed.”

 

Then he watched all night, with unmuffled roars

as the airmen and soldiers assaulted the shores

of Venezuela, a country so rich in oil

that oil barons willingly embroil

themselves in an illegal war

to abscond with the goods, and to ignore

true ownership—the hell with rules! Far

better to seize, then let countries chide,

gnash their teeth, try to override.

 

You know the rest. In books we will read

how the Orange Pestilence spread, his misdeeds

piling like dung heaps, and the calls

to impeach and arrest ineffectual –

until true patriots chased red hats down each lane

to uphold the rule of law once again.

Under new-minted Congress, we strove

to repair all the damage, our country re-wove.

 

It starts now: this red line cannot be ignored

our cry is defiance, and not one of fear.

Our voice in the darkness must open the door

to accountability for him and each buccaneer

who soiled our history, and their greed financiers.

 

In this hour of darkness and peril and need

the people must waken and each volunteer

to protest and clamor till the country is freed

from the depredations of this profiteer.

Catherine McGuire is a writer/artist with a deep concern for our planet's future, with five decades of published poetry, six poetry chapbooks, a full-length poetry book,  Elegy for the 21st Century, a SF novel, Lifeline, and book of short stories, The Dream Hunt and Other Tales.

EIGHT DEGREES

by Laura Rodley

Eight degrees

no one at the bird platform.

Ten degrees, juncos

in their butler uniforms

dart into the snow

unearthing seeds;

how less than an ounce

of feathers and a

rapidly beating heart

keeps them warm

is a miracle.

Pushcart Prize winner Laura Rodley’s latest books are Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Press, and Counter Point, Legacy Award finalist. Her Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children by Kelsay Books was selected as a finalist in the “Animals/Pets/Nature” Category in the 2025 Independent Author Network (IAN) Book of the Year Awards, won the 2024 International Book Award for Children's Nonfiction, eon the 2025 Bookfest for Nonfiction Outdoors, and Bronze in the Moonbeam Book Awards.

BLOW WINDS BLOW

by Joy Kreves

 

New Jersey had two Jersey Shore towns report wind gusts of 60 mph on Monday night. More windy weather is expected Tuesday. Canva for NJ.com, December 30, 2025

Kick this era out into the cold

tail between its legs, thrash  

it with your breath ‘till it whimpers

 

Blow   blow    blow

clear out all the hangers-on

clinging to the corners

 

Blast like the pig-hunting wolf

but with strong enough huffs

to tumble brick walls

 

Slide your exhale across cold hearts, 

melt them like the wicked witch,

Ice down, down, drown 

 

Blow, bluster, dust off 

old peace signs, bring back butterflies

reignite a summer of love 

 

Roll sushi, tie tamales, shape samosas,

ribbon takeout containers in rainbow twine

Delight in the fruits of people’s labors

 

Then let us awaken to a calm, 

a steady sun that seeps its warmth

into our naked limbs

Sun Geode Rock, sculpture by Joy Kreves

Joy Kreves is a visual artist and poet living in New Jersey. She detests wind and lives with a big, white fluffy dog who everyone assumes loves snow, but he does not. However, he doesn't mind wind, even in large gusts. Kreves wrote this poem on the recent cold, gusty day.

BUDDHIST MONKS WALK FOR PEACE TO WASHINGTON, D.C.

by Sister Lou Ella Hickman, OVISS

The Walk for Peace originated from the Huong Dao Vipassana Bhavana Center in Forth Worth, Texas and includes nineteen monks and one rescue dog named Aloka. The walk is meant to raise awareness of peace, loving kindness, and compassion across America and the world.

saffron presence

to balance the land with peace

step by step

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 entitled 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. She was a finalist for Amnesty International Humanitarian Creative Arts Competition sponsored by the University of Melbourne, Australia in 2025.

THE INHERITANCE

by Jim Bellanca

Gainesville, Georgia, 2020 (Shutterstock)

Jim Crow’s obituary read,

“After a lengthy illness, Jim has passed away,

His Crow name now just history.” 

I thought “maybe not, maybe so.”

(You cannot trust the news these days.)

 

I knew Jim’s sister Jane had moved to Toronto

with her DACA son Juan

a surprise, a ten-year caboose

behind three sisters college gone,

had joined the family late.

Juan Crow was the most interesting one,

a son who’d volunteered for war, 

three tours in Afghanistan’s battle fields,

a Silver Cross and long times spent from love.

Back home, a hero named, he learned again, 

(most definitely not his first experience),

the curse of Jim Crow’s name, 

with his life separated by skin

in school,

        —at water fountains

        —on school bus ride

        —in restaurants

        —in restrooms

        —in voting booths

        —in marriage beds

the profile depicting all brown men

as one no matter where or who or when

ICE labeled shady caricatures,  

        —“beaner”

        —“wetback”

        —“gringo”​

        —“spic”

who tequila too much, siesta too long, 

just “don’t belong” on our turf;

accused of job stealing, rape, and more, 

tattooed as M-13,

by Presidential decree,

      —“the worst of hombres”

      —“the most detestable of human beings”

      —“the lowest despicable animal beast”

      —“a greaser druggy poisoning our lands”

any excuse the man can name

while hooded fiends from ICE 

day-quota-sized kidnapping any brown man

      —in church or school  

      —in hospital bed

      —in shopping mall

      —in strawberry fields 

      —in pizza huts

all blared and shared in local tv news, 

dread images bent with bowed shaved heads, 

arms tattoed with criminal marks

slow marched to caged jail cells,

(no one knows where)

—to scare the most innocent

—to leave their family love 

—to end their journey to freedom’s land

—to prove the power of the President

            by breaking what laws, he wished.

 

Juan Crow’s red blood

once given to save the land, the nation he loved,

no longer flows free. Juan sits in Alcatraz,

in his separate unequal cell

all son and martyr and hero dream

of Jim Crow newborn, a cosmic transfer,

a heritage inherited without recourse

Jim’s curse transferred to Juan, 

a lifetime injustice to bare, 

all ball and chain and prison wrack, 

all Sisyphus rock on his back.

Jim Bellanca, former English teacher, publisher and gadfly, now a late blooming poet, favors paining memory images about nature, family, peace, social justice and wry comments about senior life. He fervently assumes a “No Prufrock I” position when he writes about social injustice. More than two dozen poetry journals including Witcraft, Write City zine, Aerial Journey. Down In the Dirt, Sparks of Caliope, Westwood Quarterly, The Lyric, and East on Central have published his poems.