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Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com.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.

Thursday, July 17, 2025

DON’T POINT FINGERS. DON’T ASK EVIL QUESTIONS.

by Raymond Nat Turner




This was a one in One Hundred Year Event!
One in Five-Hundred Year Event!
One in One Thousand Year Event—
Biggest, baddest— worst-est ever!

This was a one in One Hundred Year Event!
One in Five-Hundred Year Event!
One in One Thousand Year Event—
All we can do is prey—and Drill, baby drill!

In the Lone Star State, mass casualty events are
Football games. Games played for fossil fuels—sudden death
Over … time as droughts, wildfires, hurricanes, tornadoes,
Flash floods chant dire warnings, “We will, we will, rock you!”

In the Lone Star State, mass casualty events are
Football games. And our children are 5th round draft choices— 
Cut—or carted off fields so sponsors’ and owners’ overstuffed
Pockets stay as swollen as Guadalupe River banks

But you’ll be fine. Be grate again— when your
Children get to Heaven. No tariffs in heaven! Get on
With your lives! Go out and get Crypto— And get on
With your lives! Get Bitcoin— And get on with your lives!

Don’t ask evil questions. Don’t point fingers! Your children 
Are in a better place. Price of eggs won’t be half as high in
Heaven! Go out and get some Crypto— And get on with 
Your lives! Get Bitcoin— And get on with your lives!

Don’t point fingers! Don’t ask evil questions. Of course we’re
First Responders. Responding First, Populate “Alligator Alcatraz;” 
Responding First, Big Beautiful Bill the 99%; DOGE— FEMA,
NOAA and DEI—fire anyone Black, competent, or rocking seniority.

Responding First, Meddle in Mexico; Rename The Gulf of Mexico.
Monkey with Canada as 51st state. Strong-arm Panamanians over
Their canal. Gangster Greenland; Bully Brazil over
Internal matters; And ship shackled Venezuelans to El Salvador.

Responding First, partner killing Palestinians. Bomb Yemen. 
Strike Somalia. Incite suicidal trade war with China—Ride 
Wall Street’s bull— like a tariff roll-a-coaster. Terrorize Chicago 
Children; Mess with LA’s mayor; Wreck Cali’s Economy!

Don’t point fingers! Don’t ask evil questions.
All we can do is weigh on you—
Prey on you.    All we can do is
Pray for you—We can’t pay for you!


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.

Wednesday, July 16, 2025

SHHHH

by stella graham-landau





in memory of Andrea Gibson 
13 August 1975 — 14 July 2025


quiet settles on the sheets
eyelids closed
one final rest

their smile remains
last memory last touch
last blessing inhaled exhaled

their passion lifts 
into the air around us
ignites our faith

their lines of poetry 
vine around our hearts 
their legacy already in bloom

be inspired
let yourselves lean into joy
dig deeper into all aspects of life

every step 
every breath
carry hope forward

shhhh
now smile
all is well




stella lives in richmond, va and has been published in The 
New Verse News several times as well as in regional publications. she's grateful for the wonderful poetry communities that exist, encouraging all of us to find our voices and share our truths and wonderings.

Tuesday, July 15, 2025

THREE ICEFOUND POEMS

by Melanie DuBose


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


1

a human wall
around
their mother
as 
masked men
reached for her
 
Don't let go
don't let go
a child said
 
"I'm still shaking," —a bystander

2

crazy spectacles of violence
dismantling resistance
suppressing dissent
paralyzing the community
authoritarianism and control
gestapo-style intimidation
 
We let them in 
they asked to use the bathroom
they did not use the bathroom
 
"We were not ready," —Museum Worker.

3
3pm to 3am

We dance
honk horns
play music
 
kidnappers
hunt down our family members
throw them down on concrete
question the very workers
who clean their rooms
 
"A peaceful protest just very noisy," —Verita Topoke.


Author’s note: Each poem was found in the words of the news report hyperlinked to its title.


Melanie DuBose lives under camphor trees filled with parrots in Los Angeles (Highland Park). A graduate of the UCLA film school and an advocate for equity in arts education. Her prose and poetry have been published in many journals, including The Ekphrastic Review, Kelp/the Wave, The Los Angeles Press, Nixes Mate Review,, and The New Verse News. She recently finished writing her first novel, People Who Love You.

THE TIPPING POINT

by Jill Rachel Jacobs




(Ode to an Unseen Migrant During Perilous Times)

 

When evil comes a knocking, 

it may arrive with a vengeance, or 

incognito, like some 

Bible-thumping

good ol’ Joe, 

humping a flag.

 

("What we've got here is a failure to communicate")

When rage is sadness and 

sadness is rage, and it becomes

impossible to distinguish the two,

it’s not surprising we may recoil,

hidden in the shadows of the 

reality of what has become 

the new normal. 

 

("But I don’t want to go among mad people")

Like a cancer gone undetected, 

metastasized, 

cell by cell, 

dividing 

conquering,

licking wounds,

stealing secrets, 

tempted by madness,

trying to make sense of 

how we have now become 

that which we once loathed.

 

("Thank youSirMay I have another?")

 

When horror is contained, 

darkness has lifted, 

emerging from the underbelly,

dreams intact, 

still blinded by the 

innocence of children’s eyes, 

resting comfortably;

We wait.

 

("We have learned to see the world in gasps")


Unencumbered by reason,

justice now a luxury, 

in a world unrecognizable,

where compassion no longer prevails.

 

(How long? An hour, a year, a lifetime or two?)

 

When will we say when?

When prey becomes the predator,

When captors are held captive,

When cage doors are flung wide open.



Jill Rachel Jacobs is a New York based writer, poet whose poetry has been featured in numerous journals. Her features, commentaries, interviews have been published in The New York Times, Reuters, The Independent, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, The Los Angeles Times, The San Francisco Chronicle, The New York Post, Newsday, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Chicago Tribune, NPR’s Marketplace and Morning Edition.

Monday, July 14, 2025

WHEN OUR SOLES WERE BARED

by Lisa Seidenberg



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



The Transportation Safety Administration will allow passengers at airports across the country to keep their footwear on as they go through security checkpoints, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem told reporters Tuesday. —NBC News, July 8, 2025



First, you think of the man 

who may be seated directly in front of you,

most likely in the aisle seat.

He removes his shoes

and detonates a device that

rips a massive cavity in the plane.

A calamity of destruction, if it happens.

Now your eyes focus

on the security line, all of us bobbing

like impatient concert-goers at

the entrance to a stadium.

We all know the drill, observe

the youngsters padding in anklets,

business men in dress socks,

the stylish women with footwear 

printed with tropical fruit

or emojis or happy animals.

And the unfortunate ones who wore

the pair with a hole in the toe.

It brings back the trip with my grandmother

to Bloomies for shoes and her look 

of horror at my sorry worn-out socks.


Laptops and shoes in the conveyer bin,

in our soft feet, we enter the sacred space 

of the screening capsule, humbled and quiescent

as if entering a Japanese shrine.

Once cleared to recover our shoes,

we feel a private relief that we are safer now.

No harm will come from anyone in this line.

We’ve all had our communal foot baring,

our moment of bonding, a quick 

but meaningful intimacy

which we are now informed 

was an unnecessary and pointless action,

after all.



 Lisa Seidenberg is a 2025 Pushcart nominee. She is a writer and filmmaker residing in coastal Connecticut. Her writing is published in Rattle, Atticus Review, The New Verse News, One Art: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, Delta Poetry Review, and others. Her documentaries and poetry films screened at Sundance, London, Athens and Berlin International Film Festivals.

Sunday, July 13, 2025

BITS AND PIECES

by Lynn White




They waited patiently
standing in line
hunger made them quiet
un-childlike
too quiet for children
standing in line.

Who knew what they’d be
when they grew up
those children
tinker, tailor, soldier, spy
on our side or theirs
whoever the us and them are.

Now we know for certain that 
they’ll be none of those things
now they’re scattered 
in bits and pieces
bombed to bits
just in case.

Futures laid to rest
in bits and pieces
just in case.


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.

Saturday, July 12, 2025

I CAN’T HEAR YOU

by Chad Parenteau




the chief 

of sticks

proclaimed.

Too busy

turning on

faucets

 

hoping to

sluice away

immigrants

 

back down

to Mexico. 

Water. 

 

It goes 

right down

the hole.

 

Know that

from pre-k

diarrhea.

 

Excuse me.

Listening

for cracks

 

and all of

the people

falling through.

 

Once screams

finally stop

close hole.

 

Not right now.

Reapplying 

ear stigmata.

 

Need to have

gold card to

reach in here.

 

Have these 

documents 

to soak out

 

in deep south

salted by tears

of crocodiles 

 

that are now

jealous of 

our alligators.



Chad Parenteau hosts Boston's long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His latest collection is The Collapsed Bookshelf. His poetry has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review and anthologies such as French Connections and Reimagine America. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine.

Friday, July 11, 2025

JULY 8

by Lynda Gene Rymond





Last night under my window

I heard a coyote clack its teeth.

Today’s skies grow dark, darker.

Clouds purr at first

but then it’s full-throated growls

breaking to thunderclaps

to shake the house

 

while in the city of angels

men on horseback stalk

like corrupted knights

to intimidate children.

Tactical vehicles prowl.

A small black woman,

Madam Mayor, confronts,

her fury rising like heatwaves.

 

Be furious. Be thunder.

Shake their houses.

Steal their horses, count coup,

paint their dishonor.

Find a mightier pen to wield.

Tell tales that crack walls.

Sing, sing all the way to morning.



Lynda Gene Rymond lives and works on Goblin Farm in Applebachsville, Pa. She is a winner of the Pennwriters Short Story Prize and a multi-year finalist for Bucks County Poet Laureate. Her latest publication, Spellbook, has just been published by Moonstone Arts.

Wednesday, July 09, 2025

A DRY SPELL IN UTAH

by Susan J. Wurtzburg


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


Statewide drought, evaporating lakes, whirlwinds, catastrophe; 
amidst this mess, our Governor pleads “Pray for rain.” Angels,
witches, devils descend from the sky to the chosen, but no blessed water.
 
My garden meadow browns to wasteland, crisp crackle underfoot,
hummingbird departs. Has he expended all his heartbeats in July’s
harsh heat? Warm colors of swallowtails, monarchs—gone. 
Finches, sparrows silent, beaks gape wide, throats too dry for song.
 
City residents stop sprinklers, while farmers, and our Governor
grow water-hungry alfalfa—drain rivers and aquifers. Spinning drops
irrigation-spread, artificial rainbows brighten verdant fields. Cloudbursts 
transformed to feed chug across the ocean, as our lakes recede. 


Susan J. Wurtzburg has won or placed in several poetry competitions. She is a Commissioned Artist in Sidewalk Poetry: Senses of Salt Lake City, 2024, and an Associate Poetry Editor at Poets Reading the News. Her book, Ravenous Words, with Lisa Lucas was published in spring, 2025.

CAMP MYSTIC

by Karen Marker


With no advance warning 

the San Antonio National Weather Service

had already been reduced to rubble

missing meteorologist, hydrologist, 

staff forecaster.

 

Frantic parents pray for their children 

caught off guard by the flooding

Guadalupe. No more have been found alive

clinging to trees.  

 

The governor signs a declaration. 

The search and rescue in Central Texas

will continue looking.

 

In this state while water spills over 

the banks of rivers in another 

water’s gone missing. The Great 

Salt Lake is starved to death. 

 

Protestors speak like sybils, prophets, seers.

And still the senators, the governor claim 

climate change a hoax.They can’t see 

through their frozen hearts the melting ice,

can’t smell the noxious gases, admit what 

this means for our survival.

 

It costs them nothing to offer their prayers

 

We all feel haunted like Hamlet did 

in Elsinore.  Perfumes can’t cover over 

the smell of what’s rotten—a shriveled lake

with its dead fish, a bloated river where children 

float downstream like Ophelia.

 

 

Karen Marker is an Oakland, CA. poet activist who has committed to writing a poem a day of protest and hope in response  to current events. Her first poetry book Beneath the Blue Umbrella came out recently with Finishing Line Press and explores family mental illness, stigma and healing. 

LIVES SWEPT AWAY

by Philip Kitcher



“A flood”, he says, “once in a hundred years”:
            unwilling to concede
            our planet’s urgent need,
he shows no true engagement with their tears.
 
Disdaining loss of human life, he stokes
            the storms, the fires that burn.
            This willful child won’t learn
the truth: that climate change is not “a hoax”.
 
Because of his refusal to believe,
how many future families will grieve?


Philip Kitcher has written too many books about philosophy, a subject which he taught at Columbia for many years. His new book The Rich and the Poor (Polity Press) is all about the costs of abandoning morality in politics and public life. His poems have appeared online in Light, Lighten Up Online, Politics/Letters, Snakeskin, and The Dirigible Balloon; and in print in the Hudson Review.