WINNER OF THE INVERTEBRATE OF THE YEAR 2026

by Angela Sucich 

A neon green solar-powered slug that lives underwater is the winner of the increasingly popular Invertebrate of the Year competition run by the Guardian. The leaf sheep, Costasiella kuroshimae, triumphed in the global ballot after hundreds of thousands of readers around the world read about and shared their appreciation for the spineless creatures who make up the majority of animal life on Earth. Announcing the winner, the broadcaster and environmental campaigner Chris Packham said: “It’s very, very beautiful but also very smart too. It harvests photosynthetic material from the algae it feeds upon and builds its own solar panels.” — The Guardian, August 20, 2026

We need you right neon-now, leaf sheep.
Glowing your purloined sustainability,
loving your undeniable sea slug self.
Don’t dim on our account,
we’re here for the freak show.
Can’t pass up a contest, an elimination
round. Which one will win this time? 
The polls have spoken. 
It was closer than we’d like.
But your shock of green leaves, 
appendages, cerata, etcetera, 
that normally let you blend in,
are waving at us as you come out on top.
Your ovine face munching on photosynthetic 
algae as you build your own energy 
palace. You’re a solar, solo FU 
to the world, if not its mascot.
Not chosen for cuteness but to cut
to the chase: We all want something 
to love, to distract, to distance, to despise. 
To read into your kleptoplastic grazing, 
stealing of shine, hermaphroditic egg-laying, 
our own pride and loathing. A sheep’s 
an easy metaphor to talk about flock
behavior, flock cameras, information 
gathered, animals herded even as the algae 
disappears. To be an invertebrate that wins
the game is to answer from its gut
a question: Do swallowed chloroplasts 
know whose body they’re lighting up?


Angela Sucich's poems appear or are forthcoming in RHINO, Nimrod, Southern Humanities Review, Consequence, and SWWIM. She was honorably mentioned for the Pablo Neruda Prize (2021) and Francine Ringold Award (2020). A poet with a PhD in Medieval Literature, Sucich published a chapbook, Illuminated Creatures (Finishing Line, 2023), which won the New Women’s Voices Chapbook Competition. She lives in Leavenworth, Washington, with her husband and daughter.

SHACKLED

by Jane Piirto

Pierre Damas Bel at his high school graduation. —The New York Times, September 1, 2026 via Pierre Damas Bel's family

He was 20.
Majoring in neuroscience at Wright State University.
Graduated with honors from Springfield, OH high school.
A hopeful soccer athlete. 
When ICE put an ankle monitor on him
because his parents and he are Haitians
he told his father he was teased by friends and teammates.
On 9/1/26 he walked into traffic on I-70 and died.
The Haitians must go to beautifully named
but sinisterly provocative Blue Ash to sign in.
They take your name and info and snap on
a GPS. Over 100 have these monitors.
Over 40 Haitians have been detained
including two pastors. Gov. DeWine
said the actions are “very misguided.”
“I came here to study, to build my future,
and to live a better life not to be treated like a criminal. 
So now, how am I supposed to play college sports
with a GPS monitor on my leg?”
His name was Pierre Damas Bel.

Dr. Jane Piirto is an Ohio and Michigan poet and retired professor from Ashland University.

INTERRUPTION TO AN AFTERNOON OF OUR DISCONTENT

by Mary K O’Melveny

Today we visited good friends for lunch.

As we discussed the world’s sorry state,

a yellow and black Goldfinch landed on 

a tall sunflower on the back wooden deck.

 

Rain clouds had begun to shroud the Catskill

peaks. Circles of grey, shadows of charcoal

emphasized the sunflower bed’s aureate glow. 

The butter-hued bird was star of the show.

 

Would cops be at the polls? Would there be

a martial law declaration? A breeze caught

the flower, rustled it to the right. The finch

hustled with it as it veered back to center.

 

Would it ever be safe to eat lettuce again?

Would climate change leave our skies colored like

metal? The finch bent down past petals,

pulled out a seed as the reed thin stem moved

 

against wind. He swayed as if dancing in

a conga line. Swish  swish  swish  hop.  Swish  

swish  swish  hop. He dropped onto another

flower, stayed for seconds, popped right back.

 

Will young people go out to vote? How can

we retain hope? How can we cope as daily 

outrage becomes rote? The bird dared us to

watch him at play in early afternoon light.

 

Our (he was “ours” now) Goldfinch was unwilling 

to wallow in woe. He leapt upward, stopped –

wings aflutter—then turned, returned to his

floret launch pad where he glanced our way: 

 

There are seeds to snatch. Breezes to catch. 

As if prearranged, sunflowers shifted, shivered. 

Petals quivered—amber arcs arrayed against 

a grieving sky. Glistening like a firefly’s spark,

 

he stayed put—as if listening, as if he thought 

our exchange mattered. We loved our brilliant bird then.

He was an augur of resilience, of possibilities. Soon,

he lifted, drifted high, veered toward the mountain range.

Mary K O’Melveny, has authored five poetry collections and a chapbook, including If You Want To Go To Heaven, Follow A Songbird (Jerry Jazz Musician 2024);  Flight Patterns (Kelsay 2023) (nominated for the Eric Hoffer Book Award); Merging Star Hypotheses (Finishing Line 2020), semi-finalist, The Washington Prize/The Word Works). What Remains? (Broadstone Books) will debut in fall 2026. A three-time Pushcart nominee, Mary’s award-winning poems are widely published. Mary lives with her wife near Woodstock, New York.

IN THE SAME BOAT?

by Raymond Nat Turner

BOOM goes tuna and swordfish stuffed brown burlap bags aboard

boats blown to smithereens. Presto! Fishing is now narco-trafficking.

And this violent video game replayed on high seas with impunity is

the new normal. Same boat, different decks?

Bay Of Pigs ghost ships haunt Havana. They bring boatloads of

jet black nights. Sporadic electricity. Spoiled food. Howling bellies.

Dry mouths. Dead dialysis and cancer patients with premature babies. 

Same boat, different decks?

Boatload of bodies dubbed “dignified transfer” return home boxed and

smothered in stars and stripes. While warlords of Wall Street and Washington

do undignified transfers of trillions from our treasure to float boats

on champagne and caviar. To Epstein ports of call. Same boat, different decks?

300 supersized workdays at sea. Exhausted sailors. Minutes from madness.

Several imagine Emancipation Proclamation diving overboard from the

sewage-spewing, moldy shower, soapless, food-short ship, Abraham Lincoln. 

Same boat, different decks?

Black skull and crossbones flag flaps furiously against winds of change.

Must turn SS Cruel Corrupt Titanic-class “destroyer” around—or

run aground! Can’t vote our boat ashore no more. Must convert this ghastly

gray, bloody gunboat into MLK Dr. Che-class radical Love Boat.

US as admirals. US ordering humongous waves of organizations. US ordering

militant millions into sustained strikes, boycotts, demonstrations. MUTINY AHEAD?

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.

MY WIFE AND I WERE DISTURBED

by Kevin Boyce

 

while watching the nightly news 

by a noise coming from outside.

Thunk                 thunk                   thunk

 

A catbird in our rhododendrons 

had declared war on his reflection in

our basement window. Each time 

his attack was repelled by an equal 

and opposite force. 

Thunk                  thunk                   thunk

 

He could not be deterred from defending 

his homeland from this imaginary foe.

Something had to give in the battle 

between this birdbrain and glass pane.

 

I covered the window with cardboard

to curtail his instinctual onslaught 

and save him from an early demise.

My wife and I went back to the news.

 

In August of 1914, soldiers enlisted 

in the War to End All Wars, assured

that the conflict would end by Christmas. 

Four more years and 15 million souls would pass 

before the close of this grand adventure.

 

Then 2003 brought Bush on the boat with his banner

prematurely exclaiming “Mission Accomplished.”

The Iraq War lasting a mere eight more years

after victory was secured.

 

Vladimir Putin invaded an independent Ukraine confident 

of conquest within months. Here we are four years later.

 

Operation Epic Fury began on February 28, 2026

with Israel and the US attacking Iran certain that 

they could not resist. Mission accomplished.

 

Thunk                  thunk                   thunk

 

 

 

Kevin Boyce is a poet, photographer, children’s book author, and lifelong resident of New England. He volunteers in his hometown, leading a community-sponsored contest and publication for emerging authors. Kevin’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in ONE ART, Nostalgia, The New Verse News, The Broken Teacup, Discretionary Love, The Poetry Lighthouse, and elsewhere.

WHEN THE NEXT DELUGE COMES

by Debra Orben

When the water comes rushing, gushing down,

Where will you be?

 

Stranded by the side of a flooded road with limited visibility

By the ocean’s edge witnessing the newest high tide

On a mountain top watching the hillside give way to landslide

In a clear-cut forest, seeing newly planted seedlings uprooted

In a homeless encampment without shelter from the pelting

In an old tired house whose roof leaks and windows creak

Standing amid ruins of your former refuge, now burned home

Or helpless as water rises higher, reaching beyond the first floor.

 

Place matters, we can all shelter from the coming storms

But not all in one place and not all places are safe

Some will survive, but left without anchoring memories

No sanctuary from the coming days of floods and fires

No arks or promising rainbows on the horizon.

 

If only we could build bridges high enough and connections

Deep enough to withstand our climate’s growing heat and fury.

If only we could make sure no one is left to drown

Before the next deluge comes trying to wash us all away.

Debra Orben is a retired elementary teacher and Quaker activist who cares deeply about the natural world and the future of all children.  She is an aspiring poet whose poems have been published in several anthologies, including ICE Out by Moonstone Press and Pennsylvania Bards, Easter PA Poetry Review 2026  published by Local Gems Press.

IN GAZA, FLYING A KITE IS AN ACT OF WAR

by Claire Zoghb

With thanks to Murad and Mustafa at Wear The Peace for the beautiful T-shirt.  

Author’s note: On Monday, August 24, 2026, Israeli Defense Minister Israel Katz declared Palestinian children’s kite-flying “an act of war.” I couldn’t help but think of “If I Must Die” by Dr. Refaat Alareer, the prominent Gazan writer, poet, activist, and professor of English literature at the Islamic University in Gaza, who was targeted and assassinated in an Israeli airstrike on December 6, 2023. His poem was widely circulated after his killing and was translated into more than 250 languages.

Available at Wear the Peace

Claire Zoghb’s collections include Small House Breathing and the chapbooks Boundaries and Dispatches from Everest. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize and appear widely in print and online journals and anthologies. When not graphic designing, Claire may be found wandering among beach roses. 

THE KIBOSH

by Steve Straight

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

Something that serves as a check
or stop; to halt, squelch, or cancel;
to bring to a sudden end.

Example: “We put the kibosh on that
to prevent another tragedy.”

Whatever its origin––
Yiddish, Irish, Arabic,
or perhaps just the streets 
of 1830s London––, though,
kibosh is still just a word.

When I put the kibosh on something,
I want it to stay kiboshed.

I would prefer a kibosh
to be a giant winged creature
with long talons and fierce eyes,
a mythical creature come to life.

I’m thinking some kind of griffin,
capable of plucking a certain human
out of his bunker
before he reanimates again
and causes another disaster,
or maybe out in the open,
on a golf course, say.

The kibosh would simply spirit this human
away, some place isolated
and barren and far from civilization.

This needs to happen soon, 
because God knows I can’t wait
much longer to taste the champagne.

Steve Straight’s books include Affirmation (Grayson Books, 2022), which won the 2023 William Meredith Award for Poetry, The Almanac (Curbstone/Northwestern University Press, 2012), and The Water Carrier (Curbstone, 2002). He was professor of English and director of the poetry program at Manchester Community College, in Connecticut.

WHAT SETTLES WHEN WE LAY OUR BODIES DOWN TO REST

by Paula J. Lambert

Source: The New York Times

Really, it’s just the claggy kind of snot struggling

to decide if it wants to stay low in your chest—

 

where your heart beats and every breath passes

through—or if, rising, clinging to the last breath,

 

it has the strength to finally release itself

to the world. We know by now what can travel 

 

on the tiny particles of our gasping exhalations: 

disease, devotion, the promise that death is no end. 

 

We might wish otherwise, drifting in and out 

of these strange dreams of drowning. We know

 

what happened in Nepal, North Carolina, Texas. 

We all might be called mystics when, prone, 

 

our bodies wrestle with desire, each wobble of faith 

in our resolve to go on a little death of its own.  

Paula J. Lambert of Columbus, Ohio, has published eleven collections of poetry including Terms of Venery, Revised (Sheila-Na-Gig 2025) and Sinkhole (Bottlecap 2025). Her work has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, the Greater Columbus Arts Council, and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts.

THE TENDER THINGS

by Janette Schafer

after “We Have Not Long to Love” by Tennessee Williams 

The tender things are those we fold away. 

The lover who didn’t stay, would not say why.

The nephew who’d be the perfect son if only

he could stop drinking. A crow who eats berries

off your front porch until he doesn’t. A mother

who remembers the girl you were at 17, 

and only talks to that child even when she’s 53.

A sister who believes every cuss word is

a demon to cast out. A husband who thinks

every bad day at work is a reason to cheat. 

You’d like the world to try a little tenderness—

except that now Dolly Parton is dead, and today

you needed any ray of sunshine—

so you reach the end of a cassette, hit rewind.

Janette Schafer is a poet, photographer, playwright, and realtor living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Chatham University. She is the author of three collections of poetry and the chief editor of two poetry anthologies. Her writing and photographs have appeared in numerous journals, newspapers, and websites, including Vox Populi, The Missouri Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and SWWIM.  She is a winner of the Academy of American Poets Prize.