TRADE

by Zumwalt

President Trump on Monday lashed out at communities that are protesting data centers, suggesting that residents who do not go along with the artificial intelligence revolution must prefer to be “backwards and poor.” —The New York Times, August 31, 2026

It’s a fair trade.

Water for compute.

Convert all the reservoirs.

Pump the aquifers to cool the language models.

Water for compute.

It’s a fair trade.

Energy for the processing.

Switch the substations to priority routing.

Make the desert a giant server farm.

Energy for the processing.

Prices are right for data and power.

Step up production:

More servers, more carbon in the air;

More processing, less rivers, more exhaust in our lungs.

Rising global temperatures are ripe to drive up prices.

Droughts increase water’s premium.

Aquifers get depleted.

Power becomes even scarcer.

Cooling costs rise.

Little Johnny wants to make money.

How can he not help to do so?

Invest in AI and pollute at the same time.

Easy money.

Pollute on a small scale:

Pocket change.

Pollute on a large scale:

Wealth beyond dreams.

Rising Temperatures,

Erratic Weather,

Algorithmic Growth,

Scarce Water Resources,

Civil Unrest

All put stress on

Grid supplies.

Now Johnny has to work harder.

He burns the midnight coal.

And makes more money.

Data centers, crypto mines and gigawatts

Make deserts out of wetlands.

Cooling fans, diesel backups and transformers

Make hazardous waste the specialty in trade.

But it’s a fair trade.

Quality of Life for Velocity of Life.

It’s a reasonable trade.

More processing for less plants and animals.

We will switch the future for the present.

Make our dreams a giant dustbowl.

Swap future prospects for a generated prompt.

Principles are right for the harvesting.

Let’s step up consumption:

More compute, more poison, hotter temperatures;

More processing, less rivers, less need for people.

It’s a good, honest trade.

I can write away the guilt.

Post my outrage to a monetized feed

And feel just a little better

As everyone increasingly feels worse.

Zumwalt’s poetry examines the intersection of identity, instability, and the mechanics of perception. Zumwalt is a proud repeat contributor to The New Verse News.

THE (B)OLD COIN, ALWAYS GOLDEN

by Jennifer Schneider

And so today, Americans will be able to honor 250 years of great American heritage by buying a questionably legal one-dollar coin for roughly $2.44. If you’d like to know who came up with such a brilliant plan, just look at the coin. —The Guardian, September 2, 2026

The first time I held a golden coin in my palm,
I was digging for treasures in a dusty attic.

My grandmother had recently passed
and her house was on 1-800-GOT-JUNK’s 
weekend route.

In the corner stood an ornate chest,
a trunk, short and wide: my family’s dimensions.

The trunk held nylons, faux pearls, and worn denim.
Grandmother had few secrets, but I found one of them. 

In the pocket of a pair of old Levi’s, there was a coin
with a name, date, and origin worn past recognition.

I’ve kept it, thinking it might be worth something.
After the truck took what no one claimed, I did more digging.

Beneath a microscope, the coin’s name, date, and origin
remained a mystery. I learned that American currency 
generally reserves its profiles for the dead. No golden goose 
has yet survived the press. Washington reportedly refused 
his own face on money: too much like a monarchy. 
Spencer Clark did not share his reluctance.

The story goes that in 1866 he placed
his living face where another Clark’s
was meant to go. Congress responded 
by prohibiting the portrait or likeness 
of any living person. Too bad ambiguity
outlived Clark’s defiant personality.

As Grandmother would say, nonsense 
and mischief belong in dirty handkerchiefs, 
not the Treasury or a treasure chest.

I revisit the coin and admire how little it asks to be known.

My grandmother used to talk of an embarrassment of riches.
We were never rich; I understood only the embarrassment.
Years later, holding her coin beneath a lamp, 
I finally understood the other half.

On my screen, a new golden dollar entered circulation.
This new coin has no trouble telling us who it is.

A golden goose in a suit. An eagle on the reverse. 
The birds never meet. LIBERTY curves above one.
The other carries E PLURIBUS UNUM in its mouth.

The Mint calls the coin golden.
Let the record show there is no gold.

My grandmother’s coin has kept its metals to itself.
The Mint lists his composition: copper, zinc, manganese, nickel.

Mine will not say where it came from. 
His came from Philadelphia without a mark to prove it.

One has forgotten.
One has been constructed.

Mine lay alone in a pocket.
His comes with nine million duplicates.

Mine cost an afternoon
and a truck of stuff no one wished to circulate.

His costs two dollars and forty-four cents
for every single dollar purchased.

When a retired attorney asked the court to stop the new coin, 
the court asked what harm he would suffer personally.
Nine million faces were not personal enough.

Some nights the old coin resembles my grandmother.
Legally, this would be permissible.

Tonight, beneath the lamp, my grandmother disappears.
For a moment, the face is mine. I turn it over.

Jennifer Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

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.