Poems of the Week

Foreign Policy at Sea

by Chris O’Carroll

That ship we said was headed north,
A symbol of our strong objection
To Kim Jong-un? It’s really going
In the opposite direction.

The era of fake leadership,
Rabid Fox fake punditry,
And whiny rants about “fake news”
Now brings us fake geography.

Giraffe Delivers on LiveCam

by Claudia Gary

Watch April in labor.
Watch Oliver pace.
Watch Missile Tests slide down
to second, third place.

Front hooves have emerged.
What cute little knees!
I don’t want a war,
I want one of these.

While baby’s legs hang,
Mom stops for a snack.
Why can’t that long tongue
give the White House a whack?

When hotheads prevail,
stability sours.
This calf soon will crash-land,
then walk within hours,

upstaging its mom–
but she won’t go ballistic.
She’s caring and calm,
not at all narcissistic.

Is April to blame
for stealing the show?
Let world leaders learn
what giraffe mothers know.

Outfoxed

by Robert Schechter

There once was a man named O’Reilly
Who conducted himself rather vilely.
For years he’d harass.
But they fired his ass,
So this limerick concludes with a 🙂

Election Day June 8th

by John Whitworth

Air: The Wiliiam Tell Overture

Come away, come away, we will not stay.
Let us drink to the health of Theresa May:
She’s the lass with the class for this glorious day.
It’s the day that we dreamed would come.

It’s an end to the EU prospect drear.
It’s an end to the lies of Project Fear.
Now we’re out, they must tout for a new career.
It’s the day that they all succumb.

Every boff, every prof, every mandarin,
They all said we were dead, that we could not win,
That we’d have second thoughts when the sky fell in.
How they wish that they’d all kept mum.

Every hireling hack, every goof with a gong,
Every deadbeat repeating the same old song,
Repeat after me, you were just plain wrong
And you’re out on your lefty bum.

Political Follicles

by Jerome Betts

Where are the beards of ancient might
From deepest sable to snow-white?
So many egos were once bolstered
By jawlines copiously upholstered.

Fine-spun, or of a rope-like strength,
Neat, shaggy, flowing, navel-length,
The great and good could earn top dollars
With beavers fit for ayatollahs.

Charles Darwin, Alfred Tennyson,
Had growths that seemed to run and run,
While Dr Grace’s chest of matting
Lent awesome force to England’s batting.

One fact that few can dare deny −
Barefaced still collocates with lie.
Would voters find less cause for doubting
Elected members who keep sprouting?

But, sadly, no. Ms. Brex-Crex-Crex
May change her mind, but not her sex
And what the POTUS spreads among us
Can’t be disguised by facial fungus.

Spicer Gets Spicier

by Mae Scanlan

His name is Sean, the “briefing” guy;
He tries to “splain” each White House lie.
But he makes errors on his own;
Some not so bad, some quite fullblown.
With every blunder, every gaffe,
One wonders why he’s on the staff.
But on he goes, day out, day in,
Presenting news with Spicey spin,
And fielding the reporter’s lob;
It’s obvious he hates this job.

Three Months Down, 45 to Go

by Timothy Steele

When we were school kids and our teachers said
That our democracy was so designed
That anybody could be President,
This probably wasn’t what they had in mind.

Jubilate Lupo

by Dan Campion

For we will consider our dog Magnus.
For he is the servant of We the People and duly and daily serving us.
For he pricks us to remember Greatness abounding that he alone can retrieve.
For our livelihoods are flown in gusts of wind but we hear him summon back the winds.
For our eyelids heavy with the dust of poppy obscure his Messes.
For our ears turned lead by his growls blunt the most outrageous Lies.
For he sees far for us with sober eyes and hears keenly for us with sharp gold-fringed ears.
For rival packs are wary of his cunning.
For he is less rabid than some of the others.
For he contradicts himself, very well, he contradicts himself.
For he marks his territory without shame.
For he makes shrewd compact with the Wolves to guard the Flock.
For we admire brute strength and do not apologize for that.
For he does not apologize.
For he keeps the People’s watch in the night against the Adversary and sends tweets against him.
For even when tweeting he is no canary.
For the camel cannot rival him in stamina nor the bear in tenacity.
For he bounds fetchingly with the poodles in the gated dog park.
For Jack London nor John Steinbeck nor Walt Disney could invent him.
For the jackals and weasels fear only bared fangs.
For strokes properly applied make him affectionate and genial but poorly applied raise his dander—Poor Magnus! poor Magnus! The fleas have nipped thy flanks.
For we bless the big names on Fox that Magnus feels better.
For fleas have fleas, as he knows, and marshals the tribes into circuses.
For he makes common cause with canines from the tall timber to the steppes.
For he grabs Pussy and does not blush to announce it, and if he did we would not see the blush through the bronze.
For his coat is of a coarseness and a fineness uncommon.
For he can pursue a golf ball.
For he can bite.