Poems of the Week

By Their Fruits…

by Bob McKenty

Ever since Cherry Tree George beat the drum,
The president’s role’s been considered a plum.
The prez gets to stand in the limelight, nice guy,
Top Banana, the apple of everyone’s eye.
He may earn the raspberries pundits confer,
But isn’t the type sour grapes will deter.
He won’t give a fig for their critical views,
Which he can succinctly dismiss as “fake news.”
But if it’s a lemon who’s taken the oath,
Let Congress impeach him (that’s pruning for growth).

Lady Ghislaine

by Julia Griffin

“Ghislaine Maxwell is the woman at the center of
the Jeffrey Epstein scandal. She’s not been seen in months”

O what has become of the Lady Ghislaine?
She’s vanished with never a trace, or a stain.
Have journalists driven her over the edge,
That billionaire belle with the name that means “pledge”?

A rumor is running (you know how they are)
That Lady Ghislaine’s gone the way of her Pa,
Who somehow contrived the most tragic of stunts:
Fell overboard, drowned, and was fished out at once

And recognized—settling thereby the hash
Of those he had owed an abundance of cash.
His enemies suffered quite genuine pain
When Maxwell was lost from the Lady Ghislaine—

For this was the name of both daughter and boat.
In any Ghis-contest, the boat gets my vote:
Both sailed in deep water, more flashy than sure;
But human Ghislaine sank the young and the poor.

O Lady Ghislaine, there are rumors at large:
There’s talk of subpoenas, and even a charge …
Though optimists swear we will see you again,
I’ll wait for your funeral, Lady Ghislaine.

Grocers Triumph

by Jerome Betts

“The Apostrophe Protection Society has closed, because ‘ignorance has won.’“
—The Oldie

“Grocer’s apostrophe [in British English]: NOUN an apostrophe placed before
a final
s intended to indicate the plural but in fact forming the possessive.”
—Collins Dictionary

The protectors, it seems, have begun a retreat,
The sticklers withdrawn to their lairs.
How sad it must be thus to suffer defeat
By the sellers of apple’s and pear’s.

Duncan Hunter Pleads Guilty, with Mitigating Wife Under a Bus

by Orel Protopopescu

“Mr. Hunter, a Republican congressman known for his hard-line views
and early support for President Trump, pleaded guilty on Tuesday…
to conspiracy to steal campaign funds.”
The New York Times

Duncan Hunter pleaded guilty,
though he said it was his wife
who took care of their finances,
since he has a busy life.

Paying airfare for their rabbit?
Just a laughable mistake.
His clandestine tryst in Tahoe
signed by wifey? Piece of cake!

Nothing makes this tale surprising,
though the bunny adds excitement.
Just another Trump supporter
re-elected, post-indictment.

Love and Rockets

by Chris O’Carroll

They met cute by swapping insults—
“Dotard,” “Little Rocket Man.”
Then a propaganda game of
Bromance photo ops began.

Dotard envied Little Rocket
Man his unchecked tyrant clout.
“Phony Constitution,” Dotard
Pouted, “makes me do without.”

Dotard cooed, “I now see Little
Rocket Man through lover’s eyes.
Our relationship’s so great it
Should win me a Nobel Prize.”

Little Rocket Man and Dotard
Broke up. Now they’re angry exes
Threatening to demonstrate how
Hot and nasty break-up sex is.


by Julia Griffin

“Lovestruck pig pursues TV reporter live on air”

He’s nothing to make a big deal about.
There’s lots of good boars in the shed!
He grunts even though there’s no meal about.
His bristles are all on his head.

He walks on two hooves—there’s no tellin’ him.
His snout is too snub for the pail.
My friends have no clue what I smell in him:
Who knows what he’s done with his tail?

He eats with his feet. He’s too tall for me.
His ears are mere slits. He likes ham;
O Lazos, you’re no good at all for me—
Poor, pitiful pig that I am!

The Liars’ Lunch

by Orel Protopopescu

“Trump throws Rudy under the bus with new Ukraine comments.”

Baloney with Russian dressing
for Trump. And Pence? Mayo on white.
Perry eats red meat fried in oil.
Jaravanka? Anything light.

Rape leaf salad for Kavanaugh,
preceded by at least four beers.
Miller ingests blood sausage, raw,
and a bucket of human tears.

Pompeo and Mulvaney share
a pu-pu platter, party tea.
Rudy takes toast with caviar,
fantastic scoops from the Black Sea.

“I’m insured,” Giuliani warns
when Trump invades his plate. “I’m host,”
Trump counters, swallowing eggs,
“with full immunity. Eat toast.”


by Dan Campion

“With suction cups and lots of luck, scientists measure blue whale’s heart rate”

The heart rate of Leviathan
Is yogic: half of yours or mine;
Another diagnostic sign
Of what sad shape our brains are in.
For if we took things with the flow,
Like Stoics and the great blue whale,
Our hearts would strengthen, learn to slow,
And bring our troubles down in scale.

Staying Out of the Can

by Brian Allgar

Said Mitch McConnell, “Guess I’m kinda lucky,
The only living turtle in Kentucky.
I coulda been a can of soup at Costco;
Instead, I’m kept alive to service Moscow.”

On Trump Reopening Talks With The Taliban

by Mark Granier

Dear Taliban,
Say something nice to him, pretend you can
pull off some deal, unveil some half-assed plan.
The fact that he’s aggrieved as Caliban
is something you’ve in common. He’s no fan
of what you blew to pieces in Bamyan.
Just make it look as if you and the man
both give the vaguest semblance of a damn
about Afghanistan.