by Dan Campion

“Here Is the Date When Life on Earth Will End, Long Before the Sun Explodes”
—Daily Galaxy

Long, long before the Sun explodes
(Five billion years or so),
Not even roaches, mites, and toads
Will thrive. Where can we go,
In several hundred million years,
Instead of being baked?
We’ll cook in place. As Hades nears,
We’ll say the heat is faked.

by Marshall Begel

“[P]olice arrest a cigarette smuggler disguised as a [hyacinth] water plant as he tries to cross a river
from Paraguay to Argentina.”
—Daily Mail

Sneakily, peekily
Paraguay snorkeler
Smuggling cigarettes
Ended up caught.

Is this a workable
Entrepreneurial
Business scenario?
Certainly not.

Officers saw through his
Invisibility—
Maybe the hyacinth
Captured their notice?

Modification of
Biomaterials
May improve camouflage—
Next time, try lotus.

by Stephen Gold

“Gin and tonic overtakes cup of tea as Britain’s favorite drink.”
—The Times

Tea used to be my drink of choice,
I thought of booze as sin.
But then I found (Rejoice! Rejoice!)
The wondrous world of gin.

My folks, of course, have cut up rough
That I have “gone astray.”
But why? I only drink the stuff
A dozen times a day.

Don’t ask me, please, to tea for two.
A glass of Gilbey’s, chilled,
Will always beat that feeble brew,
And that’s my view, distilled.

by Chris O’Carroll

The first AG the big guy designaetz
Has problematic habits when he daetz
(He and the boss might make ideal cellmaetz).
As word about his frat-boy traetz creaetz
PR nightmares, his case disintegraetz.

by Susan McLean

“Vladimir Shklyarov, Russian ballet star, dies aged 39 after falling from building”
—The Guardian

Shklyarov, a dancer of great talents
who had condemned the war against Ukraine,
died in a fall because he lost his balance
(as ballet dancers are so wont to do)
on a high balcony. You’d best refrain
from knocking what your leader does, or you
may find that you have lost your balance, too.

by Dan Campion

“Physicists Shed Light on Precise Shape of Single Photon”
—Sci.News

That science sheds new light on light
Should not surprise or shock us.
But “Some are Born to Endless Night”
And grope through ceaseless ruckus;
There’s more of them, it seems, these days.
However, hope shines bright.
Behold Aurora’s least displays:
Each photon in its flight
Conforms to laws and does not cheat
Nor sneak nor snarl nor sneer.
A photon’s true and strong and fleet,
A star by which to steer.

by Marshall Begel

“Thailand’s baby pygmy hippo Moo Deng now has an official song…”
—The Associated Press

They come by car, arrive in trains,
They sail by ocean ship-O,
To see the pup who entertains:
Moo Deng the pigmy hippo!

So I composed her special tune—
A charming, winsome trip-O,
And if you want to hear me croon,
Hold up your lighted Zippo.

Now everybody, sing along,
And let it really rip-O!
If anyone enjoyed my song,
Be sure to leave a tip-O.

by Iris Herriot

“California man arrested after climbing into hospital ceiling and getting stuck
Police say man, believed to be under influence of drugs, walked into ER restroom
in Upland and did not come out”
—The Guardian

He wandered into Upland
As giddy as a pup:
His limbs were very supple, and
He kept on going up.

“The ceiling’s where I’ll lurk!” he
Declared, all cock-a-hoop:
But then he went cold turkey,
And now he’s in the coop.

by Julia Griffin

“AI poetry rated better than poems written by humans, study shows
Findings suggest non-expert poetry readers who participated preferred AI works
because they find them more straightforward and accessible”
—The Guardian

Asked to write a sonnet (subject unspecified), ChatGPT instantly obliged. Half of its sonnet appears below.
It wrote the lines in roman font; the italic lines are my replacement for its originals. Full ChatGPT sonnet
available on request. (Or you could ask it yourself.)
—JG

With shades of pink and gold in soft embrace.
ChatGPT, does that look good to you?
The quiet whispers time’s unhurried pace.
I know it took no time at all to do.
The trees, like silent sentinels, stand tall,
Well, yes, they would. That is the thing with trees.
Each leaf that falls, a story to recall,
Not much, unless the tree had some disease.
Yet in the heart, a deeper strength remains,
And what makes you an expert on the heart?
Of dreams that rise and hopes that never fade.
Or hopes that rise, and dreams—don’t let me start.
So as the day unravels and takes form,
Say we’re not looking at the art’s new norm!

by Philip Kitcher

“A lowly Scottish soccer club, which once had ‘James Bond’ actor Sean Connery on its books,
has been given a six-point deduction for having a sloping field.”
—US News and World Report

To the Scottish Professional Football League

Dear Sirs,
The fans in Bonnyrigg
were feeling proud and thinking big,
till you unjustly stripped away
points fairly earned in honest play.
No football team should ever yield
its right to use a slanted field:
remember that both sides defend
for half the game at either end.
The time I spent at Gordonstoun
taught me to take the up-and-down;
we teenage boys soon learned to cope
with all varieties of slope.
We soldiered on, and took our lumps
on pitches that were full of bumps.
We played on when the goals would flood,
when footballs would be lost in mud,
we played through hail, we played through snow,
we played where milksops feared to go.
All brawny Scotsmen should oppose
this treatment of the Bonny Rose.
Your Bonny Prince, I must respond
to save the heritage of Bond.
Your mollycoddling’s absurd—
I countermand it!
Charles the Third

by Alex Steelsmith

“Canadian rock band plays world’s deepest concert in a mine… 8,086 feet and 11.31 inches below sea level…”
—UPI

Readily, steadily,
rock and roll melodies
rose from a seemingly
bottomless hole;

singers aware of their
vulnerabilities
prayed that a sizeable
rock wouldn’t roll.

Dreamingly, schemingly,
venturous band members
hoped their performance would
strengthen their brand,

only to find it worked
counterproductively;
pundits declared them an
underground band.

by Stephen Gold

“Justin Welby’s resignation as Archbishop of Canterbury was necessary to ‘change the face’
of how the Church of England tackles abuse, senior colleagues have said.”
—The Times

Lord, you know I’m pledged to thee,
But why on earth did thou choose me
To be the shepherd of thy flock,
Then give them the almighty shock
Of finding one they thought divine
Was just a man without a spine?

That evil wins when men do naught
Is something I had long forgot,
As through the years your mills ground slow.
But now I’m dust and have to go.
It looks like justice, I suppose.
But will it change a thing? God knows.

by Iris Herriot

“Human rights groups… [say] there has been a recent spate of arrests, forced disappearances
and the shuttering of businesses linked to perceived breaches of the hijab laws.”
—The Guardian

Iran jails women who refuse hijabs.
Oh women of America, rejoice!
You only have a President who grabs,
And bodies which are Nick Fuentes’ choice.

by Marshall Begel

“A fight is under way to allow Saint-Flour Cathedral… to continue having
premium hams dry as they hang from beams in its 135-metre-high tower”
—Church Times

Please, cultural affairs committee,
Bestow a modicum of pity
On our crucial, but petite
Commercial venture curing meat.

After all, it wasn’t smoked
Charcuterie that once provoked
Our Lord and Savior’s fit of rage
On that ecclesiastic stage!

So when discussing our appeal,
Perhaps you’ll gather for a meal.
Before you vote to shut us down,
Will that be Grey Poupon, or brown?

by Dan Campion

“R.F.K. Jr. Scorns Trump’s Fast Food Habit: ‘Really, Like, Bad’ and ‘Poison’”
—The New York Times

What’s “poison” to a Kennedy
Tastes like ambrosia to the Boss.
Whose Camelot shall thrive? We’ll see.
One’s venom is another’s sauce.