by Bruce Bennett

“Accidents happen every day, and the U.S. sees about 35,000 per year from lawn mowing alone.
This leads to an average of 90 deaths per year from lawn mower accidents… people are more likely
to die from this than they are from many common fears, such as shark attacks and spider bites.”
—SierraBooster.com

Who knew they are so dangerous?
We thought they were our friends,
the pushing and the riding types.
Well, that’s how friendship ends.

You trust them and you go along,
no worry in your head.
Then suddenly, your ass is grass.
They mow you, and you’re dead!

by Paul Lander

It is so hot that
my iPhone now qualifies
as a Baked Apple.

by James Hamby

“Trump: Americans Who Died in War Are ‘Losers’ and ‘Suckers’”
—The Atlantic

(with apologies to John McCrae)

In French graveyards the losers lie,
Those suckers staring at the sky.
Who says Marines are oh-so-brave
When their own lives they couldn’t save?
I like the guys who didn’t die!

The dead are schmucks. A hundred years
Have passed since they were buried here.
I’m worried about my well-coiffed hair;
It’s raining there.

Who were the bad guys anyway?
Who cares about this war today?
Let’s eat a burger, play a round,
Not visit losers in the ground.
Forever suckers there they lay,
In French graveyards.

by Chris O’Carroll

To my supporters, my advice
Is everybody should vote twice.
Embrace election fraud to beat
Those leftists. They’re the thugs who cheat.

by Dan Campion

“. . . a choker, you know, a choker, they choke . . .”
—The President of the United States

Our president is fond of sports.
He’s often on the links:
He drives, he chips, he putts, he sorts
His thoughts; that’s where he thinks.

So when some citizens get shot
His brain tees off with, What?
Cops must’ve “choked.” Were in a spot.
“They miss a three-foot putt.”

It’s all the same to him: the green,
The ball, the club, the flag,
A riddled body, bloody scene.
A mulligan. A drag.

Next time you hear a shot, don’t blink.
Think golf. It’s just the plop
A choker landed in the drink.
No sweat. He’ll take a drop.

by Anita Edwards

Oh Lord, You see us on our knees,
Made humble by some falling trees.

And thus our voices cry to thee—
Please, grant us electricity:

At finger’s touch, a spark divine
(The inspiration wholly Thine)

That chills the food and lights the light,
And makes the clothing clean and bright!

We promise, Lord, we will be good,
And treat our neighbors as we should.

We won’t revile the ones who got
Their power back, when we have not.

Amen.

by Barbara Lydecker Crane

Many Covid clusters have come
from parties on campuses.

Pockets full of Covid
only go to show, kid:
bashes, bashes—
y’all fall down.

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

A dream showed no more courses to be planned,
No tests to grade, no meetings to be at—
Except for workshops in some far-off land,
Morocco maybe, Spain, or Montserrat …
Each time this dream recurred it would require
Researching in exotic meeting sites
In which I’d give a talk and then retire
To think professor’s thoughts through foreign nights,
Upholding highest standards, even though
Sequestering with scholars on a beach,
Pontificating on the things I know,
Relieved of grading since I couldn’t teach …
One day I did retire. Then Covid came.
Far-off is still far-off. The dream’s the same!

by Alex Steelsmith

Tickety pickity
Senator Kamala,
calmly and cautiously
joining the fray,

plots her ascendancy
vice-presidentially
pending, of course, what the
Harris polls say.

by Dan Campion

“For now, and for my beloved children, it will be less drama, more mama.”
—Kellyanne Conway, resigning from her White House role as Counselor to the President

We’ll miss you, Kellyanne; farewell!
Your parting rhyme detracts
Not one scintilla from the spell
You wove from roving facts.

by James Hamby

Don’t worry about lying or the lack of a crowd;
They’ll believe what you say if you shout really loud.

by Claudia Gary

Has she misplaced her cub, so full of squee?
Whew—no: she hears its outsize melody
and takes it to her breast, as well she might—
the finest viewing option for tonight.

by Catherine Chandler

Christina Rossetti:
I have no wit, no words, no tears;
And yet they’re shouting, “Four more years!”

Anne Bradstreet:
All things within this fading world hath end.
November 3rd is just around the bend.

by Marilyn L. Taylor

Why won’t the virus hit on us?
Because we are invincible!
So let’s go out and yuk it up
on principle!

It’s time for making out again
without a stupid mask—
And as for “social distancing”?
Don’t even ask.

We’re under forty-one years old
which means we’re all immune
(or nearly), so let’s hit the beach
this afternoon!

Tonight, the bars and restaurants
will ooze with babes and nerds
all set to rock and roll again—
just mark my words.

And should we cough or sniff or sneeze
or smooch (hey, don‘t we wish?)
we’ll only be replenishing
the petri dish—

so come on in and party hard
with all your sozzled friends!
Indulge your immortality
(—until it ends)!

by Julia Griffin

To this brave youth who sat in Nashville;
To this brave man who stood with King;
Who walked across a bridge in Selma,
And earned a law-backed battering;

To this brave statesman, daily proving
The spirit of the Freedom Ride;
To this brave spokesman, earth’s defender,
Forever on the future’s side;

To this brave sage, unstopped by sickness,
To this brave star, now laid in state:
Let us be thankful for his service,
Who dreamed and fought and would not wait.