by Ruth S. Baker
“Ecotricity founder to grow diamonds ‘made entirely from the sky'”
—The Guardian
They’re mining the sky now in Stroud
Which should make the ecologists proud:
Stuff mined from the earth
Cannot equal in worth
These squeezings of carbon and cloud.
by Eddie Aderne
“The word Eigengrau means own grey, or intrinsic grey, or brain grey.
It is what you see when you close your eyes.”
—Patricia Lockwood, reviewing a collection of essays on Nabokov
in the London Review of Books
O Eigengrau, O Eigengrau:
You are the word I need for now!
I look upon the news, and ouch!
I feel the need to sigh and grouch;
But close my eyelids all the way,
I see instead intrinsic grey,
My own, my brain’s, true status quo:
O Eigengrau, how grau you grow!
by Nicole Caruso Garcia
Jiggery-Pokery
Judge Coney Barrett
Scooted to SCOTUS on
GOP praise.
P-grabber tapped her as
Six-to-three-scale-tipper,
Poised to flip Roe: back to
Coat hanger days.
by Julia Griffin
“Do all dogs go to heaven? Pet owners increasingly think so, says study”
—The Guardian
I’m hoping, in my afterlife, for miles of breezy heath,
Deer-droppings, ponds, and garbage bins, with mammoth bones beneath;
Endorsing as I do the late Will Rogers’ testament:
If dogs don’t go to Heaven, then I want to go where they went.
by Nora Jay
As I was coming through the gloaming,
I met a voter from Wyoming.
“My vote,” he said, and winked one cornea,
“Counts more than three from California.”
by Katherine Barrett Swett
(Sung to the tune of “There’s No Business like Show Business”)
There’s no business like Joe Business
Like no business I know.
Everything that he will be repealing
(At least the stuff that Congress will allow)
I can’t help the happy feeling
That Trump is stealing his final bow.
by Bruce Bennett
No ghouls this year, or little witches,
or loud delinquent sons-of-bitches.
That suits us fine, although we say
what scares us is Election Day.
by Bob McKenty
On the vigil of All Hallows, I was sitting, sipping Gallo’s
While awaiting trick-or-treaters’ bold assaults from six to nine,
When I dozed off; started snoring.
Then awoke to find it pouring,
Pouring buckets. What good luck! It’s
gonna make the evening fine.
(All that candy will be mine!)
by Chris O’Carroll
Pat Robertson says God says Trump will win.
I doubt that doubting him would be a sin.
Pat’s hawked some suspect inside dope before.
Whatever voice is telling him the score
Is maybe not divine. Don’t take my word,
Ask President Mitt Romney what Pat heard.
by Katherine Barrett Swett
“Jeffrey Toobin suspended by The New Yorker and is temporarily
stepping away from CNN following report he exposed himself on Zoom”
—CBS News
The behavior and coverage are over the top.
Why didn’t his colleagues just tell him to stop?
by Iris Herriot
“Peru opens Machu Picchu ruins for one tourist
Japanese tourist waited almost seven months to enter Inca citadel
while trapped in country during coronavirus pandemic”
—The Guardian
Makachu Pikachu,
Japanese visitor
Trapped by Corona for
Months in Peru
Tours now a citadel
Unprecedentedly
Touristless. I call that
Worth it, don’t you?
by James Higgins
(Sung to the tune of 1909’s “My Pony Boy.”)
ConeyGirl.
ConeyGirl.
Drumpf adores you,
don’ he, girl!
Take some heat,
then a seat
on our highest court.
Plan, in sum…?
Just keep mum:
you’ll be soon confirm’d.
Antonin-Clarence kin! (Bader Gin-…? No-o-o-o!)
O ConeyGirl!
ConeyGirl.
ConeyGirl.
Now you’re Mitch’s
crony, girl.
Precedents…?
Founders’ bents
trump ’em — so you’ll rule.
Wade v Roe…?
One must go,
as must ACA.
Lexual. Textual. (Sexual…? Who-o-oa!)
O ConeyGirl.
ConeyGirl.
ConeyGirl.
Dems feel you’re a phony, girl.
Immigrants
stand no chance.
Long gun bearers thrive.
Peopl’of Praise
damn the gays.
Where do you come down…?
COVID slays. World’s malaise. (End of Days…? Doh!!)
O ConeyGirl.
by Julia Griffin
For Emily
“Kim-Joy’s recipe for macaron meringue snails”
—The Guardian
Although I’ve labored on and on
I’ve yet to get the hang
Of topping with a macaron
A snail of sweet meringue.
However much I squeeze and tug
Or nudge it with a spoon,
The outcome’s just a sugar slug
Beneath a macaroon.
by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
Big cats with sightings in the British Isles
Remain elusive, but there’s one of note:
It cannot be a tiger, since it smiles.
The fur’s too blonde to make a lion’s coat.
It cannot be a jaguar. It’s too slow!
Snow leopard, or plain leopard? I think not!
How could this cat be either? We all know
Both leopards cannot change a single spot!
Instead this lazy feline morphs each day,
Grandiloquently toying with its prey.
Cat experts who have sighted it all say
A Cheshire cat’s more constant in its way!
There is no species name to speak to that—
So I propose: Panthera Boris Cat!
by Dan Campion
“NBC’s Welker sharp in first turn as debate moderator”
—AP
She called both rivals “Gentleman,”
Though one’s his class’s clown,
The other, aw-shucks Everyman.
She held malarkey down.
The ref who saw this match well run
And called foul punches out,
Beyond debate, Ms. Welker won
The campaign’s final bout.