by Julia Griffin

“Hamza bin Laden, the son of the late al-Qaida leader, has married the daughter of Mohammed Atta, the lead hijacker in the 9/11 terror attacks, according to his family.” — The Guardian

Gather blooms from every garden!
Let the vests be richly styled!
For the offspring of bin Laden
Weds Mohammed Atta’s child.

Toast the harmony symbolic
Of the vessel and the heir!
Raise a glass (non-alcoholic)
To this devastating pair:

Handsome Hamza, glowing gently
With his father’s scarlet fame,
And a girl (who consequently
Has no reason for a name).

Lads are cheering, lasses swooning,
Eager all to ascertain
Where they’re going honeymooning,
And the details of the ’plane:

But today there’ll be no crashers,
As the sable flags unfurl,
Hailing those united smashers,
Hamza Bin and Atta-Girl.

by Marshall Cobb

“Dozens of goats broke loose and invaded a neighborhood in Boise, Idaho…”—CNN

You’ll seldom see a goat invasion,
But when it comes there’s devastation.
You’ll lose your lilacs, so long shrubs,
They’ll gnaw your roses down to nubs.

Don’t try to stop them, else the nanny
Is prone to butt you in the fanny.
And then the he-goat, known as Billy,
Will likely knock you willy-nilly.

On top of that, they’re very noisy.
Just ask the folks who live in Boise.

by David Hedges

When Rudy Giuliani served
As mayor of New York,
His high esteem was undeserved.
In sum, he was a dork.

He brought his mistress home one day
To live at Gracie Mansion,
Much to his second wife’s dismay.
He oversaw expansion

Of a half-baked war on crime.
You didn’t spit for fear
You’d wind up fined and doing time,
Or sneeze if you were queer.

When 9/11 hit, he seized
The podium and basked
In lavish praise. He acted pleased
No matter what was asked

Because it meant another chance
To hog the microphone,
And do his little song and dance
Before the facts were known.

This latter trick he’s maximized
As mouthpiece for The Don.
His viewers sit there mesmerized
By how he chatters on.

Integrity’s put through the mill
Or blasted into space,
But yet again we get our fill
Of Giuliani’s face.

by Phil Huffy

“American Airlines flier removed from flight despite buying separate seat for her cello.”—USA Today

There is always room for Jell-o,
advertisements used to say.
In the case of someone’s cello,
it turned out the other way.

While its ride most calmly ended
when the flight went outward bound,
a return trip was suspended
and it never left the ground.

For the promised seat was taken
and its passage then refused
while its owner stood, forsaken,
with her dignity abused.

Does the airline merit censure?
Did the pilot act alone?
I’ll find out next time I venture
to transport my bass trombone.

by S.O. Fasrus

“‘Friends’ of [Kim Kardashian and Kanye West] have allegedly told Star magazine that Kanye has given Kim a ‘twisted’ ultimatum—’plump her rump or don’t let the door hit you on the way out.'”—New Idea 

Men don’t make passes
at girls with flat asses—
to be a real cutie
you need a big booty.
Dot Parker opined
thick specs were a no-no,
but nowadays, folks,
it’s big-buns-a-go-go.

by Julia Griffin

“We do not hold preference for any particular style or topic—we simply seek the best poem we can find. Send us work that is blister, that is color, that strikes hot the urge to live and be. We strongly invite poets from all communities. You, & your words, are welcome here.”
—Frontier Poetry, announcing a New Poets competition

Is it blister? Is it color,
Striking hot the urge to be?
Or, by contrast, is it duller
Than a tepid mug of tea?
Is its color hot Venetian
With a dash of desert red,
Or, instead, like tofu quiche: an
Uninspiring shade of shed?
Is it blister? Is it splinter?
Does it master and suffuse?
Is it really more akin to
Some extremely minor bruise?
If it’s blister, ’twill be bliss to
Crown you best of singing birds!
If it’s not, forget it, mister.
You’re not welcome, nor your words.

by Mae Scanlan

“I’d like to buy some applesauce.”
“You need to show me your IDs.”
“I left them home.” “You may be boss,
But I need proofs. Produce them, please.”

“Hey, I’ve got cash. I’d like to go
Play golf. Don’t make this purchase hard.”
“You cannot have it till you show
Your license or a credit card.

Our policy makes perfect sense;
For all I know, you’re Betsy Ross.
Until you show some documents
Forget about your applesauce.”

by Mark Granier

Like it needs another baker refusing to bake
even one, irreligiously gay, cake.
Like it needs more religious liberty gravy.
Like it needs to launch a Religious Liberty Navy.
Like it needs an Attorney General keen to take action
against ‘cultural’ climate change (the planetary one being a distraction).
Like it needs religious cheerleaders to cover their religious knees.
Like it needs a pro-evangelical POTUS who’s the embodiment of sleaze.
Like it needs a Religious Liberty parade
rained on by golden showers of religious lemonade.
Like it needs another state turning religiously red.
Like it needs a religious hole in another religious head.

*”‘Jeff Sessions announces new ‘religious liberty task force.'”—CNN

by Dan Campion

“Reenactment of the Civil War is in decline,
and a crucial battlefield feels the loss..”—The New York Times (Midwest edition)

The feelings of the battlefield are mixed.
It used to feel the tramp of legions. Now,
Much thinner ranks advance with bright blades fixed.
At least they all survive to take a bow.
That other time, those three days in July,
So many boys and men stayed on the ground
It felt oppressive. Thankfully, they lie
Elsewhere today (all those, that is, they found).
It’s sad to feel enthusiasm wane
For reenacting bygone glory’s scenes
With realistic gasps and thrills of pain
And period hardtack and tin canteens.
The field is moved to ask, as feeling fractures,
Who will reenact the reenactors?

by Alex Steelsmith

As Britain considers its exit
while half of the public rejects it,
Theresa may worry,
and be in no hurry
to put all her eggs in one Brexit.

by Julia Griffin

US President Donald Trump tweeted his thanks to North Korean leader Kim Jong Un Thursday, after the possible remains of American war dead killed in the Korean War arrived back on US soil.—CNN

Thank you, Chairman Kim Jong Un,
For keeping of your word:
I like you more than Good Night Moon,
Whatever you have heard.
I’m not at all surprised you took
This action nice and kind;
And let me add how thin you look
When photo’d from behind.
We’re thrilled you’re sending back our dead:
We’re sure beneath each lid
We won’t find something else instead,
The way the British did.
Your letter, too, was kind and nice.
I hope to see you soon
And treat you to an Egg McRice,
Dear Chairman Kim Jong Un.

by David Hedges

My best advice to Michael Cohen: Flee.
This latest tape has turned The Donald blue.
Eyeball to eyeball with reality,
He’s bound to wonder, “What would Putin do?”

by Ian Graham

“A topiarist says he is having to make regular repairs to his hedge due to drunk people pretending to have sex with it. … The hedge, which he has sculpted over the past 40 years, started off as a Greek god but he changed it into a reclining woman at the turn of the millennium.”— BBC News

In the twentieth century, to please the drunks,
I carved Dionysus (without any trunks)
Into my hedge, and there the god lay
Quite undisturbed until one fateful day
A slip of the trimmer on the hardy perennial
Converted him into a female millennial
Which greatly augmented the passing trade
And also the toll of repairs to be made
But to tell you the truth, I have zero regrets
As workloadwise, I have hedged all my bets
For in terms of the topiarist’s sacred arts
Women have easier privet parts.

by Cody Walker

(with apologies to Lewis Carroll)

He thought he saw an Empty Suit
Abandoned on a Table:
He looked again, and found it was
A Genius (“very stable”).
“A ‘Made in Russia’ genius! Snap!
I saw it on the label.”

He thought he saw the word “COLLUSION”
Spelled with just one L:
He looked again, and found it was
High treason? Hard to tell.
“Let’s toss another coin or two
Inside the wishing well.”

He thought he saw a Cage (a Cage!)
Constructed at the border:
He looked again, and found it was
Ivanka. (He ignored her.)
“She’s like an extra extra on the
Set of Law & Order.”

He thought he saw his Country’s Fortunes
Crumble—wait a minute:
He looked again, and found there was
Another way to spin it.
“In eighty years we’ll be cadavers.
Kinda funny, innit?”

by Julia Griffin

—Barefaced cheek: Rubens nudes fall foul of Facebook censors — The Guardian

Farewell, ye nudes of Rubens, all unbodiced,
Each dimple and each pimple, rosy-ripe;
Now Facebook bans all hints of the immodest;
The arts require a purer prototype.
No longer shall we peep in shy rubescence:
Such grossness on the screen is now pre-shunned;
We’re giving up exuberant nubescence,
Eschewing the cherubic rubicund.
Yet cynics claim we’re mere naïfs and newbies;
It’s no square deal, they sneer, but cubic con;
We’re choosing prudish rubrics over rubies,
And heading for a pubic Rubicon.
The Facebook cops (say these) are worse than rubes:
They’re manifested as tremendous boobs.