by David Hedges
“NASA fixes ‘stuck’ InSight Mars lander by ‘telling it to hit itself with shovel’”
—The U.S. Sun
NASA’s InSight lander shows
What every scientist now knows:
The planet Mars is not as dead
As they suspected once. Instead,
Seismometers reveal it shakes
The way Earth does. (They’re called Marsquakes.)
Some nifty onboard sensors track
Its gale-force winds and transmit back
To Earth the daily pressure range,
As well as how the seasons change.
One gauge, however, had bad luck:
The lander’s digging probe got stuck.
It may have been a wayward rock
That caused the unexpected block.
The rod-shaped digger, dubbed “the mole,”
Refused to dig a simple hole,
Denying scientists a clue
To how the planet looked when new.
They figured they would have to bore
Down deep to find how hot the core
Was. Anyway, that’s what they planned.
They built the rod to slide through sand,
But heavy dirt was what they found.
Their resolution was profound:
They asked a farmer, and he said,
“Just knock the mole upside the head.”
It took a year, and lots of skill,
But finally they freed the drill.
by Dan Campion
The straight-faced Covid lineup stands
At Our Dear Leader’s back,
Guts twisting into ampersands
At each new bold attack
The Genius makes on truth, the facts,
Best practices, and reason,
Alert that if their brow contracts
He’ll have them tried for treason.
Then, “Thank you, Mr. President,”
One or another says,
While stepping up, by angels sent,
To part The Boss’s haze.
Amid the national agony
And general irritation,
Dear Task Force, for the grit we see:
Our pure, spaced-out ovation!
by Ruth S. Baker
“Twin ring-tailed lemurs born at Chester zoo…
The twins are 15cm (6in) tall and weigh just a few hundred grams, described as being ‘no bigger than tennis balls with [‘iconic black and white’] tails’.”
—The Guardian
This week, two ring-tailed lemurs
Were born in Chester Zoo.
Two tiny, two-tone screamers
This week, two ring-tailed lemurs,
With less than four-inch femurs,
Were born. You ask what’s new
This week? Two ring-tailed lemurs
Were born in Chester Zoo.
by Bruce Bennett
Tra la Tra la
Go wash your hands.
Don’t touch your face.
If someone stands
Too near, report them.
Sweet birds sing.
Keep windows open.
Happy Spring!
by Brian Allgar
This damned Coronavirus gets me down!
The pubs and bars are closed all over town.
There must be one still open! Let me think …
To do that, though, I really need a drink.
by Chris O’Carroll
“I don’t take responsibility at all.”
—Donald Trump
The press says nasty things about the virus.
Why do they think the buck should stop with me?
My answer to whatever they inquire is
That I don’t take responsibility.
I’m unconcerned about the nation’s health,
Or deaths among your friends and family.
I watch the Dow, I dream about great wealth,
And I take no responsibility.
This is the art I bring to every deal.
Let’s blame the Chinese this time. Don’t blame me.
Whatever pain you suffer, I can’t feel.
I never take responsibility.
by Julia Griffin
“Arnold Schwarzenegger and his tiny horses urge people to stay home …
[in a Twitter video] featuring the actor and two pets, miniature horse Whiskey and donkey Lulu…”
—The Guardian
Poster boys for prudent courses,
Calming as a metronome,
Arnold and his tiny horses
Urge the nation: Please stay home.
If you’re feeling rather wonky,
If you’ve got the virus scare,
Gaze at Arnold’s dinky donkey
Nuzzling his midget mare,
And absorb their wise advices
(They endorsed what Arnie said):
Outside’s nice but twice as nice is
Watching things like this in bed.
by Ruth S. Baker
To lighten our virus ennui,
The Met’s sharing broadcasts for free;
I escape my malaise
In Parisian cafes,
Till I die of (delightful!) TB.
by Nora Jay
The value of the moral life
Grows clear as we grow antsier.
Best not Covid your neighbor’s wife,
However much you fancy her.
by Dan Campion
“Florida governor calls out spring breakers for ignoring coronavirus warnings”
—Fox News
“If I’m curt with you, it’s because time is a factor.”
—Harvey Keitel as The Wolf in Pulp Fiction
While certain types binge-watch old soaps
Or Nature Channel antelopes,
And bookish sorts sit reading Poe,
Mann, or—my man—Boccaccio,
All hunkered down as they’ve been told,
I note—and I don’t like to scold—
You bunch of jokers fail to heed
The Covid guidelines. Thus you breed
A virulence you oughtta fear,
But risk it all to swill some beer
And hook up on a crowded beach.
You should be swabbing knobs with bleach.
You’ve got no concept of disease!
Exert some caution. Pretty please.
by Christopher Scribner
This poem is not contagious;
it need not be evaded—
my antivirus software
was recently updated.
by Anna M. Evans
We’ve canceled March. There’ll be no sport;
Broadway’s dark; most classes taught
will be online; at Disneyland
the gates are locked; large groups are banned
from gatherings of any sort.
The shops are bare because you’ve bought
your toilet paper. Now, you’re fraught,
keeping your distances, as planned.
We’ve canceled March.
Each cough is evidence you’ve caught
the virus! Each fresh news report
alarms you. Still, we’ve made our stand—
this plague can’t get the upper hand—
so we’ve invoked our last resort
and canceled March.
by Julia Griffin
“Scientists identify rain of molten iron on distant exoplanet
Conditions on Wasp-76b in Pisces include temperatures of 2,400C and 10,000mph winds”
—The Guardian
The exoplanet Wasp in Pisces
Subsists despite unending crises:
It’s hard to keep an even keel
At near the melting-point of steel,
And even heroes’ hearts might cower
With winds 10,000 miles per hour.
The place can furthermore rely on
Incessant rain of molten iron.
All this might serve as a directive
To keep our problems in perspective.
by David Hedges
I feel I’m wedded to the Bride
Of Frankenstein. My honeymoon
Is like a roller-coaster ride,
A bruising bouncy-bounce inside
A runaway hot-air balloon
Inflated only by the steam
I vent at those who disagree
With how I’m running my regime,
Those Never Trumps of academe,
Those Faux News chumps who squeal with glee
And fill the mainstream air with lies,
Those double-dealing Democrats
Who demonize free enterprise
And block my hard-earned Nobel Prize—
Greta and her snot-nosed brats.
I send my flyboys off to battle
To let the world know I’m in charge.
I grind the bones of those who tattle;
There’s not a cage that I can’t rattle.
My hands and other things are large.
So here this virus comes by stealth
And puts my Wall Street claims in doubt.
I say to hell with public health,
I’m more concerned with private wealth.
Vlad’s not about to bail me out.
In fact, he’s driving down the price
Of crude oil right before I stand
For re-election. That’s not nice!
I can’t afford to roll the dice.
This thing is getting out of hand.
