by Jerome Betts
“Speaking in the Rose Garden, Trump said there was
an emergency at the border which could only
be fixed by building a wall.”—The Guardian
Amid mounting strife over walls, fences, barriers,
And the sound of the parties’ rhetorical arias,
There’s a question to ask, as a matter of urgency−
Is the POTUS himself not a national emergency?
by Brendan Beary
It might just be valid for ninety-some days,
Though few will attain such longevity;
Some come for a moment, and some not at all—
They’re typically known for their brevity.
But maybe, just maybe, your roll of the dice
Surpasses your farthest-out fantasy:
A ninety-day jaunt goes for fifteen more years,
Revealing much more than you’d planned to see.
So play Billie Holiday; let’s serenade
The space exploration community,
And marvel at all that allowed them to make
The most of their one Opportunity.
by Ruth S. Baker
” … concern is mounting about the growing scarcity of many exotic elements that have become utterly critical to the workings of our modern world. … Helium, for example is considered to be under serious threat in the next 100 years.”—The Guardian
Accept our sympathy, but please
(Although we’d not dismantle ’em)
We’ve many more endangerees
Than helium and tantalum;
And something with a tail and snout
(Let this be my exordium)
Is much more fun to care about
Than ruddy rutherfordium.
by Phil Huffy
No hounds need apply
for a White House gig,
the President has stated.
He’s much too involved
with important things
for matters dog related.
But in point of fact
one would have to guess
that any intelligent cur
if offered even part time work
would cautiously demur.
by Michael Calvert
“Officials at Samford University, a Christian college in Alabama, allegedly told an all-female group partaking in a dancing competition to “bind their breasts” … [and] use Ace bandages or wear multiple bras so ‘nothing moves’ while they competed.”—The Daily Beast
Now girls, put on your funky grooves,
But just see to it nothing moves.
We’re asking every dancing beauty,
Shake nothing, least of all your booty.
Although we know you long to be
True daughters of Terpsichore,
Each time we see a bosom sway,
We fear there will be hell to pay.
So keep it clean, avoiding wiggles,
Waggles, jounces, jumps or jiggles—
No dance gives us a bigger thrill
Than one that keeps you standing still.
by Liza McAlister Williams
Farewell to the scion—or scioness—
of metrical verse, to that lioness
whose wry, entertaining admonishment
waylaid us in gales of astonishment,
that mischievous, marvelous polyphone
whose deathless bons mots touched our funny bone.
*Beloved Light contributor Mae Scanlan left us on Feb. 5.
Our winter/spring issue, out soon, will include more on
Mae’s inspiring (and inspired) life.
by Julia Griffin
“Joshua Trump, 11, wakes up a celebrity after dozing off during presidential address.”
—The Guardian
“So the LORD was with Joshua; and his fame was noised throughout all the country.”
—Joshua 6:27
And lo! This day it came to pass
That Joshua was found,
And borne to Jericho (first class)
To hear the Trumpet sound.
Then seven senators arose
And led him to his place,
That all of Israel’s friends and foes
Might mark him face to face.
Now Joshua was wearied sore;
His vigil long he kept,
But when at last he could no more,
It came to pass he slept.
And as he slept the Trumpet blew,
A noise of high renown;
And verily, betwixt the two,
They brought the whole House down.
by Jerome Betts
“Join us in February for our fourth
annual Snowdrop Festival—where you
can visit gardens teeming with one of
the earliest flowering plants of the year.”
—National Gardens Scheme website
The cold rain teeming down for hours
Blots out those pale blooms’ clusters,
The forecast stuck at blustery showers
Relieved by showery blusters.
Don’t urge us out before it’s dry!
Until there’s really no drops,
Best stay indoors and warm, not try
To see some sodden snowdrops!
by Nora Jay
“Billionaire and likely presidential hopeful Howard Schultz doesn’t want people calling him a ‘billionaire’:
… At a book event on Monday, Schultz swapped out the word for the term ‘people of means.’ …
‘All I’m trying to do is one thing: walk in the shoes of the American people,’ he said.”
—Business Insider
Now Mr. H. Schultz is as rich as a czar:
With so many bucks he’s a qualified star;
But all his desire—it’s a strange thing to choose—
Is trying to walk in his countrymen’s shoes.
He’s loaded with money—that’s not in dispute;
The proper descriptor, we’re learning, is moot,
But “person of means” is the one he will use:
Just one of the people, who walks in their shoes.
Of course Mr. Schultz can provide in a lump
The billions required to campaign against Trump,
And thus make the Democrats likely to lose,
While he is out walking in popular shoes.
The people are patient: they watch and don’t rage
As tax-dodgers sit on the minimum wage;
But one thing let’s hope they’ll be slow to excuse
Is Mr. H. Schultz taking walks in their shoes.
by Catherine Chandler
Trump’s unconcerned with Nipple and with Button.
His ersatz mind’s in Mar-a-Lago. Puttin’.
by Julia Griffin
“Emergency services are currently dealing with a single vehicle [collision] on the A381 by the South Milton turn where a car has overturned.
The driver stated he swerved to avoid an octopus. He is currently in custody on suspicion of drug driving.”
—Kingsbridge Police Report
He thought he saw an octopus
Reposing on the road;
He looked again, but not before
He’d too abruptly slowed,
And consequently overturned
And breached the Highway Code.
He thought he saw a kangaroo
Reciting from a text;
He looked again, and found it was
A judge, distinctly vexed,
Who sentenced him to kick the drugs
And change his glasses. Next!
by Ruth S. Baker
“‘It’s a Beatle haircut’: historian claims 15th-century portrait is from the 1960s:
National Gallery’s 1450 portrait by Rogier van der Weyden was created in the 1960s by Eric Hebborn, says art historian.”
—The Guardian
Imagine there’s no fraudsters:
It’s easy if you try;
No crooked sales or hoardsters,
Compelled to sell or buy;
Imagine giving painters
What collectors pay … a …ay
Perhaps some dealer-reamer
Just thought he’d have some fun;
You may say he’s a schemer,
But he’s not the only one.
Imagine I’m a Beatle:
I’ve got a ’60s do;
This scroll is no decretal,
Just songs From Me To You;
Imagine giving paintings
Credit just per se … a …ay
Suppose I’m by a lemur:
I’d still be nicely done;
You may say “art blasphemer!”
But I’m not the only one.
by Nora Jay
“Karl Marx’s London grave vandalised in suspected hammer attack”
—The Guardian
Ye workers of the world, unite
To put this wrongful ruin right:
Exploited proletarians,
Condemn the guilty hooligans,
Then call, as swiftly as may be,
Your friends among the bourgeoisie,
Who may indeed corroborate
Society’s existing state,
But when it comes to monuments
Will spare no effort or expense.
by Bruce Bennett
Humpity Trumpity
Monomaniacal
Donald goes bonkers in
Quest of his Wall,
Dreams the King’s Soldiers
Will build him a Giant One,
Clambers up nothing and
has a great fall!
by Bruce McGuffin
“Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.” — Matt Groening
For you I’ll race my snowmobile
And take the risk that it may heel
Until it tips, and when it flips
I’ll end up as a weasel meal.