by Dan Campion

No blue wave fit for surfing broke,
No red tide rose in combers.
Our ever-changeful sea’s best joke:
Still wine-dark, just like Homer’s.

by Julia Griffin

“A New York man was arrested and charged with hate crimes Friday night after anti-Semitic messages were found in a temple, police said.”—CNN

The synagogue is all agog:
Who will it be this week?
There’s quite a crowded catalog,
Enough for every clique.

Is it the White Supremacist
With KKK tattoos?
Blame Trump and Fox, the Dems insist,
Who spread such racist views!

Is it the young black Brooklynite,
High hope of academe?
He worked, to Hannity’s delight,
Upon Obama’s team!

Is it the Muslim raised in Fez,
Karachi, or LA?
The left wing’s fault! the right wing says;
Guess what the leftists say?

For craziness about the Jews
Runs deep on either hand:
Which may be all we have to fuse
This twice-self-righteous land.

by Bob McKenty

Negative campaigning works.
Who wants either of these jerks?

by Edmund Conti

“I tell the truth when I can.”—DJT

An eye for an eye.
A tooth for a tooth.
A lie for a lie.
A lie for the truth.

by James Hamby

Remember, remember, the sixth of November
The Russian collusion and plot;
I know of no reason why Donald Trump’s Treason
Should ever be forgot.

by Chris O’Carroll

I’ve got your 14th Amendment right here.
I’m taking your birthright away.
Executive orders can do that this year,
Many top legal scholars now say.

I’ll bag one Amendment then hunt down some more
I can fix, if you know what I mean.
I know Kanye loves me, but all’s fair in war—
I’m taking a look at 13.

by Julia Griffin

after Louis MacNeice

“Tokyo garden loses fortune because ticket seller was scared to charge foreigners:
Man let about 160,000 tourists into Shinjuku Gyoen garden rather than risk
being yelled at for not understanding them.”—The Guardian

The tourists in the garden
Harden and grow cold.
I’m jumpy as a cricket:
The tickets are unsold;
I don’t feel bold;
I squeak, “I beg your pardon…”

They’re angry, loud freeloaders
With sodas. It’s the end;
Municipal grim reapers,
That’s keepers, will descend;
And soon, my friend,
There’ll be some evil odors.

It should be gratifying
Supplying what one sells;
But stress is always mounting,
Counting each coin or else
Those dreadful yells!
I’m trying, Gyo-en, trying

And not expecting pardon,
Barred and de-pensioned too;
But is it such a wonder
Blunders occur—have you
Not once let through
A tourist in the garden?

by Barbara Loots

“Stolen in Kansas City: 10-foot-long inflatable
model of human colon.”—Kansas City Star

The back of the pick-up is empty. It’s gone.
An item that no one can peddle or pawn.
So what is this whimsical crook going to do
With a pink plastic colon a crowd can pass through?

This news is alarming and hard to digest.
How soon will the culprit be under arrest?
Oh please, let no innocents get blown apart
By the criminal use of the world’s biggest fart!

by Michael Calvert

“President Donald Trump and Sen. Ted Cruz (R-Texas) were all smiles during a rally in Houston … appearing to move past their history of name-calling and condemnation.”—HuffPost

Hello, Houston! I thought I’d pass
This way so Ted can kiss my ass,
And fawn, and sing my praises loud
In front of an adoring crowd.
I called his wife a dog, it’s true—
‘Cause that’s the kind of thing I do,
But you can see the dog’s not her.
It’s Ted who is the cringing cur.

by Ruth S. Baker

“China’s latest internet trend, the xuanfu tiaozhan, or “flaunt your wealth challenge.”
Also known as the “falling stars” challenge, the trend involves participants posting photos of themselves face down with their possessions scattered around them, after apparently having fallen down a flight of stairs or out of a sports car.”—The Guardian

So this is me, face down in Paris, France,
With Rolex watch and Donna Karan pants:
They’re Ray-Bans by my head,
And round them, nicely spread,
Address cards from top names in high finance.

The Lamborghini out of which I fell
Is also in the picture, LOL:
At 3.4K views,
I’m a star in Jimmy Choos,
With a compound-fractured pelvis by Chanel.

by Chris O’Carroll

The dead writer story they made up today
Is better than yesterday’s story, and way
Better than claiming the guy didn’t die,
Which sounded as lame as a lie Trump might try.

by Julia Griffin

“The price of mince would go up 50% in the event of no Brexit deal, the meat industry has warned.”—The Guardian

I’m reassessing Brexit since
I heard about the price of mince.
What is it builds the British soul
But burgers and spaghetti bol,
Lasagna bake and shepherd’s pie?
Without these things our hearts run dry;
Must we resort to pig or horse
To bolster our tomato sauce?
The nation runs, we must avow,
On cheap supplies of shredded cow:
Let’s not mince words!—though, with no deal,
They soon may be our only meal.

by Dan Campion

“In essence, this structure appears to act as a kind of editor….”—Jon Hamilton in “The Underestimated Cerebellum Gains New Respect From Brain Scientists” on NPR

We’ve thought there’s no homunculus
Inside our brains, for ages;
Who’d guess there was, to edit us,
A reader of our pages,

A “little brain,” there, after all,
A sharp blue pencil genie,
To coddle, coax, correct, and call
To buy us a martini?

by Marshall Cobb

“McRib is back for a limited time.”—McDonald’s

If you’re a fan of food that’s faux
I know just where you ought to go.
It comes around but once a year
And now they say that time is here.
McRib is back, but not to stay.
Who knows when it will go away?
So get your slab of meat that’s mystery,
But hurry up before it’s history.

by Julia Griffin

“An image of Edmond de Belamy, created by a computer, has just been sold at Christie’s.”—
The Guardian

M. de Belamy, your lost,
Caliginous, unpupilled eyes
Peer from a square of gilt embossed
As from a carnival disguise.
Edmond! What is it that you seek?
Your stare is endless. Some have said
You staked your spirit at bézique;
Some say, in fact, that you are dead:
That what these gilded bars enshrine
Is nothing but an empty case.
Still others call you Frankenstein;
And some, behind your haunted face
Detect the sadness of AI:
Which could not live, so cannot die.