by Gail White

This is the wall that Trump wants.

This is the country of Mexico
that we were promised three years ago
would pay for the wall that Trump wants.

This is McConnell, who looks like a fish
and swore to fulfill the President’s wish
to raise the money that Mexico
(as everyone knew three years ago)
won’t pay for the wall that Trump wants.

This is Pelosi, canny and wise,
who made a congressional compromise
to thwart McConnell, who looks like a fish
and swore to fulfill the President’s wish
to raise the billions that Mexico
(as everyone knew three years ago)
won’t pay for the wall that Trump wants.

This is Trump, as bold as can be,
declaring a national emergency
to stymie Pelosi, canny and wise,
who made a congressional compromise
to thwart McConnell, who looks like a fish
and swore to fulfill the President’s wish
to raise the billions that Mexico
(as everyone knew three years ago)
won’t pay for the wall that Trump wants.

This is the Army, in discontent
asserting that all the money is spent
that Trump would take for a spending spree
on a bogus national emergency
to stymie Pelosi, canny and wise,
who made a congressional compromise
to thwart McConnell, who looks like a fish
and swore to fulfill the President’s wish
to raise the billions that Mexico
(as everyone knew three years ago)
won’t pay for the wall that Trump wants.

And this is Mueller, who gets to decide
if Russia committed democricide,
and everything else is irrelevant,
including the Army’s discontent,
the cash demanded from you and me
for a bogus national emergency;
Pelosi, McConnell, and all the rest
who’ve had to deal with the strange request
for billions of dollars that, sad to say,
the Mexican government will not pay
for building the wall
that Trump wants.

by Julia Griffin

“Cooking Sunday roast causes indoor pollution ‘worse than Delhi'”
—The Guardian

I’m quite engrossed (in fact out-grossed)
To learn of the pollution
Resulting from the Sunday roast,
That filthy institution.

Think: round the table flock your young,
So innocent and trusting;
And all the while each rosy lung
Is blackening and rusting.

The fumes are killing us by stealth:
It’s worse than central Delhi,
This onslaught on your household’s health,
This greasy casus belly.

The answer’s easy. Stow the stove!
Ban cookers from your kitchen,
Before your children’s cheeks turn mauve
And everything is itchin’.

Act, if you must do, by degrees;
Reduce by hints, or smidgens
These weekly boosts to lung disease:
Let geese give place to pigeons;

Cut these in two, then three—just carve
As long as you can see ’um:
Your house will be, the day you starve,
A spotless mausoleum.

by Dan Campion

“I want to be an apparition.”
—Karl Lagerfeld (1933-2019)

Wish granted. As it had to be;
We’re ghosts of fleeting passions
Who, like designs in organdy,
Slip on, then off, like fashions.

by Julia Griffin

after Kipling

“‘Yanked from the ground’: cactus theft is ravaging the American desert. …
In a scheme that made headlines, park workers began inserting microchips the size of pencil tips into cactus trunks, which could be scanned with an electronic reader.”
—The Guardian

If you wake at midnight, and hear some odd tap-taps,
Don’t go lighting up your tent or pulling back the flaps;
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie:
Watch the dunes, my darling, while the Cactusmen go by.

Five and twenty shovels
Digging through the sand:
Cactus for the greenhouse, up in Maryland,
Cactus for Dudinka, cactus for Dubai;
Watch the dunes, my darling, while the Cactusmen go by!

If you see a blemish on a cactus stem,
If you see a Ranger-man (O there’s lots of them!),
If it’s just a teeny mark like a pencil tip,
Leave a sign, my darling—’tis a tricksy micro-chip.

Holes and divots down the trail—engines after dark—
Don’t you start disturbing spadework in the park;
Watch the merry wind farms twirling in the sky:
Praise them to the Rangers while the Cactusmen go by!

If you do as you’ve been told, made yourself some use,
You’ll be give a chollas or pachycereus,
Rattail or espostoa, or a prickly pear:
A present from the Cactusmen, to trade with in Bel Air.

Five and twenty shovels
Digging through the sand:
Cactus for the greenhouse, up in Maryland,
Will it bloom in Oslo? Don’t know till you try—
Watch the dunes, my darling, while the Cactusmen go by!

by Julia Griffin

“The first trailer for ‘Frozen 2’ is here…”—fastcompany.com

Finally! The Frozen teaser—
Let’s denote it just The Freezer—
Lights the screen, deprived so long
Of the femininely strong.
Six whole years now, wigs and crowns,
Books and copyrighted gowns
Have but swelled that thirst for chill
None but Elsa could fulfill;
Now a wave of Disney’s wand
Sweeps her back, the shining blonde,
Tiny-waisted, giant-eyed:
Two parts insect, one part bride.
Also destined for reuse
Are the Redhead, Boyfriend, Moose,
Snowman (made a household star
By his bath toy avatar),
Ice and snow and snow and ice;
But this arctic paradise
Centers round its frost-princess,
Sister, savior, whose success
Thrills transgressive types worldwide,
Charms romantics, and beside
Proves, as human flesh cannot:
Cold, cold girls are hot, hot, hot.

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’.