by Julia Griffin

“After the uproar when an ’emotional support peacock’ was banned from an [airplane], United Airlines has released a list of banned animals. The list includes hedgehogs, ferrets, insects, rodents, snakes, spiders, reptiles and ‘non-household birds.'”—The Telegraph 

Long has the mobile public fought
Its scorn-belabored corner
For the emotional support
Supplied by other fauna.

It is not rabbit, dog, or cat
Alone that reassure us:
Help comes from hedgehog, vampire bat,
Baboon, and stegosaurus.

The benefits of this are big:
We know that now, so please,
Permit my ESP (that’s Pig)
His ESFs (that’s Fleas).

by Chris O’Carroll

Failure to applaud the leader’s speeches?
Obviously treason.
Free press? The people’s enemy.
Democracy? So out of season.

by Bruce Bennett

“… Thomas was then taken to the Wellington Bird
Rehabilitation Trust in 2013 as his health deteriorated.
The trust said: ‘As well as making other blind bird
friends to spend his days with Thomas helped foster
a couple of broods of cygnets along the way… He
lived for corn on the cob and if it wasn’t there when
we put him back into his house at night, he was not
happy.’ Thomas will be buried next to Henry at the
place they called home following a public ceremony
later this month. The organisation, which looks after
up to 400 birds a year, said Thomas proved there was
‘life after sight’ for elderly fowl.” —metro.co.uk

There’s “life after sight”
for elderly fowl.
It seems just and right
there’s “life after sight.”
It’s not endless night.
Don’t throw in the towel.
There’s “life after sight”
for elderly fowl.

There’s corn on the cob.
You even have sex.
No reason to sob.
There’s corn on the cob.
And you have a job—
though you’ve lost your ex.
There’s corn on the cob.
You even have sex!

There’s hope after all,
so, Thomas, three cheers!
Though age can appall,
there’s hope after all.
Your gift is not small.
We’ll live on for years.
There’s hope for us all.
So, Thomas, three cheers!

by Orel Protopopescu

“The House Intelligence Committee is planning to build a wall between Republican and Democratic Staff”—pbs.org

A wall’s going up
to make double sure
that a border, besieged,
may be safe and secure.

Well behind it, young aides
will toss truth in the dump
of Republican rule
to preserve, protect Trump.

Party honor forbids
an intelligent ray
shed its light on the troops
of the One they obey.

by Chris O’Carroll

Cranky, fat blond tries a victory lap,
Keeps slipping in piles of his first year’s crap.

by Claudia Gary

to NASA, on watching its Jan. 31, 2018 video 

You’ve added value to the moon’s eclipse.
With deep strings, faint marimbas, Luna slips
slowly away until severely narrow—
an orange-red sliver of blood and marrow—
the umbra, as you say. And then it’s gone!
But never fear, your music remains on:

This loop (63 seconds, on repeat,
of enigmatic tones that have no beat
but calm the heart) makes shadowed minutes fly,
although more tedious than a lullaby.

At last an arc of light teases the edge
of what was missing but not lost, to wedge
familiar crescent gold back into view,
as lovely as before, and to renew
a sense of hope and wonder, resolute
as … Mantovani? Next time, I’ll click “Mute.”

by Chris O’Carroll

Who’ll mudsling at the FBI?
Who’ll smear them as rogue Democrats?
The Trump White House has found its guy.
Hail, Devin and his memocrats.

by Julia Griffin

in response to Bruce McGuffin

I think that no one ever saw
A poet feel like Rupi Kaur.
Alas for obsolete old Joyce:
How fusty looks his every choice!
The genuine poetic urge
Requires us not to plan but splurge;
Not rhyme, like some old petticoat:
Just grab the i-Pad and emote.
But Joyce was killed in World War One,
When poetry had just begun:
He wrote on paper made of tree;
The Internet produced Rupi.

by Julia Griffin

“Fortuitously, a marvelous work by the celebrated contemporary Italian artist, Maurizio Cattelan, is coming off view today after a year’s installation at the Guggenheim, and he would like to offer it to the White House for a long-term loan. … The work beautifully channels the history of 20th-century avant-garde art.”—Letter from Nancy Spector, curator of the Guggenheim 

Of all the esoterica
To grace the White House annals,
There’s few to match “America,”
Most avant-garde of channels.

This marvel is, as you’ll have seen
(I’d really hate to spoil it),
A fully functioning latrine:
The world’s most costly toilet,

Or rather (let me try to find
Terms pleasing to the nation)
A bathroom of the richest kind;
A golden comfort station.

O my “America,” your beam
Bespangles all the White House,
Reflected in a private stream
Like some uprooted lighthouse!

It’s no use playing satirist
With things like this in town.
Let’s just beware, if they persist,
Of what comes trickling down.

by Chris O’Carroll

A free press is a pain in the ass—
On most journals I’ll just take a pass—
But I love the warm glow
Of a well-landed blow
From an X-rated Forbes-wielding lass.

by Orel Protopopescu

“Before Premiere, Protests by a Caste. After, by Critics.”—The New York Times

They stormed the movie set
of a film they hadn’t seen
to protest its depiction
of a fourteenth-century queen.

“Behead the shameful actress
who wore such skimpy clothes
to play our heroine,”
they screamed. “Cut off her nose!”

“Behead the film’s director!”
some angry Rajputs cried.
To salvage Hindu honor,
girls threatened suicide.

A school bus full of children
was stoned, and angry mobs
were spurred by politicians
who hoped to keep their jobs.

But what of Padmavati,
that legendary queen?
A Sufi poet made her up.
She only lives on-screen.

by Joanna Bird

“‘They are like animals’: Chaos erupts as French shoppers battle over discounted Nutella.”—The Washington Post

Although it’s not all that nutritious,
Nutella’s insanely delicious!
Its chocolate and nuts—
Plus drastic price cuts—
Can make a consumer quite vicious.

by Jerome Betts

“Adolescence now lasts . . . to 24, although
it used to be thought to end at 19.”—BBC News

Thirteen, from dump to Georgian deanery,
Proclaims the start of offsprings’ teenery.

The years this lasts are, strictly, seven
For parents often far from heaven,
With all the trials of adolescence
From lethargy to effervescence.

Hail, acne, mood-swings, hormones, braces,
Binge-drinking, break-ups, surly faces,
And fads, from eco-freak to Moonie,
Tongue-piercing, tattoos, choice of Uni!

But now, it seems, its real duration
Is six more years of tribulation,
Financial chaos, unwise beddings,
Court orders, drugs, and shotgun weddings.

Yet, worse, the cynic will assert, is
With some it stretches through their thirties.

by Mae Scanlan

The Donnie lies over the ocean,
The Donnie’s in Switzerland now.
He’s bound to stir up a commotion;
The question is, what, when and how.

Bring — back — this — quack;
Don’t let him alienate our friends!
Oh — wait — too — late —
I’d rather not know how this ends.

by Bruce McGuffin

Rupi Kaur’s poetry
isn’t appealing.
The form’s too informal.
It’s too full of feeling.
The Guardian said, so
we know that it’s true.
And now that I’ve read so,
I know what to do.
I’m giving up Instagram—
I’ll be at ease
with Joyce Kilmer’s old
ruminations on trees.