by Steven Kent

“Sixty is the new golden age: Meet the stellar generation hitting this milestone”
—The Guardian

Some writer claims I’m in my prime,
Which I deem damn insensible.
He swears I’ve hit life’s perfect time–
I say that’s indefensible.

My knees now hurt, both hips, my back;
To women I’m invisible.
My daily mood is mostly black
And rarely am I risible.

My sagging abs reveal I’m old;
Can’t find a way to flatten ’em.
If sixty is the age of gold,
Don’t let me live to platinum.

by Steven Urquhart Bell

“Delicious or revolting? The strange taste of chocolate art”
—BBC

My poems haven’t ever made me money,
Or ever won a medal or a cup,
But maybe if I wrote in chocolate icing
The world of modern art would lap them up.

by Jerome Betts

“Over half of those surveyed had no idea that a John Dory was a spiny fish;
12% mistakenly thought ‘he’ was a famous poet, according to the Marine
Stewardship Council poll.”
—Zoe Wood in The Guardian

A strange neglect dogs poor John D.
Once star of poets by the sea,
Who won prize after major prize
With touching thoughts on how Time flies.

Unlike another J.D. (Donne)
Whose fame it seems will run and run
Few know his name or quote his lines
While some fixate on fins and spines.

So, let us now forget the Dean,
Whose memory still is glowing green,
Till Dory, sunk without a trace,
Ascends to take his rightful place.

by Iris Herriot

“US cave system’s bats and insects face existential threat: discarded Cheetos”
—The Guardian

Our cave-bound bats and insects
Are paying for our mess.
What makes them, and their kin sects,
Decline and deliquesce?

Dropped sodas, dumped Doritos!
But more appalling yet
These undisposed-of Cheetos—
An Existential Threat.

There’s trash around Montmartre
(I’m sure that that is true),
Enough to sadden Sartre,
Or at the least Camus;

No doubt the French mosquitoes
Resent each dropped baguette;
But nothing equals Cheetos
For Existential Threat.

by Michael Calvert

(With apologies to Robbie Burns)

“Erotic asphyxiation has become mainstream among under-35s.”
—The Guardian

My luve hae gat a reid, reid face
And on her face I dote,
And maistly ivery time I place
My fingers roond her throat.

And likeweys, I for aye can tell
Her luve for me is true;
I ken it whan my een do swall
And whan my face turns blue.

I tell ye true, my bonnie miss,
Ye ne’er do seem so fair,
Or fill my saul w’ such a bliss
Than whan ye gasp for air.

Until the seas gang dry, my dear,
I’ll luve ye, unto deith.
Until we baith are on oor bier
Completely oot of breith.

by Steven Urquhart Bell

“Cornwall libraries offer blood pressure monitors”
—BBC

Although I have an exercise regime,
At my age I would welcome such a scheme
To check my vital signs are A-okay,
Before I borrow Fifty Shades of Grey.

by Julia Griffin

“Harry Potter fans boo as King’s Cross ends ‘back to Hogwarts’ tradition
Fans at London station left disappointed after fictional train’s departure not announced
on public address system”
—The Guardian

There’s bitterness this morning at King’s Cross.
A broomstick-toting crowd begins to boo,
Disgusted by this unexpected loss:
The Hogwarts train is canceled! Yes, it’s true:
It’s gone. What’s public transport coming to?
Before you know, some jobsworth will have banned
The ice cream floats en route to Candy Land.

No easy route to Gotham City now.
You’ll have to get to Bedrock on your feet.
Crossing the Looking Glass? Please tell me how.
Some Moriarty’s certain to delete
All railway lines that run to Baker Street;
Next up, the sieve that bore the Jumblies, and
The ice cream floats en route to Candy Land.

They’ve stopped the bus to Hundred Acre Wood.
They’ve taken off the shuttle to Toad Hall.
You can’t reach Avonlea as once you could,
And nothing runs to Middle Earth at all.
We’ll go no more to Asterix’s Gaul,
But still in dreams we’ll see them drift, unmanned:
The ice cream floats en route to Candy Land.

by Kaitlyn Spees

“California lawmakers want to… [require] technology in your car to warn you when you’re speeding.
Safety advocates say speed assistance technology can reduce traffic deaths, but critics say California
is moving too fast.”
—NPR

Should cars inform us when we speed?
Say Californians: “Yes!”
(As long as cars don’t start to snitch
When we don’t stop, I guess.)

by Dan Campion

“Engineers Gave a Mushroom a Robot Body And Let It Run Wild”
—Science Alert

I clicked. I saw. I wondered, Why
Not make a robot pizza pie
Whose sausage flew it, like a drone
That homed in on my door by phone,
To feed my ever-so-smart house
With crumbs to treat the robot mouse.

by Bruce Bennett

Kudos to Kamala and Tim.
I’ll vote for her. I’ll vote for him.
I’m eager that they do not fail.
But six asks in this morning’s mail?

I’ve given and I’ll give again.
I can’t say, though, exactly when,
but this much I can say for sure:
before then there’ll be dozens more!

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

“Russian scientists have been ordered to hand over details of their latest research into anti-ageing
remedies in a suspected bid to keep alive Vladimir Putin and his circle of Kremlin cronies.
The edict came from the ‘biggest boss’…”
—Daily Mail

The biggest boss’s bio-lab brigade
Has orders for an anti-aging pill,
Ensuring his demise can be delayed
By decades. Then the tsar can still fulfill
Imperial designs. And all his gray,
Gerontocratic Kremlin cronies can
Go giddy at the thought they may, some day,
Extend their lives to twice the current span …
Still, medical ambitions cost a bomb.
The Kremlin hawks will know, this question must
Be asked: where is the money coming from?—
One pill for him could make his war go bust …
Some day we’ll say he did not preen in vain,
Should vanity bring peacetime to Ukraine!

by Steven Kent

“ABBA demand Trump campaign stop using their music at rallies”
—The Guardian

“Jack White threatens to sue Trump campaign over use of music”
—The Guardian

No more ABBA at rallies each night,
No Beyoncé or Petty or White.
Ditto Springsteen and Hayes
(Though Ted Nugent still plays)—
Are there any good jams on the Right?

by Nora Jay

“At sweltering Venice film festival [George Clooney] denies that he and Brad Pitt have been paid $35m each …
“It is millions and millions and millions of dollars less than what was reported,” Clooney told a packed-
out press conference on Sunday.”
—The Guardian

It never sounds good, howsoever you’re courted
For bone-shape and general brilliance,
To state that your paycheck is less than reported
By millions and millions and millions.

by Alex Steelsmith

“A French museum announced members of the public are being invited
to view its exhibit on naturism while wearing nothing but a pair of shoes.”
—UPI

Public members are invited;
surely many will be sighted,
raw and naturistic.
After all, an exhibition
tends to be, by definition,
exhibitionistic.

by Eddie Aderne

“All of London’s seedy poetry is there to see in the setting for TV thriller”
—The Guardian

Ah, London’s seedy poetry! Relayed for all to see!
Its origin’s no younger than the fourteenth century:
Recall the Reeve’s and Miller’s Tales, and other fabliaux,
Now findable on Google, if you’re sure you want to know.
Remember Swift’s foul “Shower,” with the offal-oozing ditches,
The Beggar’s Opera songs assigned to robbers, pimps, and snitches,
And, later, Blake’s young harlot, and De Quincy’s dens (O curse!—
I’ve only just remembered that he didn’t write in verse).
Time passed, and brought The Waste Land’s shady Stetson, summoned wryly
Through urban murk (though, oddly, it appears he fought at Mylae);
Then “London Roses,” Willa Cather’s dyslogy, which shows
The city is a cesspit that can even spoil a rose.
This crustiness seems one of those interminable vogues:
Think Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd and all that squalor from the Pogues;
From Chaucer to last Tuesday, London seethes with poetry!
Go look it up. I’m busy disinfecting my TV.