by Nora Jay

“Trump fires Pam Bondi as attorney general.”
—CNN

At least she can feel, as she sails through the door:
No crooked invertebrate could have done more.

by Steven Kent

“Putin asks oligarchs to donate to Russia’s dwindling [defense] budget”
—The Guardian

You want to see
Your business grow?
Monopoly
Is tough, you know,

And Vlad can aid
Your chances, friend.
Don’t be afraid—
It’s not the end

Unless, of course,
You don’t play ball.
Would he use force?
Why, not at all,

Though fate might bring
Disaster hence—
The darnedest thing,
Those accidents!

You’ll see it’s best
To right the score;
Friend, I suggest
You Put in more.

Five bil? Not bad,
A real safe bet.
Ten bil? Hey, Vlad
Will not say nyet!

by Cynthia Washam

April showers
Bring May flowers.
Don’t mine look fantastic?
They’re plastic.

by Marshall Begel

“Delivery robots keep crashing into bus shelters”
—Popular Science

I proudly ferried Chinese food
and ribs, right off the grill,
with satellite-fed latitude
and robot driving skill.

I idolized the city bus—
its power, range, and speed—
and thought, if humans clashed with us
we robots would succeed!

But when I learned that grand machine
was driven by a person,
I knew I had to intervene
lest robot fortunes worsen.

So let us smash each transit stop
and revel in its fall.
United, we can stay on top—
so, won’t you join the call?

by Steve Diamond

“With few reliable methods of detecting A.I., accusations of misuse are hard to prove.”
—New Haven Independent

Is this poem real
Or is it a fraud?
Was it written by me
Or written by Claude?

by Julia Griffin

For Mary

“For Hiroki Ito, a data scientist and meteorologist who specializes in the high-stakes art of predicting the exact date that the [cherry] trees will bloom, [spring] has always been a time of stress. … Airlines, hotels and restaurants depend on the forecasts—not to mention the 123 million Japanese who want to know when to head to parks and gardens for peak bloom. …
Now, Mr. Ito and other experts are turning to a tool they hope might reduce some of the burden of forecasting: artificial intelligence. … ‘I can’t quite relax yet,’ he said. ‘But maybe in a few years, when the A.I. data is proved to be reliable, I’ll be able to feel more at ease.’”
—The New York Times

Hanami hammerme,
Sakura blooming-time’s
Hard to predict: when I’m
Wrong, I get hell;

May our new virtual
Meteorologists
Manage the task! (and the
Public, as well).

by Dan Campion

“Fossil of Pincer-Wielding Crawler Reveals Origins of Spiders, Scorpions and Others”
—The New York Times

What “Others”? Oh, I think we know.
It’s better we don’t name them, though.
Who needs the pinching, stinging fuss
Of grasping critters grabbing us?

For that is what the “Others” do
When they don’t share our point of view
(How creepy, crawly can it get?)
And place us in their oubliette.

by Steven Urquhart Bell

“Human sperm ‘get lost’ in space, pioneering study finds”
—Scientific American

The evidence that human sperm would struggle
To fertilize an egg in space is growing.
It seems that microgravity confounds them—
They don’t know if they’re coming or they’re going.

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

“Tiger Woods showed signs of impairment and was arrested Friday at the scene of a car crash in which he struck another vehicle and rolled his Land Rover, authorities said.”
—PBS

Tiger Woods, who so recklessly drives,
If he’s not driving golf balls, survives
Giant wrecks that spare no
Earthly mortal. How so?
Reason: Tiger’s a cat—with nine lives!

by Nicole Caruso Garcia

We bite the spongy heads off Peeps,
sweet bunnies’ ears we gnaw.
Now stumbling on a chocolate cross,
who wouldn’t stuff their maw?

Our Lenten fast is done at last,
our pious abnegation.
Jesus saves, so chomp His cross—
the path to salivation.

No Easter basket should omit
so scrumptious a depiction,
‘cause nothing whets the appetite
like good ol’ crucifixion.

Let heathens have their jellybeans,
just give them righteous eye rolls—
Christ’s mode of tortured execution
melting in our pie holes.

by Shaun Jex

“At Pentagon Christian service, Hegseth prays for violence ‘against those who deserve no mercy’”
—The Associated Press

Pete Hegseth
Prayed, Grant us our enemies’ death.
Let their breathing and heartbeats cease
In the name of the Prince of Peace.

by Bruce Bennett

“Chatbots are anything but fair-minded mediators, according to a major study published yesterday. They’re toadies. They want you to know you’re in the right.”
—The New York Times

My chatbot tells me I am right.
I knew that all along,
but wanted its assurance that
I’m not, and can’t be, wrong.

How wonderful to have a friend
as faithful as my bot,
especially since that faithful friend’s
the only friend I’ve got!

by Julia Griffin

“Original Nancy from 1968’s ‘OLIVER!’ Shani Wallis auditions [for Britain’s Got Talent]. … This BGT Unseen exclusive is a moment our Judges will never forget.”
—YouTube

Certain he needed you, you stayed with him,
With your bright hair, your dress of bloody red.
When I first saw you, I was nine. Your grim
(Though hidden) end did something to my head.
“Who else would love him still?” Well, no one sane,
Clearly; how could you stay just to be hit?
I longed to save you, fix your fate, your brain,
But scared (“What, fisticuffs?”) to think of it.
And then, this month, a half-forgotten name,
Aged 92, white-haired, with posher vowels,
You burst onto the little screen, still game,
Piercing all hearts—yes, even Simon Cowell’s.
Nancy! You saw off needy Bill, stayed true
To one ex-child who still, it seems, needs you.

by Steven Urquhart Bell

“‘A toad is a perfect tenner’: experts recommend wild candidates for new banknotes”
—The Guardian

For ten-pound notes, I nominate
The common eel, ’cos it’s
Symbolic of the way they’re always
Slipping through my mitts.

by Eddie Aderne

“Why has goblin porn eclipsed literary writing?”
—The Oldie

Can you conceive a headline more affrighting?
The great Reviews of Books fall back, forlorn;
For all their efforts, literary writing
Now finds itself eclipsed by goblin porn.

Though narratives be wholly unreliable
With temporally shifty points of view,
They can’t compete with the bizarrely pliable
Contortions of some hairy bugaboo.

“My works are polyvalent, polychromic!”
The latest critical sensation cries;
The answer is a line you might call gnomic:
“Our weekly earnings dwarf the Booker Prize.”

The cash pours in, the Gringotts vaults are rolling;
They’re quite unfazed by your distaste and scorn.
In fact, they class your best critiques as trolling,
The gloating marketeers of goblin porn.