by Ruth S. Baker

“The Eurasian eagle owl named Flaco, which escaped New York City’s Central Park Zoo last year,
has died after crashing into a building in Manhattan… [Some] speculate that the bird was in search
of love whenever he ventured away from Central Park.”
—The Guardian

It’s news to make New Yorkers choke:
Their owl’s disastrous fall;
He soared in search of love, and broke.
Oh, Flaco! Don’t we all?

by Simon MacCulloch

“[T]he evidence for cogitating pond scum grows daily.”
—Scientific American

Indeed, and I think I have found
A method infallibly sound
To advance its detection:
Just call an Election
And scum that can think will abound.

by Dan Campion

“A man sues Powerball after being told his $340M ‘win’ was a mistake”
—NPR

Oops, sorry. What you saw online
Was just a typo, Mr. Cheeks.
Forget the El Dorado mine
That every ticket buyer seeks.

The world works this way. AI too.
What’s shown on-screen is often wrong.
As Plato said, what humans view
Is shadows. We’re all strung along.

So, John, please know, you’re not alone.
By all means, sue, and press your plea.
But if they don’t pay, laugh, don’t groan.
That’s how to win the lottery.

by Steven Kent

“Sloshed, plastered and gazeboed: why Britons have 546 words for drunkenness”
—The Guardian

Though soberly some Yanks might mock us,
Brits maintain a lengthy list
Of terms we coin to honor Bacchus:
Plastered, papered, pickled, pissed.

Five hundred forty-six exactly—
Most impressive, don’t you think?
To this I say (and not abstractly):
Mate, let’s have another drink!

by Alex Steelsmith

“Six months after the devastating wildfire that consumed much of Lahaina,
the landmark banyan tree shows signs of recovery…”
—The Honolulu Star-Advertiser

Prominent, eminent,
beautiful banyan tree,
symbol of hope amid
ashes and grief,

issuing oxygen
photosynthetically,
are you exhaling a
sigh of re-leaf?

by Julia Griffin

A cat was cute sometime this week.
A timid child began to speak.
A widow found a grateful pet.
A pauper learned an old barrette
Was actually a rare antique.

Though Congress seems a broken clique,
And globally the outlook’s bleak,
Somewhere not far from you, I’ll bet,
A cat was cute.

It’s true that Donald popped his beak,
In his accustomed state of pique,
And called himself Navalny—yet
Remember: on the Internet,
A cat was cute.

by Jesse Anna Bornemann

“A New Orleans Man Wants His Opossum Back. Thousands Have Joined His Plea.”
—The New York Times

Wildlife agents, bend the law some—
Let the man keep his opossum!

It doesn’t bite!
It won’t defy you!
Can’t it just enjoy the bayou?

by Bruce Bennett

“A collapse in microbe diversity puts… French cheeses at risk”
—Vox

“Say a prayer for Camembert!”
Is it in trouble? Oui!
And as you do, remember blue,
and do not leave out brie.

That world we’d face would be a place
too barren to survive in!
So gird your curds. Direct your words.
“May microbes stay alive in

This Brave New Age. Don’t turn that page.
Don’t make us quit this treasure.
Dieu, show restraint. Please, please, don’t taint
our aptitude for pleasure

With something vile. Let us still smile
as, savoring, we eat a
small tranche of bliss. Dieu, spare us this:
a mouthful of Velveeta!”

by Marshall Begel

“[Methodist] pastor has been arrested on allegations that he sold crystal meth out of his church’s rectory”
—ABC News

Methodist cleric had rash
Methods for pulling in cash—
Methodically working to hawk
Meth to the ministry flock.
Methinks such a dangerous course
Methuselah would not endorse.

by Steven Kent

“Reeling From $450 Million Penalty, Trump Hawks $400 Shoes”
—The New York Times

A defendant in Dutch (name of Don)
Needed revenue quick and signed on
For a footwear convention.
How fitting to mention:
The name combines sneaker and con.

by Philip Kitcher

“UK general election: the seats the Tories will lose if the polls are right”
—The Guardian

We’re careening ever faster
to political disaster,
as the pollsters and the pundits all agree.
Starting now, the Tories need a
strong and charismatic leader,
and the only possibility is—Me.

Lettuce Liz and Ritzy Rishi
offer nothing more than wishy—
washy speeches, leaving voters all at sea.
With our party disaffection
we’ll be trounced come next election,
if we don’t replace the leadership with—Me.

Labour speakers are so boring
they’re drowned out by public snoring,
they’re as bland and colorless as they could be.
Bring back sparkle! Bring back laughter!
Let’s live happy ever after,
with the King of Stand-Up comedy—that’s Me!

by Steven Urquhart Bell

“[Prime Minister] Rishi Sunak has called on British conservatives to ‘come together’
after two heavy byelection losses to Labour.”
—The Guardian

I know their flagging spirits need reviving,
And probably they all could go a gin,
But wouldn’t they be better talking tactics,
And leave off having orgies till they win?

by Steven Kent

“Say it with cash: Trump’s… love letter to Melania is fundraising appeal”
—The Guardian

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
You stand, through each indictment, right beside me
As all these prosecutors (FAKE!) deride me
In every trial’s evidential phase.
I might have mentioned just how much I care
A time or two way back when we were dating
And prompted by a midlife urge for mating.
(For once I wish I had a soul to bare.)
Though I face prison time, you’re undistraught;
You’ve always, in your fashion, been there for me
Through times of testing, times that turned quite Stormy
(Her love was merely rented; yours I bought).
Friends, help me show Melania adoration
By clicking on that heart-shaped link “Donation.”

by Stephen Gold

“UK shoppers could face tea shortages due to trade route disruptions”
—The Guardian

It’s breakfast-time apocalypse!
We may run out of PG Tips
(A brew, dear friends across the Pond,
Of which we Brits are awfully fond).

As Houthi missiles rocket up,
We sigh and drain the bitter cup,
For if our tea should go to pot,
We’d be in the most dreadful spot.

Here’s the question that arises,
As we face this hellish crisis
(No, it’s not to do with Yemen):
Which is better, milk or lemon?

by Julia Griffin

“A passenger reportedly brought rotten fish on to the plane in a carry-on bag, and placed it in
an overhead bin, before the maggots broke free and rained on to passengers seated below…”
—The Guardian

O how do you manage in transit
A fish that’s transcended its best?
At check-in they’re looking askance; it
Presents an unusual test.

It’s awkward, when asked for credentials,
At bag-drop or passport control
To hustle through all your essentials,
Like aging red snapper or sole;

You wrap it, perhaps, in your jacket,
And lay it with care in the tray,
But service dogs still may attack it;
If they don’t, the X-rayers may!

But let us assume you’ve succeeded.
You’re boarding, about to get in:
You’re worried now, will it be kneaded
To pulp in the overhead bin?

You’ve made it! You’ve laid it! It’s lying
On top, and the journey’s begun:
Wheels up! You and Fishcake are flying!—
Then something drops down. Not just one …

And everyone’s frantic. “They’re agates,”
You offer (to silence the screams),
But sadly, they prove to be maggots,
And this is a problem, it seems.

There follows a big song and dance. It
Results, I’m afraid, in arrest.
O how do you manage in transit
A fish that’s transcended its best?