by Steven Kent
“Will the assassination attempt on Donald Trump sway undecided voters?”
—NBC Boston
Oh, undecided voter, are you real?
Or are you, like the “rational consumer,”
A unicorn, a fairy tale? I feel
Great skepticism (laced with jaded humor).
Forgive me, but your argument is jive:
You need more info still, and can’t discern here?
Friend, given what we know of 45,
Exactly what is left for us to learn here?
by Stephen Gold
“Smell of human stress makes dogs pessimistic.”
—The Times
When my owner is stressed,
Out of sorts, or depressed,
I deploy my acute sense of smell.
With a solitary sniff,
I can tell from the whiff
If my day is about to be Hell.
In this life, I have found
That the role of a hound
Is to be a consoler and pal.
But it’s hard to bear up,
When, since I was a pup,
He’s done nothing but crush my morale.
I’ve tried nuzzling up tight,
In the hope that he might
Throw a ball, or say, “Time for a run.”
But he paces the room,
Wrapped in Stygian gloom.
(Have you seen how he fingers his gun?)
It’s a dog’s life for sure,
Just a crock of manure,
And I wish I could think of a plan
That would make him feel fine.
I should hang out a sign
With this warning: “Beware of the man!”
by Bruce Bennett
“Researchers have confirmed the presence of cocaine in sharks off the coast of Rio de Janeiro…”
—The New York Times
If swimming has given you pause
Because of your terror of Jaws,
Best stay high and dry.
These killers are high
And also have flouted the laws.
by Steven Urquhart Bell
“Nature reserve celebrates finding its 500th moth”
—BBC
I bet they douse their clothing with repellent:
With all the moths they’re helping to preserve,
It’s vital if they’re not to be mistaken
For Durham’s newest naturist reserve.
by Marshall Begel
A paleontologist at the University of Illinois Chicago “turned an Essexella [fossil] specimen upside down
while doing research. Immediately, the seemingly amorphous blob’s true identity began to take shape.”
—The New York Times
“‘Magical’ self-portrait was hidden for decades—until the canvas was flipped”
—The Washington Post
If masterpieces can be found,
And fossil science rectified,
By turning well-known things around
And looking at the other side,
Can changing views expose a clearer
Picture we’d be thrilled to find?
Alas, my full-length bedroom mirror
Reveals an image not so kind.
by Chris O’Carroll
“Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago private club in Palm Beach is set to raise its initiation fee
from $700,000 to a staggering $1 million.”
—The Independent
Pay a million to join Mar-a-Lago.
Ante up. Be elite. Have it all—
The palm trees, the nearby Atlantic,
The felon’s face gracing the wall.
For those who are courting his favor,
This fee is one way to begin.
Hand over a million. The felon
Will happily welcome you in.
You know how corruption defines him
And his every unscrupulous knack.
He’ll lower your taxes by zillions.
Right now, kick a piece of it back.
Fatten the purse of the felon
For judgments he might have to pay.
A million plus Florida sunshine
Has fascism looking OK.
by Steven Kent
“‘They’ll do good work’: In JD Vance’s hometown, Trump is already the winner”
—The Guardian
Oh Middletown, Middletown, what have you done?
An Ivy League phony’s your favorite son;
This heir of a blue-collar steel-working man
Will gut Grandpa’s union as fast as he can.
Unprincipled toady, political hack—
He’ll come to campaign, then he’ll never come back.
They sell you out daily, these cynical men,
And still you’ll support them again and again.
by Iris Herriot
“More than a third of UK adults have given up reading for pleasure, study finds”
—The Guardian
So what do you do with your leisure?
How could it be sweetlier spent?
You’re giving up reading for pleasure?
I”m giving up Jesus for Lent.
by Julia Griffin
Last month, the national museum of Ireland “received two 4,000-year-old axe heads, ‘thoughtfully’ wrapped in [pink] foam
inside a porridge box … [A] farmer from County Westmeath has come forward as the mysterious sender,
saying he made the ‘absolutely mad’ discovery while using a metal detector on his land.”
—The Guardian
Open the box: a tub of rosy foam
Bubbles to light, new-made and feminine,
Bathtime for Barbie! And, enwombed within,
See two gray axe heads, hauled up from the loam.
Why now, this century? A curious
Farmer, detecting metal in his ground,
Unburied them, found foam to wrap them round,
And sent them on. And so they come to us,
After four thousand years: each heavy blade
Looks threatening as ever, though less keen,
Nursed and reborn from polyethylene
(A sweeter-looking killer we have made).
by Scot Slaby
“An Oscar Mayer Wienermobile got into a pickle on a Chicago highway.”
—The Associated Press
When a Hotdogger loses control
of his Wienermobile, makes it roll
on its side, traffic’s hellish—
we drivers don’t relish
how the wait on our buns takes its toll.
by Simon MacCulloch
“One in six Conservative voters likely to die before next election, analysis shows…
In comparison, only 500,000 Labour voters—or 5.3%—are expected to die in the same period”
—The Independent
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That should have voted Labour.
by Dan Campion
“John Mayall, Pioneer of British Blues, Is Dead at 90”
—The New York Times
I’ve listened to your blues for fifty years
And shed in consequence a flood of tears
For those you’ve eulogized. So now for you,
Dear John, I’m wrung near dry. But feeling blue.
by Nicole Caruso Garcia
Welcome to the podcast! (Well,
it’s more an intervention.)
Congrats (and caveats) on being
tapped for highest henchman.
If Donald does you dirty—and
it’s less an if than when—
while scheming to be king (although
he should be in the pen),
how firm is your resolve when you’ve
been thrown beneath the bus?
Will you, the flattened toady, save
democracy for us?
How quickly can you run, J.D.,
in wingtips on the job?
How nimbly can you ditch an angry,
feces-smearing mob?
Why go from “Never Trump” to playing
Banquo to Macbeth?
Have you not seen the tweets in which
he rubber-stamped my death?
I’m showing you the ropes (the makeshift
gallows and the noose).
I had no crystal ball when I
signed on. What’s your excuse?
by Gail White
“Nearly a million homes, businesses… still without power”
—Reuters
When Beryl barreled into town,
A lot of power lines went down.
Our state is off the national grid.
Our governor has gone and hid.
We don’t know what to hate the most
As Texans turn to Texas Toast.
by Julia Griffin
After Catullus
“The son of Asia’s richest man gets married in the year’s most extravagant wedding”
—The Associated Press
Hymen, let your torches flash
For the great Ambani bash:
Blind our eyes and blur our sense
With ineffable expense,
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
Io Hymen Hymenaee!
Spread a carpet, ruby red,
For celebrities to tread:
Rappers, statesmen, movie stars,
Techno-moguls back from Mars:
Io …
Let the entertainers play
For a billion bucks a day,
While earth’s leading chef unveils
Almas caviar in pails:
Io …
Bless the mother of the groom,
Who could light the darkest room
With the emeralds she wears,
Sized like avocado pears,
Io …
Keep far hence the captious scold
Muttering that, were they sold,
Sapphires of such magnitude
Might fill all Sudan with food.
Io …
Now the sun begins to set
Like a Cartier baguette,
Hymen, lead the gleaming twain
To a room the size of Spain
Io …
Stitch the sheets they’ll lie within
From endangered species’ skin;
Weave of phoenix plumes a wreath
For each brush that meets their teeth
Io …
Finally, in bed, alone,
Grant, instead of flesh and bone,
Each may find the one they hold
Turned to purest Saudi gold.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
Io Hymen Hymenaee!