by Dan Campion

“Astronomers May Have Discovered the Youngest Planet Ever Detected in Our Galaxy”
—SciTechDaily

Welcome, Likely Youngest, to the maze.
Gargantua and Pantagruel praise
Your large and gaseous entrance and give thanks
Across the light-years for the childish pranks
You’re sure to play. As current cynosure,
However, know that fame cannot endure.
A sharper lens and new astronomer
Are sure to find a younger planet still.
But, for the moment, eat and drink your fill,
And wend your way as baby planets will.

by Alex Steelsmith

“Curiosity Mars rover turns 10.”
—CBS

“NASA’s Mars Curiosity rover will be the envy of road trippers everywhere.”
—CNET

Teenily-greenily,
envious road trippers
keep us amused as the
rover turns ten;

though it has failed to find
extraterrestrials,
Earth has no shortage of
little green men.

by Iris Herriot

“[Actor Sean Bean] criticised post-shoot editing of intimate scenes, saying that he was saddened
to see sexual sequences involving himself, co-star Lena Hall and a mango had been cut
from TV series Snowpiercer.”
—The Guardian

“Oh what a fandango!”
Lamented Sean Bean:
“Me, Lena, a mango—
Obscene?

“You film-cutting quango,
Don’t try telling me
‘It takes two to tango’!—
Takes three.”

by Julia Griffin

“How we met: ‘I was a paper boy and she was the Saturday girl in the newsagents—
she seemed so cool!’”
—The Guardian

She was the Saturday girl in the newsagents;
I was a paper boy—she seemed so cool!
Chewing a wine gum she smirked at my innocence:
Loser in love with the star of the school.

Six in the morning I picked up my newspapers;
When I got back she was starting her shift,
Bagging up Marathons, Marlboros, Lucifers;
Putting a coin in her hand was a gift.

Muddy from falls off my brother’s old bicycle,
All I did then was to blink as she shone;
Now, though I’m older, and prone to be cynical,
Fancies, like Saturdays, still carry on.

Guardian, Telegraph, Rivington Courier,
Radio Times wrapped in Daily Express!
Make me confetti the day that I marry her;
Saturday girl in her Saturday dress!

Tear up the Sports, with their Villas and Arsenals;
Headlines and Letters can spiral and curl;
All that I ask to preserve are the Personals,
Proving my match with my Saturday girl.

by Steven Kent

“Dick Cheney attacks Donald Trump as “greatest threat to our republic'”
—The Guardian

The time is out of joint; I truly don’t know how to feel.
Dick Cheney’s now the good guy here? Dick Cheney? It’s unreal.
Bizarro World, the Upside Down–realities collide:
Darth Vader, Blofeld, Dr. Evil join the other side!

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

“Guinness-fuelled man runs width of Ireland in a day”
—BBC

A good head start won’t guarantee your feat
Gets carried off by feet you’re carried on,
Or clear your head to see why you’re dead beat
One fraction through your ultramarathon.
Draft Guinness is a potion fit for gods
High up on Mount Olympus, yet this grand
Elixir isn’t brewed to raise your odds
At overcoming nausea on your planned
Day trip from west to east. For that, you need
Some cereal bars, U2’s whole catalog,
The stranger who shows up to take the lead,
And being fed bananas while you jog
Relentlessly—but, once you’ve crossed the line,
That second pint of Guinness tastes divine!

by Paul Lander

David McCullough
Author, voice of Civil War
Is now history.

by Julia Griffin

“Le Petit Nicolas illustrator Jean-Jacques Sempé dies aged 89”
—The Guardian

“Snowman author Raymond Briggs dies aged 88”
—The Guardian

Art lovers took this week a double hit:
The charming Frenchman and the grumpy Brit.
From melancholy Fungus it’s a way
To all those rodent-nosed écoliers;
Sempé’s big trees with little types below
Seem far from Briggs’s melting man of snow;
But as, at nearly four-score years and ten,
Each master-draftsman has put down his pen,
Let us be grateful for them both, and say:
Thanks, Mr. Briggs! Merci, M. Sempé!

by Alex Steelsmith

Higgledy hippity,
Happiness Happens Day
happens the eighth day of
August. Hooray!

Hopefully, plenty of
world-transformational
happiness happens to
happen today.

by Lynn Gilbert

“Will Ivana help Donald Trump with tax breaks from beyond the grave?”
—The Guardian

Since long before his first divorce
The Donald’s sought to cut his tax,
so now he’s had his fallen ex
interred upon his Jersey course.

Her modest grave near the first tee
has made a cemetery of
remains of his first erstwhile love,
and cemeteries go tax-free.

Whether he plants another there—
himself, son, daughter, son-in-law—
is not material under law.
Where they will rest he need not care.

On tax he stands to save a ton
by giving her this starring role:
thanks to the dead one in her hole,
he’s finally hit a hole in one.

by Stephen Gold

“Prince Charles’s charity won’t be investigated… for accepting £1 million
from the family of Osama bin Laden…”
—The Times

A Mr. Bin Laden is here, Sir,
And he’s asked if you’ve time for a chat.
Rest assured there is nothing to fear, Sir,
Not the faintest bouquet of a rat.

An eyebrow or two may be raised, Sir,
That’s a fact one can scarcely refute.
But your judgement will surely be praised, Sir,
This Bin Laden is laden with loot.

You fear to accept may be rash, Sir?
Well, of course, one must think of one’s brand.
But think too of that mountain of cash, Sir.
Let’s not fret that it’s built upon sand.

by Dan Campion

“Dow Jones Falls Amid Pelosi Taiwan Visit; AMTD Digital Stock Explodes,
But Consider This; MPWR Stock Jumps”
—Investor’s Business Daily

Falls, explosions, jumps! Who’ll win?
The haves, my have-not friend.
Consider this: Though headlines spin,
The golden bough won’t bend.

by Philip Kitcher

“In the 110th minute, the second-half substitute latched onto a loose ball with her
outstretched right foot and toe poked it home.”
—The Athletic

Once more it seemed that English hearts were destined to be broken.
Through ninety minutes we had sunk from ecstasy to woe.
But, just as we grew desperate, we saw a clever poke-in:
Praise to our Lionesses—and to Chloe Kelly’s toe.

The English sports experience can verge upon the tragic.
There’s mostly disappointment in our fortune’s ebb and flow.
But, once in every English life, there comes a moment’s magic:
We’ll always have the memory of Chloe Kelly’s toe.

by Julia Griffin

For Mary A.

“Irish Farmers Help Save a Bird whose Calls Used to Herald Summer”
—The New York Times

The corncrake makes a scratchy sound:
It’s not a tuneful hummer;
But Galway-way, and all around,
It used to herald summer.

Who comes across a corncrake’s nest
May wish the bird were dumber;
But up near Mayo, they protest:
It is the sound of summer.

When corncrakes start to croak, you might
Be moved to call a plumber;
But Ireland hears them with delight:
They’re back, and so is summer.

So, though immune to corncrake charms,
Don’t wince or utter “Bummer!”
Just think of all those Irish farms
Where now they know it’s summer.

by Steven Urquhart Bell

“Sheep help to keep grass trim at East Yorkshire solar farm”
—BBC News

I wonder: should I get a sheep
To keep my grass in trim?
I’d save on electricity—
It isn’t just a whim.

But then would come the winter, and
My cold and lonely bed.
Perhaps I better get the garden
Concreted instead.