December 3, 2018

A Visit from St. Zachary

with a nod to Clement Clarke Moore

‘Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the house
not a new piece of clothing, not even a blouse.
The papers were graded with consummate care
in hopes that my students would say I was fair.
The pencils were nestled all snug with their lead
while visions of movie screens danced in my head.
And my Lab in his collar and I in my cap
lay down on my loveseat to take a long nap,
when out on the lawn there arose such a hubbub,
I turned to my dog and asked him, Wassup, Bub?
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open my notebook to show some panache.
The sun on the drops of new-fallen rain
gave a hint of the warming we hope to restrain,
when what to my bloodshot eyes did appear
but a yard full of students, some heads dulled by beer.
More sluggish than turtles the stragglers they came
and I whistled and shouted and called them by name:
Now, Jaedyn! Now, Kaelyn! Now, Lucas and Lizzie!
On, Vixen with short shorts that make my head dizzy!
Put your cellphones away, read the sign on my wall,
take those dang earbuds off—I’m done with them all!
And then, from the bushes, I heard someone say,
Is it true that we must have our textbooks today?
As I drew in my breath and was turning around,
down the driveway St. Zachary came with a bound.
He was wearing no headphones and chomping no chaw,
and he knew where to place a comma and clause.
A bundle of stories he’d flung on his back
and he looked like St. Nicholas opening his pack.
His verbs—how they twinkled! His headlines—how merry!
His leads were like roses, his prose like a cherry!
His sweet little kickers were tied like a bow,
and his nut graphs were followed by just the right quote.
He was timely and stirring, an eloquent elf,
and I smiled when I read him, in spite of myself.
His narrative leads and well-crafted heads
soon helped me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
not at all like some pothead or arrogant jerk.
Using no danglers, not padding his prose,
up and beyond the grade scale he rose.
At the end of the hour I gave him a shout
and told him it’s time for an internship bout.
But I heard him exclaim as he walked out of sight—
It’s Christmas, Professor. Go have a Bud Light!

by Margaret DeRitter
Parody Online

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November 26, 2018

My, How Things Change!

It's now two thousand sixty-five.
You'll hardly recognize
old Santa Claus. He's been revamped
from boot tips to his eyes.

Concerned for him, Mrs. Santa hired
a trainer. Gladly, he
worked hubby hard, and now that gut's
as flat as it can be.

Then all those suits made magically
were way too big. The mass-
produced ones, an insult to him,
he'd not wear. They were crass!

The elves who made the suits and toys
left Santa long ago
for better jobs. Now seldom does
he utter, "HO, HO, HO!"

Next, Santa had to lose the pipe.
We've long known smoking's bad.
The kids must not see one more puff.
This change made Santa mad.

The last straw—Santa went to jail
for animal abuse.
He lost his reindeer; now his sleigh
no longer is in use.

How will you recognize him now?
Look for a hot, buff guy
who works full-time for Disneyland.
This sight might make you cry.

He wears a patch on his right arm,
since he still craves the pipe.
He still works out four times a week
just so the wife won't gripe.

The last time he had fast food and
a Coke was long ago.
Give him a four-meat pizza and
he'll holler, "HO, HO, HO!"

by Janice Canerdy
in volume 6 issue 2

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November 19, 2018

Trying on Clothes on a Winter's Evening

with a nod to Robert Frost

Whose shoes these are I think I know.
She's gone to town in snow boots though,
She will not see me try them on
Or at least give them a go.

Alas, my feet are just too long.
My little cat must think it wrong
To see me in my girlfriend's shoe,
But better that than in her thong.

He gives his collar bell a shake
And, though I know it's a mistake,
I don her dress so soft and sheer.
Oh it's a risk I should not take,

To wear this feminine veneer,
And soon my girlfriend will be here,
So I must change and quick, I fear.
Yes I must change and then, a beer.

by M C Green
in volume 6 issue 2

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November 12, 2018

Merchants of Vehemence

The effort of their lying is not strained;
It droppeth as white-washing dew from pigeons
upon all those beneath. It is twice cursed;
It curses those who speak and those who would believe.
'Tis baseless in its baseness;
it becomes their monarch better than his smirk.
His sceptered cabinet make farce of power,
where attributes of awe and majesty fail
'neath the dread fear of tweets.
But truth is beyond their scepter's sway,
enthroned not in their un-kingly hearts;
Such attributes of higher power do not show
where untruth seasons justice.

by Ken Gosse
in volume 6 issue 2

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November 5, 2018

Ballad of the Nervous Air Passenger

with a nod to Robert Louis Stevenson

How do I hate to go up in a plane,
up in the air so blue.
Oh, how I think it's the scariest thing
ever a tourist can do.

Up in the air 10,000 feet high
through the clouds grey and white,
my nerves run amok, I certainly cry,
I can't bear an aerial sight.

When I look down on the land or sea,
I can only imagine the fall
down through the air clutched by hard gravity.
It's a wonder I travel at all.

by Paula Mahon
in volume 6 issue 2

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October 29, 2018

Peas

with apologies to Joyce Kilmer

I know I'll never taste a pea
As mushy as your poetry.

Your pea poems drag on sagging lines,
Much sappier than Valentines.

Are they picked from the pod and chewed?
Or mashed up into baby food?

To read your pea-poems turns me green:
I'd rather read a lima bean.

And next to peas, your pea-poems are
Black-eyed and squishier by far.

Snap peas need fertilizer spray,
But only you make poems that way.

by J. Patrick Lewis
in volume 5 issue 1

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October 22, 2018

Larry Ate a Little Ham

with a nod to Sarah Josepha Hale

Larry ate a little ham,
it had no cloven toe;
and anything that Larry did
his guilt just wouldn't go.

He went to synagogue one day,
poor Larry broke the rule;
the rabbi just sent him away
'cause he was skipping school.

And when the rabbi threw him out,
he still had ling'ring fear.
So, Larry prayed and was devout,
and just what did he hear?

"Why does the ham bug Larry so?"
Moishe asked of G-d.
"He is reformed, so I don't know,"
the LORD said with a nod.

by Will O'Brien
in volume 6 issue 1

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October 15, 2018

Gaping Grave's Gaiety

Ghostly grunting galls grandmother gracelessly:
"Go, grip gone good granddaddy's gaiety guarantee:
granny, go goosey, go, grandmother, glamorize,
granddaddy grooves, girl, grave's gaiety gratifies."
Grumpy grandmother growls: "Greasy ghoulishness!
Gravelessly, gormlessly, gracelessly garmentless!"
Grandmother gabbles, gyrates, gnashing giddily:
"Guts, ghastly ghosts, go! Get gone, guileful gimmickry!"
Ghosts grumble: "Grey goldilocks, gobbling gin!
Gallstone grace, graveyard gravy, good gummy grin!
Gouty granny, grip granddaddy's guarantee:
grasp graveyard's glutinous gaiety!"
Granny groans: "Gothic grave groupies, gruesome!
Greedy, greasy ghosts, grisly ghosts," getting gum:
"Get gone, gratuitous ghosts!" Granny gets garlic.
Ghosts giggle garrulously. Granny goes Gothic.

by Alex Dreppec

in volume 5 issue 2

Eating Electric Eels

East Eaton's eccentrics eventually
eat electric eels, eat ecstatically.
Electroshock's Eden, extreme event,
effectuating enlightenment,
effectuating exhilaration,
egregious, eager, exceeds exaltation.
Expectorating effects enhance
electric eel eater's exuberance.
Edentulous, eerie eccentrics embrace
electric eels, eagerly eat, enlace
extreme experiences eerily,
effrontery's eely epitome.
Enormous electroshocks elongate
each exhilaration, elucidate
eccentric's electric eel eatery,
empowering eaters erotically.
Entangled eccentric's estates erode.
Eel eating extremists even explode.

by Alex Dreppec
in volume 5 issue 1

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October 8, 2018

Each life a novel
Beginning, middle, and end
Last pages left blank

No two blanks alike
Nor where and when they get filled
Ghost writers take note

by Sharon Wood Wortman

in volume 6 issue 2

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October 1, 2018

Characters in Horror Movies

with a nod to Dorothy  Parker

The Babysitter

There's two types of these we've come to know.
    The first is the irresponsible one,
the girl who spends her time on her ass and on the phone,
    inviting her boyfriend over the instant the parents are gone.
She dismisses screams as the wind starting to rise,
    the killer's steps are the skitters of a mouse,
and she's the only one who's surprised
    to learn the call's coming from inside the house.

And then there's the second kind,
    who to me seems the much better hire.
No matter the slasher, she keeps her presence of mind
    and exhibits at least some flustered grace under fire.
She doesn't investigate upstairs, as countless others have done;
    such prudence serves her well.
At the first sign of trouble she grabs the kids and runs
    and lives to die in the sequel.

Some are doomed to get picked off before they can get paid;
others manage to make it through and die another day.

The Hero

He has a name like Tom or Chip or Clay,
    an incredible head of hair and a square jaw,
a smile that could brighten any cloudy day
    and eyes made for close-ups, objects of awe;
the camera's just waiting for his shirt to come off,
    as are the fangirls who flock to the theaters in droves.
He's perfectly built for some gore-laden popcorn fluff,
    plucked probably from the cast of some CW show.

Tom-Chip-Clay is often on a quest of some kind,
    seeking some lost sibling, loved one, friend,
but there's also usually a love interest that he finds,
    and we have to wait and see if they make it to the end.
He's the kind of guy who no matter the danger refuses to waver,
    the kind of guy who's kind to everyone;
of course, the machete-wielding maniac won't return the favor,
    but damn, does Tom-Chip-Clay's ass look nice when he runs.

It doesn't matter by what monster you're being chased
as long as you still look good with blood and dirt on your face.

The Kid

They're either innocent little angels or the spawn of Satan
    (and around here that can be frighteningly literal);
if one suddenly develops an imaginary friend,
    then the whole family's in deep trouble.
They're often the way that evil gains entry
    to the home, preying on their friendship or fear,
and it's not a good idea for them to watch too much TV,
    especially if they turn around and say, "They're here."

Some of them can see dead people;
    others have what they call "the shine."
Sometimes one's head will spin around like an owl's,
    and some hear voices that aren't theirs in their minds.
Some are bad seeds and some are creepy as hell,
    like the ones that live out in the corn,
and though some of them turn out rather well,
    for every rose there's always a Thorne.

No matter the movie, the kid rarely dies,
unless it's Stephen King—what's wrong with that guy?

by Sarah Cannavo
in volume 6 issue 2

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September 24, 2018

The Perfect Enjoyment: A Lesson for John Wilmot

with a nod to J. W., Earl of Rochester

Fair Corinne,
Let us lay our lines together in a poem.
Let me lay my bilabial plosive
On your sweet rhyme,
And time, and we united,
In strophe and antistrophe,
Shall sing and dance into the climax of our air.

Free verse and metered lines we'll use,
And undulating rhythms too will fuse
With metaphor, the motive and the music,
And what's more, like a sword thrusting

Tirelessly, ever true and keen,
In the vast redeeming underbelly of the sea,
Received in constant motion, rising
And falling onward to the shore of ecstasy.

In spume and froth sweet Aphrodite come
Naked on your clam shell, and once again
Repeat the long lost words of love and lease
A moment of your tide to our soft charge,
For when those sounds we've married to our own,
Our poem's complete, and we, though emptied,
With your rhyme replete.

by Robert Witmer

in volume 5 issue 2

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September 17, 2018

Trolls: Three Haiku

"...remember, there will be trolls
 who move in. Also remember, sunlight
 is their bane."
—Jane Hawkner

In the dark of night,
Trolls gather to celebrate.
Sunlight is their bane.

Bugs under a rock
Are always surprised by light.
Turn the rock over.

Trump is elected.
We have four years of sun.
Pick up the rock now.

by Jane Yolen

in volume 6 issue 1

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September 10, 2018

Ode to the Bagel Eaters

I
hearing the express toaster ding ding
letting the waitress know the bagel is done
time for the cream cheese
spread a schmear so thick
that it looks like a glacier formed
one lucky customer receives the bagel
and takes a big bite
and now has a cream cheese mustache
which he doesn't notice
and no one in the restaurant cares enough to tell him

II
another one is ready for the schmear of a lifetime
a customer takes the two halves apart
and licks the cream cheese first
as if this were a giant vanilla Oreo
the glacier melted quite quickly
what's left looks like the frothed milk of a cappuccino

III
a rabbi came in for lunch
ordered an onion bagel
with a medium schmear, not too much now,
because it gets everywhere, but not too little because then
the bread gets lonely
when asked what he wanted to drink he ordered
a smallish coffee, not too large, not medium, but bigger than a small
with half and half, and sweet-n-low
it must be the sweet-n-low because it's sweeter than sugar,
which he can't have because he's diabetic but that doesn't matter
because it tastes like dreck in coffee anyway
the guy behind the counter waited to see if the rabbi
was going to say anything
"nu? what're you waiting for?"

IV
a very handsome man with a black beard came in
had a yen for an uber-thick schmear,
you know, where there's so much cream cheese
between the two halves of the bagel that it looks
like two humongous snow mounds, not made to scale
his beard enjoyed the sandwich as well
he had to beat the crumbs out of his beard,
the way one beats a carpet

V
a woman comes in asks for a toasted bagel with butter
she shamed the cream cheese
it should be noted that the cheesy spread of goodness
committed no crime
other than to be delicious
the other customers stared at her as if she committed
a mortal sin
she took a bite and all eyes were upon her
she smiled and all the poppy seeds in her teeth
looked like she hadn't seen a dentist in years
served her right

by Lady Samantha

in volume 6 issue 1

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September 3, 2018

Sarah on Aging

with a nod to Angelina Weld Grimké

I am the woman with the wrinkled wrinkled skin
I am the laughing woman with the wrinkled wrinkled face
I am losing my mind to thought (no dignity—no grace)
  I am searching just to please
  And gave up praying on my knees
    And I laugh
I am the laughing woman who's never quite felt whole
I am the laughing woman who doesn't trust a soul

by J.M. Green

in volume 6 issue 1

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August 27, 2018

Apocryphal Bard

To be or not to be? Whose question is that?
Not mine said the sweet pea tucked snug in its pod.
Not mine said the queen bee sipping honey through a straw.
Not mine said the oak tree, I am what I am.
Not mine said the pearl, the world is my oyster.
Not mine said the turtledove to its fetching mate.
Not mine said the mountain peak sitting pretty.
Not mine said the black hole, I'm a sucker for nothing.
Not mine said the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
Not mine said Hamlet, my creator was mistaken.
To be or not to be? Whose question is that?
Shakespeare's, I think, who was really Francis Bacon.


Karmic Laundromat

Though less than a dustball
in the lint filter of history,
he tumbled headlong
through the cycles of life's mystery
with a half-scoop of alacrity,
a tad lemony and olfactory,
but not a pinch of bleach
to leach the mortal stain,
which all must wear—alack—
upon a shirtsleeve or a brain.
Yet all was not lost;
his grimy mind he tossed
in the shuddering machine
of life's mingled joys and pain,
and he watched love's basket whirl,
the soiled thoughts slowly whitened.
The sudsy swill then drained,
the load spun out and lightened.
And when the time arrived
to dry his damp desires
in Spirit's greater fires,
he lugged the pile
across the aisle
and turned the dial to high.

by Richard Schiffman

in volume 4 issue 2

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August 20, 2018

Who'll Be Chief Scorner?

with a nod to someone from quite a long time ago

Who'll be chief mourner?
I, said the Dove.
Who Killed Cock Robin?

Who'll be chief scorner?
I, said the Critic,
With barbs analytic,
I'll be chief scorner.

Who'll settle the will?
I, said the Lawyer.
Ms. Thrush? I'll destroy her.
Then I'll send in my bill.

Who'll write the obit?
I, quacked the Hack.
I, who know jack,
I'll write the obit.

Who says, I told you so?
I, said the Teacher.
Me and the Preacher,
We told him so.

Who'll gloat without shame?
The Angler affirms:
He stole my worms;
I'll gloat without shame.

Who'll sully his name?
I, cried the Prude.
His very name's rude,
Yet he ducked all blame.

Who'll build on his grave?
I, said Big Business.
Progress is progress.
We'll build and we'll pave.

Who'll rub out all trace?
I, said Fox Robin.
No sense in sobbin'.
Gone to ground's no disgrace.

by Dan Campion

in volume 6 issue 1

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August 13, 2018

The Tale of the Pi Characters;
     or, The Lay of the Case.

With a nod to Robert W. Service and Edward Lear

The octothorp and the pilcrow went
One night to the Baseline Bar,
Where a sleek duet of guillemets
Strummed ballads on guitar.

The pilcrow said to the octothorp
As he nervously lit his pipe,
“The parenthesis in period dress
Is definitely not my type.”

“Inverted commas, don’t you think?
Straight quotes are more my style.”
He sipped a drink of something pink
And composed a valiant smile.

But while he minded his p’s and q’s,
There, dotting her i’s at him,
In a velvet chair, fleuron in her hair,
Was the widow known as Em.

“Come hither,” said she to the octothorp,
“For I fully guarantee
that a man in his prime who wants a good time
Can always colon me.”

“Asterisk, I’m not averse,
No, not averse by far—
Comma long with me, for I can see
Fine specimens you are.”

“We hate to dash,” said the octothorp
As he hastily settled the tab.
“But I’m out of sorts and must cut this short—
My friend will call a cab.”

Just then the music quit—full stop—
And all the lights went dim,
As each head turned to see she’d spurned
That swelled rule, Diamond Jim.

With interrobang the bullets flew;
An umlaut joined the fray;
Descenders crashed and symbols clashed
In the general melee.

The ditto and the dingbat fled
And the diaeresis swore;
The manicule, who was no fool,
Pointed toward the door.

There in the quad the pilcrow lay
Sprawled on his ampersand;
Standing over him was a boldfaced Jim
With a bracket in his hand.

With lightning speed, the widow slipped
A dagger from her shoe,
And through the smoke in a single stroke
A wicked backslash drew.

A host of scare quotes stood in awe
As the barkeep cleared the joint.
“The bastard’s dead!” animatedly said
The exclamation point.

The hyphen ate the pretzel sticks,
The virgule drank the booze,
En dashed the sheriff in search of a serif;
The apostrophe refused.

“Just ligature face—are you all right?”
Our heroine implored;
With gentlest kisses on his ellipsis,
The pilcrow she restored.

“What capital developments,”
Said the octothorp to them—
“A punctual spark twixt Paragraph Mark
And the lady that’s known as Em.”

Thus locked up in the chase became
The pair now tightly kerned;
They invited the leading to sing at their wedding
And danced till the carriage returned.

A suitable superscript resolves
This typographic rhyme:
In the upper case, in each other’s embrace
They remained tilde end of time, of time,
They remained tilde end of time.

by Barbara Brannon

Framed

Anne was beheaded on the Tower green on May 19, 
meeting death with courage and even with jest.   (Encyclopedia Britannica)

When Henry the Eighth split from his wife,
He did not deign to spare her life;
His orders said Behead the Queen—
Some years before the guillotine.

The swordsman's strike hit clean and true,
But something somehow went askew:
Anne's head went rolling down the hall—
And thus was born the Boleyn ball.

Right past the door, into the lane,
It rolled ahead into the drain,
And mournful folk were heard to utter,
Her Majesty's mind is in the gutter.

The moral of this alley-gory
Is an old familiar story:
Wives, learn from poor Anne's testimony:
Never ask for alimony.

by Barbara Brannon

in volume 5 issue 2

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August 6, 2018

The dinner lottery

Most people don't cook any longer.
They don't know how or fear
time in the kitchen will turn them
into sad housewives in chains.

Then there are those who imagine
they can. Some despise recipes
invent gooey stew the texture
and taste of Gorilla Glue, chops

fried to shingles good for water-
proofing a roof, salads only some
man hoping to get laid would eat.
Nobody ever threw together

an edible cake. Some at the other
extreme think It's high living
to cook only recipes that require
40 ingredients, some so obscure

you don't know if they're animal
vegetable or beetle grub. Perhaps
scrapings of some moon rock.
I used to visit friends who'd begin

cooking hours before we ever got
a taste. We'd all hover in their
kitchen salivating, fantasizing
take-out, and still the host

would have yet another glass
and chatter and forget an item
or two or three. At ten-thirty
we'd sit down to something grey

we'd fall upon, willing to eat
raw worms, cat food or even
the tablecloth. Dining with friends
can remind why restaurants exist.

by Marge Piercy

in volume 6 issue 1

Burritode

A more pronounced degree of bravery, which comes with
exhilaration, is the ability not to give a damn for possible
consequences; not only to ignore them but to despise them.

- Ernest Hemingway 

In eating a burrito,
I aspire
To ride the edge of Death.
Full habanero searing,
Eyes tearing,
Engulfed in a triumphant fire,
Never happier. That flavor
Obliterates the drab world like a savior:
Exhilarating, perfect,
The burrito is worth it,
Though I get night terrors later.

by Elizabeth Sanker

in volume 6 issue 1

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July 30, 2018

Jeans

with a nod to Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I outgrow thee? Let me count the ways.
I outgrow thee to the depth and breadth and bulk
My rear can reach when spreading out of sight
From the best Godivas and crème brûlée.
I outgrow thee to the level of every day's
Perilous ounce on scale and upper thigh.
I outgrow thee fat-freely, with scores of Baked Lays.
I outgrow thee purely, with no artificial sweeteners.
I outgrow thee with the passion put to use
In my new marriage and its Date Night pizzas.
I outgrow thee with fleshy rolls I thought I'd lost
In adolescence—with the pudge, pinch, and body-shaming
Of all my nightmares. And this I know surely:
Thou shall but fit me less well after washing.

by Alice Batt
in volume 6 issue 1

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July 23, 2018

A Gentle Farewell

If you should go, to take away my peace,
and turn the wrinkled page, I would not grieve
as medieval ladies seek release
in rage or madness when their lovers leave.

Or death. Leaping from a parapet
is high romance, but harmful to the bones,
but that's what medieval maidens get
for messing with their wayward pheromones.

When you are gone, I'll make a cup of tea
laced with just a thimbleful of schnapps,
rejoice a moment in my liberty,
and call or text a former friend, perhaps.

You think you hold my key to happiness,
but what I have is post-traumatic stress.

by Conrad Geller
in volume 6 issue 2

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