Carey Jobe: On A Kitchen Stove
The frothing water makes six white eggs dance
like twirling seraphs in a white-hot trance
exchanging heat with the infernal plate,
and passions boil at such a pitching rate
Apocalypse might rain down as foreseen
did not the dull utensil intervene.
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Steven Kent: A Show of Hands
The thumb is there for hitching rides;
Its rules are often useful guides.
The index finger points at things,
The third one wears important rings.
"A promise made," the pinky states,
But Number Two communicates!
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Felicia Nimue Ackerman: Content Warning
“Both conservative and liberal college
students believe they should report a
professor if they say something they find
offensive, according to a survey."
-From The Hill website
Save our youth from open speech.
That’s the safest way to teach.
Don't suppose their minds are agile;
Be aware their souls are fragile.
If you go against their mode,
Whoops - their psyches might implode!
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Jerome Betts: Sign Of Green Times?
This year it was the old Turk’s Head
Where we’d first planned to meet again.
But as the name, the woke have said,
Reminds of past crusading pain
We picked a newer pub instead
And patronised the young Swede’s Brain.
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Henry Stimpson: Application
The Poet-in-Residence at the Solomon R. Guggenheim
Museum will work together with the Guggenheim and
Academy of American Poets to design and create a
project that takes poetry beyond the page and enlivens
the museum experience for visitors. The selected poet
for the 2024 position will receive a $20,000
honorarium. (Jan. 18, 2024)
Choose me please, mighty Guggenheim.
My scansion’s fine, and I can rhyme.
I love all kinds of modern art
and am a cat so full of heart.
I’ll tell you more, yes, I’ll expand.
(I wouldn’t mind that twenty grand.)
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Heather Dubrow: A Bloom Of My Own
My skin's getting pale. Starts to dry out and flake.
Knees stiffen – dread changes aging will make.
But how I describe this can still be my choice.
A term for old chocolate will let me rejoice.
Its pale streaks, its dry dust are not seen as doom.
My signs of old age will henceforth be bloom.
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Robin Helweg-Larsen: In Praise of Pride
Why do the humble always bumble?
They stumble and their projects tumble,
their thoughts a jumble. So they mumble
and grumble, while their drear works crumble.
Why can’t they stand, speak, be unbowed?
Say it aloud. Be proud!
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Tony Peyser: My Favorite Sport At My Local Park In Southern California
If push finally came to shove and I was then strong-armed to pick it,
I’d have to say it was Indian guys on a baseball field playing cricket.
This sweet sight has always managed to make my heart quicken
Since it’s every bit as American as apple pie and Tandoori chicken.
(I would hope American expats in India who like to hit the wicket, switch
To baseball sometimes and play nine innings on a Mumbai cricket pitch.)
