HOW I LOVE YA, STORMY

by Catherine Gonick

So he called you a toilet, you called him a turd
you could flush. You talked so fast
the court reporter couldn’t keep up.
You were made out to be rough, a body
made for rough treatment. Then you proved
a slut is a spy in the world of men,
a refugee who threads the mountain pass
through snow, barefoot. She wears 
the veil turned inside out
to expose its scarlet lining, floats
her soul upon the ceiling. She is smart
as the whip he asks her to use
on his sorry ass, his little-boy mouth.
She is his punisher, he her power.
They are connected by a belt of gold
in a tug-of-war, an umbilical cord
of blood smeared to dry on paper. 
And you weren’t meant to be funny
but couldn’t be stopped 
when he and the law were served
official notice of your humor.

Catherine Gonick has published poetry in journals including Live Encounters, Notre Dame Review, Forge, and Beltway Poetry Quarterly, and in anthologies including Support Ukraine, Grabbed, and  Rumors, Secrets & Lies: Poems About Pregnancy, Abortion and Choice. She works in a company that slows the rate of global warming through projects that repair and restore the climate. 

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE NEW YORKER CARTOONS?

by Earl J. Wilcox

From the current issue of The New Yorker. 

Once, they were not just cutting edge,

They were the edge. Timely, clever,

Witty, observant of contemporary politics,

Our mores (for better or worse)—

Fresh, unique, without peers in other

Mags. (I could go on listing adjectives

Suggesting their demise, but you get the point.)

 

Was it the pandemic? A change in editors at

The storied mag? Perhaps all the good cartoonists

Died or became so out of touch or old or both

They no longer know what’s funny and what’s

Just a quaint take on our times.  I long for a return

To those good old days when The New Yorker 

Made me smile out loud at least three times

Each week. Or is it just me?

 

When did I stop seeing humor in politics and people,

In our pain and our poignant moments, our sass,

In all that’s worth seeing in human nature, even

Occasionally cruel jesting at our sores and warts,

our meanness. So many sexy innuendoes in those

Cartoons one could publish a book (as the mag’s

Editors have done several times over!) Such

Terrific and precious or precocious punch lines.

Is such pleasure taken from us forever?

Is this the way the world may end, not

With a SHAZAM but a New Yorker

Cartoon blaaah?

 

 

Earl Wilcox discovered The New Yorker cartoons about seven decades ago.

SONNET FOR THE COLLAR

by Diane Elayne Dees

The collar of dissent was pale and fragile—
deceptive, with its lace and quaint design.
She wore it with both dignity and humor;
yet it doubled as a sword. She had no fear—
her armor was devised of sacred words,
her ability to reason, and to plea
for equality for women, and for all
whose voices are dismissed and ridiculed.
The collar, a dainty symbol of our rage,
is woven from the threads of our despair.
It can’t be ripped or torn, or stained by hate,
yet on its own, it has no magic power.
It’s not enough to know how much it meant—
we have to put it on, we must dissent.

Diane Elayne Dees's poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies. Her chapbook, Coronary Truth, is available from Kelsay Books. Diane also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women's professional tennis throughout the world.

SALLY SELLS WHAT SHE SELLS OFFSHORE

by Paul Smith






Sally sold seashells by the seashore
Now Sally sells tax shelters offshore
To shills
From Iceland to Russia to Singapore
To anyone who wants to get their foot
Out the door
Of wherever they are
Into an Octopus’s Garden
As snug and quiet as the ocean floor
Sally’s Pa’s from Panama
Sally’s Ma’s from Panama
Sally’s Pa and Ma from Panama
Showed Sally how she could
Dodge the law
And make an easy dollar
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Maritime bunco
Where the trade winds blow
But one unhappy sailor
Who was sore at Sally’s sharpies
Blew the whistle on her
I swear it’s true
Your Honor!
Now
Sally’s seeking shelter
She’s swimming helter-skelter
From the law of every country
With a seashore and a lawyer

Paul Smith lives near Chicago.  He writes fiction & poetry. He likes Hemingway, really likes Bukowski, the Rolling Stones, Beatles, Kinks and Slim Harpo. He can play James Jamerson's bass solo for 'Home Cookin' by Junior Walker & the Allstars.

THE BOOK OF NEMESIS, CHAPTER 2016

by Gilbert Allen

Image source: DonkeyHotey

                   
And He said, I am The Great Candidate.
All the others?
Low energy.
Stop and think for a minute, people.
You really want a GOTUS who looks like that?
This is gonna be huge.
I’ll build a ginormous wall in the desert, and Saddam is gonna pay for it.
He’s history, and I know where his money is.
I’ve got some experience with walls.
And money.
You’ll be the father of many nations, after I smite them into The Stone Age.
You’ll mark all their members with red ties, before you let them out of the rubble.
Have I said you’ll be the mother of many nations, too?
I cherish mothers.
Mothers love me.
Especially Mexican mothers.
Listen, I know how to make deals.
I’ve been making deals for a pretty long time now.
You’re gonna have so many victories you’re gonna get sick of them.
Did anyone ever tell you you look just like Abraham?        
Abraham Lincoln?
Now fall on your face already.


Gilbert Allen's most recent collection of poems is Catma, from Measure Press. A book of short stories, The Final Days of Great American Shopping, is forthcoming from USC Press in April. He lives in Travelers Rest, South Carolina.