Monday, February 19, 2018

Not My President's Day





Deplorable Times

'Tis a time of sheer madness, when
 all through the land
Blows a rumble and roar from a man,
  "I'm so grand."
He revels in ignorance, bigotry, "close every gate,"
   throws in misogyny, anything to bait
His mean mass of followers,
  all snug in their hate, with visions of America,
Their un-United States.
They dress in their anger and he
 in his rage,
I spring from my bed to put
 words on this page.
Away to my pc, I fly like a flash
it's Donald, it's Trump,
The Pres., with the bundle of cash,
  a miniature man with a mind
In the gutter, "Don't come down my chimney,"
 I clearly did utter.
His hair like an orange, his mouth like a guppy,
  a fake tweet comes out and even disgusts my sad puppy.
A blink of Trump's eye, a twist of his head
  confirms, yes, for sure, I have everything to dread.
Every word that he speaks signals danger ahead.
  I so want to run, hide under my bed,
When I hear him exclaim, (wish he'd drive out of sight),
 "Make America great again," I know, he's not right.
He wants to return to a time from before,
  when freedom and justice were not for the poor, and the others
All unwelcome at his White House door.

by Nancy Freedman Goldstein
in volume 6 issue 2

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Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Poetry Update



Hello lovely readers,

We want to update you regarding the future of Parody. First, we definitely want to see Parody keep going forever and always. Even if that means that it evolves into a mind-controlling parasite that causes sheep to run around shouting limericks at unaware passersby. If that is how it turns out, we wouldn't recommend travel to Scotland, New Zealand, and other well-flocked regions of the world, but we would still be pleased to know that Parody lives on. 

How does the next stage of Parody look? The website will have new poems! We will return to posting a poem each Monday. Your inbox will receive notice each week if you so desire. We will put the print issue on hiatus. We may continue to seek "cover" art because, well, who needs a reason to want awesome pictures?

Dropping the print edition feels a bit like amputating a limb, but a year from now we may learn that life is still quite manageable. Our renewed efforts to keep the website alive means that we won't be delayed by any of the behind-the-scenes distractions. In short: keep coming back!

Keep reading,
keep writing.

Mostly Sincerely,
The Haikooligan

[sign up for the email-list here]

p.s. 
In this wild world of extroverts, introverts like myself are sometimes forced to be social. You can occasionally see my non-Haikooligan-self peek out from under the rock where I live by following me. @bugthewriter is what they call me on Twitter and Instagram.

 
instagram.com/bugthewriter

Monday, April 10, 2017

Down the Drain








A Coroner's Report

He dropped his savings in the rain,
He'd just come from the bank.
He watched his life go down the drain
Into a septic tank.
I assume before the fatal fall
Had gone his precious pride
From affluent to effluent.
The verdict: sewer-cide.

by Alan Harland
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, April 3, 2017

Poets Putting it Out There






The Brash Editor
With a nod to William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon

a brash portly
editor

and whether he's
eaten

before he reads my
poem

by Daniel R. Jones
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, March 27, 2017

for Britland








Anglophile

Pity I can't tell you when I learnt
I loved British authors best. I don't
live in a flat or gaff, nor use much
petrol. Never had children, so no need
of nappies. I've come to think those
who call themselves teachers in the States
are bloody fools, who should be sacked.
Just look at the massive rubbish they spout
in the language of the lav. And prayer
in schools? Start a row over creation myths?
Bunch of plonkers, prats, and muppets.
Tell them to get off their fat bums, stop
playing clingfilm near their mums, and quit
watching the telly, drinking lager. Read!
There's more than a few good bits in books
by Brits, and they aren't obsessed with guns
and buggery. I fancy Fortey, Dawkins,
Rowling, Ridley. Aren't they the proper
mates? Like me, they love autumn, never
lower themselves to call it fall.

by Joan Mazza
in volume 5 issue 2

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