Esteemed Fellow Punsters and Rhymologists!

we turned two, two months back
blink and you missed it —
to reflect on it now
I cannot resist it

from the
get-go your
poetic gyrations
surpassed all my
wildest expectations

dropping this mid-month
for a slight change of pace
what all y’all have gifted us
with, let time not erase

keep your verses
flowing, you
bards and
bardesses —
sans those
straight-laced
verbal harnesses

Highlights of this past cycle:

• A big welcome to our new contributing writers: Aeishwarya Baviskar (#142), Sam Writes Security (#143), Lars Londerre (#144), Payton Burdette (#145), Judy Dykstra-Brown (#146), Shipshape Smithy (#147) and Chris…

Who will tell me which path to take,
how much I’ll bear, before I break?
Who will help me, if politely
I implore them to oblige me,
show me how I can survive,
do, believe, keep hope alive?
Who will help, when all of my dreams,
all my treasures spill at the seams?
Whom to look to, whom to address
for my grievances to redress?
Who will stand by me when I’m lost,
who will help to carry my cross? …

The whale she journeys out
to waters dark and gray
sings to herself once the
shoreline is far away

Greenland tides echo her
songs for two hundred years
harpoon marks on her back
unknown, her thoughts and fears

what do her songs convey
why and to whom she sings
frigid arctic currents
carry her fluid hymns

intricate melodies
coursing beneath the ice
ambergris vignettes does
her balene brain devise

the whale she weaves her dreams
her body twists and rolls
her silky body scraped
by craggy hidden shoals

the whale she wallows in
sadness as dense as she
her body commingled
with her…

by Joe Váradi

Gurl.
Yes, you,
elbow deep in
that bag of Doritos
diagonally across from me
on the 6:13 out of Grand Central, in
the six-seater bulkhead row of the quiet car.

Yes,
you are
consuming
with blithe abandon
The. Loudest. Possible. Snack.
foil rustling, corrugated chips crackling.
Have I mentioned yet that this is the quiet car?

And
that’s
not even
the worst of it.
My fellow rail commuter,
my insatiably ravenous travel companion,
you, Miss, have a vile and despicable personal habit

I
kid
you not,
every time
Every. Goddam. Time.
after you reach into that bag,
and place another morsel in your…

note: scroll halfway down for wordplay, and all the way to the bottom for the translations

Surrealism

ㅤBeer Truck Heaven
ㅤPareidolia Cucurbita

Sonnets

ㅤThe Ballad of White Boy Rick
ㅤThe Ballad of Rhonda from Customer Support
ㅤa see-through wall made of shiny steel
ㅤBare Naked in a Sleepy Village
ㅤthe pointy stack o’ bricks
ㅤHe Won Because …
ㅤThe Cologne Wars

Nonets

ㅤGetting Hot and Steamy on a Sunday
ㅤHigh Expectations Nonet
ㅤNonet the Starry Night

Villanelles

ㅤVertigo
ㅤOf Waffles and Attempted Burglary
ㅤMetro North Gothic — Nuts

Limericks

ㅤYour Helmet is So Big
ㅤAge, the Final Frontier
ㅤJustice League
ㅤAdam’s Retort
ㅤGrand Old Clusterf#ck
ㅤThe Ill-Advised Blow Job
ㅤChanneling Kayleigh…

I’m alone, as the golden yellow
sunflower patch’s lonesome sorrow,
as one begot to life down and low,
to voice words lax and loose,
thus by the fistful I’ll dispense them,
my glossy grains — onto rocks barren,
or fertile soil, treasured therein — 
as destiny may choose.

As one begot to life down and low,
I’m alone, as the golden yellow
sunflower patch’s lonesome sorrow — 
as destiny may choose.
My words — my blood I dispersed loosely,
I replied, though no one implored me,
(such was my lot) hapless and clumsy,
one forever accused.

Alone, toward the sun…

poem by Zsuzsa A. Túri, translated by Joe Váradi

You know
it’s all been
written
countless
times,
no
matter
how you
craft those
lines,
or
weave your
fanciful
vines,
every
sentence
a
chain-bound
sentiment,
every
phrase
a
time-trapped
experiment…

the original:

Tudod

Tudod,
mindent
megírtak
már
százszor,
a
szavakkal
te
akárhogy
játszol,
képzeleted
is
akárhogy
táncol,
minden
mondat
láncra
verve
lépked,
minden
sor
időbe
zárt
kísérlet…

I’ve used Robert Berény’s distinctive paintings for other translations: