Rot off the press – Limericked views on breaking news

 

The news is extra, you can bet.

Its fiction casts a wider net.

Of facts, off-base,

No track or trace –

Let’s give those folks a statuette.

 

Behind the scenes, they access gain.

They pick and peck past their domain.

Don’t blink. Press print.

Oh, no. You didn’t.

Our hearts are torn; they pour champagne.

 

As readers, viewers, they hoodwink.

They tap their keys; they nod and wink

To grab the scoop

And loop-de-loop.

The story’s never what we think.

c2023 by Linda Ann Nickerson

 

This poem was posted in response to these prompts:

• Five-Minute Friday: “access”
• Mad Kane’s Limerick-Off Monday: “net”
• Meme Express: “off-base”
• Simply Snickers: “pick,” “press,” and “print”
• Stream of Consciousness Saturday: “heart”

 

Image: “Extra! Extra!” from The Graphics Fairy / vintage / public domain

 

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Loaded for Beware

This pistol of a friend I’ve found

Will step out with the gun’s resound.

The pack behind, off like a shot,

She pulls the trigger, all she’s got.

She makes her peace, out from the gate,

To run near four in thirty-eight.

And with both barrels firing fine,

She zips right past the finish line.

Though she’s not packing on the street,

You still might say she brings the heat.

c2018 by Linda Ann Nickerson

 

Image:

Theme art – adapted from public domain image

Still from Marnie, 1964

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Balancing the Books

If syllables were billable

And rhyme were punched in time,

Then poets would fill every phrase

With words to bring chips’ chime.

We’d mark the meter, count the clock,

And measure every sign.

Alas, the metaphor dissolves

Upon the bottom line.

c2018 by Linda Ann Nickerson

Image:

Theme art – adapted from public domain image

Still from Suspicion, 1941

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Tea It Up and Take a Shot

Tea It Up and Take a Shot

Sometimes a chip lands in the drink

And sends us nearly past the brink.

We sip and spar,

And dream sub-par,

For nothing’s ever what we think.

It’s not that we’d improve a lie.

But some brews still a tongue may tie.

And roles reversed

Are unrehearsed;

We have to swing to qualify.

Forgive the metaphors I mix.

The game is rigged. There’s no quick fix.

Simplicity’s

No cup of tea.

And poets break the rules for kicks.

Alas, the tempest swirls the pot.

We’re in the rough. Give all you’ve got.

Go get a grip

And take a sip.

Another round brings food for thought. 

c2018 by Linda Ann Nickerson

Image:

Adapted by this user from vintage artwork.

Feel free to follow on Google Plus and Twitter. Please visit my Amazon author page as well.