Come out for The Donald, ye every last chump,
Who found yourself reasons and voted for Trump!
With gold-plated ego, his own horn a-tootin’,
He swept from his tower, assisted by Putin.
Now the cry has gone up, and grows louder each day
From the citizens: “Please, can Obama just stay?”
The media sorts gave their sober reports
That today’s situation is dire;
The POTUS-elect, we must surely expect
Is a con man whose pants are on fire
Whose history shows (and now everyone knows)
He’s a rampant and dangerous liar! [Read more…]
Political writing is hard to decipher;
It’s taking some effort—I’m trying!
I note the gymnastics reporters engage in,
Avoiding the phrase “Trump is lying”
They try to play fair; it’s a hopeless endeavor:
“He misrepresents what she’s saying”
The proper translation of Trump’s elocution:
“The Tangerine Jackass is braying!”
Reporters are fighting reflexive defenses—
Which, frequently, Trump can elicit—
But really, his lies need near constant addressing;
By ducking, the press are complicit! [Read more…]
April Is National Poetry Month
In this, now, its twentieth year
And cuttlefish types who have fun with their ink
Are all happy that April is here [Read more…]
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” [Read more…]
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And, finding myself no Robert Frost,
I struck a third; I felt I should,
The pathless forest looked so good,
And soon I was well and truly… lost [Read more…]
I’ve got a poem in my pocket
Cos I’ve heard that today is the day
That the poets are planting a poetry seed
Just a verse you can pull from your pocket and read
If conditions are right, it could grow like a weed
If conditions are right, well, it may [Read more…]
I’ve just met a straw-man called “Spocking”; it’s shocking,
But some might believe it’s how atheists act!
Where logic is king, not emotion—the notion
That every decision is based upon fact
These atheists put their reliance in science
Forgetting illusory “feelings” or “dreams”
Eschewing all base superstition; their mission
Is reason, perfected… or that’s how it seems.
What all people need, to be working, is “Kirking”,
Humanity’s hero—with all of his flaws
Kirk’s quirks are not bugs with space creatures—they’re features!
And Spock’s an affront to humanity’s cause!
It’s Kirkish to strive, boldly going—no knowing
The odds, cos what counts is emotion, not thought
The godless feel nothing, quite clearly (or nearly)
They’re cold, heartless bastards… except that they’re not. [Read more…]
Watching the media debates about Ferguson, about militarized police, about use of force, about all of it… I am A) depressed, and B) put in mind of C. P. Cavafy’s amazing poem “Waiting for the Barbarians“. Go, read it! (Ok, that’s the English translation; if you want the Greek, here it is.) [Read more…]