Two Aphorisms Created for Our Times

I.
Life is a card game,
play your hand wisely.
Seems like we’re caught
in a never-ending bridge game.
Trump suit named,
trick after trick after trick played.
Anyone ready to change the game?

II.
When parade horses leave a trail of shit,
sweepers must follow.

Seems like we’re caught
in a never-ending parade
of show ponies
with far too few sweepers
willing to clean up the mess.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Ana returns to dVerse and asks us to consider Gnomic poetry which is the practice of moralizing in verse. We can start or end our poem with an aphorism; create our own aphorisms; or be inspired by a myth. We have many choices in how to approach the prompt but the “focal point” of our poem must be a moral or assert a philosophical position on life. And she tells us that just because we’re moralizing, doesn’t mean we must be serious. We can add a bit of humor or irony. Images from Pixabay.com

Ding Dong the Witch is Dead . . .

I’m melting, melting. Ohhhhh, what a world, what a world, destroy my beautiful wickedness.” Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz

I planned it. Me and Rudy.
It was all fixed.
The machines, the ballots.
All a disaster.

Millions believed me.
They didn’t drink bleach
but they believed I won
because I said so.

This commission.
These videos. These emails.
My people spilling it all.
Gutless.

This witch hunt . . .
closing in . . .
my battery is low
and it’s getting dark.

Laura provides a unique prompt for today’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She provides seven quotations of famous departing words. We must choose one and include it in a “deathbed poem of our imagination.”

The line provided by Laura: “My battery is low and it’s getting dark.” Mars rover ‘Opportunity’

The prompt got me thinking about Donald Trump and the January 6 Commission. May the vast amount of evidence presented be the demise of the Big Lie and expose the danger Donald Trump presents to democracy and the well-being of this country. May his power and cult-like status among otherwise sane people melt away, similar to what happened to the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz.

On the Occasion of Seven Republicans Voting Guilty

I remember Mrs. Jester’s house.
Reddish paint, curtains always open.
Mostly I remember her apple tree
blossoms bountiful,
sturdy limbs to climb.

That house has not aged well.
Foundation cracked,
three-quarters sinking low.
Panes of glass missing,
cracked or in shards.

Apple tree now diseased,
fallen waste dead at base,
putrefied in stinking mold.
All branches save one,
diseased from within.

Seven fruit, avoiding pestilence,
catch a bracing breeze,
land far away from tree.
Far from decaying rot,
their goodness intact.

Children on a walkabout
give wide room that rotting tree,
but see the golden orbs
and recognize their worth.
They stuff their pockets full.

At home the fruit is buffed and cored,
cut in quarters and enjoyed.
Children, wise beyond their years,
save seeds to grow again.
The youth shall become the sowers
and goodness shall survive.

The Dawn Always Comes . . .

Hearts take the hand. Trump failed.
Dummy hand hapless in play.

Donned in camouflage
revealed as the ill-literate.
Sees no value in a paradigm shift.
Pair a dimes? Chump change.
No interest in cents at all.
Narcissistic I-land, far off shore.

You are no sire,
no knight with Excalibur.
Rather bellicose bellyacher
night or day, wielding tweets
perched upon a thin wire,
manufacturing a storm.

Hailing, thundering, “MY RAIN”
even as it is about to end.
Drowning in the fetid swamp
created by your squalls.
Your reign shall cease
and the sun will shine again.

Linda is hosting OLN at dVerse, where we can post any poem of our choosing: no prompt. I decided to engage in a bit of word play and ended up with a political piece – perhaps a poem of witness again? Photo from pixabay.com

Lion: High Trump in the Jungle

The angry eyes do frighten me.
The mane, his crown, doth cause great fear,
and I recoil, my wish to flee.

The angry ayes do frighten me,
my voice, once loud, drowned out. His glee.
The king now rules, his roar severe.
The angry eyes do frighten me.
the main, his crown, doth cause great fear.

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Poetry form is a TRIOLET, suggested by Frank who hosts Meet the Bar today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. A TRIOLET = 8 lines with iambic pentameter and an abaaabab rhyme scheme. If that’s not enough of a poetic sodoku for you: the 1st, 4th, and 7th lines must be the same; and the 2nd and 8th lines must be the same.

PHOTO taken yesterday at the incredible San Diego Zoo Safari Park. Yes, the lion was that close to me….but there was glass between us!

Remove Thy Blinders

And still they hide
behind partisan masks,
minus apertures.

Occupant in driver’s seat
tantrum spittle spews.
White-knuckled, weaves erratically
beyond civility, decency, decorum.
Down-shifts –
crash-dummy hurtling forth.

Redefines killing fields
beyond ecology to necrology.
In cages, beside borders,
ours and those across the seas.
Still they hide behind partisan blinders,
apertures seamed resolutely shut.

Let slip the masks this hallow’s eve.
Rein in with blistered palms
what thou hast unleashed.
Your children’s children shall ask,
innocent heads tilted up to you,
eyes wide open in disbelief,

How could you?

I beg you,
transpose the occupant’s childlike words below
as theirs to you this night:

“History will look upon you favorably if you get this done the right and humane way. It will look upon you forever as the devil if good things don’t happen. Don’t be a tough guy. Don’t be a fool! I will call you later.”

Aye, your children’s children shall call to you,
standing upon your grave.
How could you not let slip your mask,
apertures torn asunder?
How could you not act then,
call foul that which ruled the land,
thinking of them and theirs to come.

Written for dVerse’s Open Link night where I’m hosting tonight. This virtual pub for poets hosts prompts on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Open Link night means folks can post any poem of their choosing — no prompt, no specific form or length. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Quotation from Donald Trump’s letter to the President of Turkey, dated October 9, 2019: authenticity confirmed by White House.  Photo from Pixabay.com

Aberrant Musings

. . . I could buy the Sea of Tranquility.
Probably more lucrative than Greenland.
Panoramic views.
Exciting ride to get there.
If a cow jumped over it,
how hard could it be?
Me: The Man on the Moon.
King of the Green Cheese!

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Second posting for Quadrille Monday: poem of exactly 44 words sans title, that includes the word “tranquility.”  Illustration from Pixabay.com

Atalanta

Some days
I want to mail our politicians
spiked shoes.
The kind with cleats
like athletes wear.
To be sure-footed in muck
and muddied fields.

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Atalanta was a famous Greek huntress and an exceptional athlete. She was also a favourite of the goddess Artemis because of her survival instinct, impressive skills, courage and noble character. Image from Pixabay.com