He feigns strength, gilds his world golden. His name. His visage. His way. Trumpian mythology built lie by lie, threat by threat. Its depth unimaginable, bottomless pit of greed, racism. So self-consumed is he, blind to his wax wings melting. Truth’s flame is invincible
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to include the word “myth” or a form of the word in a poem of exactly 44 words sans title.
Reference is made to mythology’s Icarus whose wings were made of wax…which led to his demise when he flew too close to the sun.
We have an Uncle Fester, almost eighty, his behaviors are causing concern. Sends out weird pictures of himself. One day he’s a fighter pilot dropping feces bombs, the next day he’s Jesus Christ.
Someone made a whopper mistake, gifted Uncle Fester a label-maker. He slapped his name everywhere. We’re talking street corner signs, the neighborhood center, and the cemetery too.
Shocked my aunt by gilding his den then bull-dozers suddenly appeared, tore down their living room! Shocked beyond words she asked him why. “We need a ballroom” he said. “For what?” she screamed, “You don’t even dance!”
Sits up all hours of the night posting, posting, posting. Posted eleven times in forty-two minutes, then fell asleep at inopportune times. Brings up a contest he lost six years ago. Claims he won though facts say he lost. Brings it up over and over and over again.
Hoists f-bombs at neighbors and friends. Can’t stay on topic when he talks, wanders off with grandiose lies. According to him, he’s the absolute best at everything there ever was. We hear it over and over and over again. So what do you think? Is there cause for concern?
Hmmmmm……do you think Uncle Fester sounds like Donald Trump? My apologies to the “real” Uncle Fester! He’s a character in the fictional Addams Family. Image is of Jackie Coogan playing the role. Image is in public domain.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting Open Link Night AND will host a LIVE session with audio and video on Satuday, May 9th from 10 to 11 AM EST. All are welcome to join. A link is provided on Thursday’s OLN page here.
In his dodder of thyme, the current head DC gardener continues to uproot and rip out Justicia,Honesty, and roses of all kind. As if they were the weeds. In their place he sows and propagates Crown Imperial, Wormswood, Snakesfoot, King-cups and Creeping Cereus.
This prickly pear of a man is in no way a humble plant. More like a mouse-eared-chickweed forever noshing on Fool’s Parsley, basking under the shade of his pruned Judas Trees.
Outside his sphere, weeping willows flail in dire need of gentle balm. They must find a new sage, soon. Both Burpee and the Farmer’s Almanac warn the upcoming planting season will be a crucial one.
NAPOWRIMO Day 19. Today’s prompt: Using Kate Greenaway’s Language of Flowers, write a poem in which you muse on your selections of flowers names and meanings from her extensive list.
*** All of the flowers and plants I’ve used from her book, are italicized in the poem. I’ve kept the capitalization only on those that are actually used in the poem as the plant/flower itself. Reference is paid to the Old Farmer’s Almanac and the Burpee Seed Catalogue.
IMAGE of the Jacqueline Kennedy Rose Garden at the White House, courtesy of the National Park Service website.
directions to self, and you, if you wish. Stop imbibing Trumpian news. Take only one small sip per day. Think revel instead of wallow. Revel in sunshine, a best seller book. Walk outside breathing in fresh air, plan for someone’s birthday surprise. Arrange day trips away from news. If you ruminate, Trump wins. Do your small part pf course. One political post per day. Donate to a cause. But do not allow him to fester in your brain, to loose fistulas of lies that chafe, clouding your eyes to the joys nearby. Take care of your mental health. That is of prime importance in these days of . . . well, I don’t know what they are of. But that’s the point. It’s our task to define them. To decide how we change them. How we live and love in them. And God knows, we must.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe! Today Dora asks us to write a poem using an imperative….a demand of sorts.
Photo from a spring walk last year along the Charles River. A habitual dog walker often takes a rest at this bench….always makes me smile. We need more smiles these days.
One, two, what can we do? Three, four, can’t bear any more. Five, six, need a fix. Seven, eight, it’s not too late. Jump ahead to twenty-five, that amendment’s power drive. Then go back to the standard rhyme, he exits out in rhythmic time. Nine, ten, a thankful amen.
NAPOWRIMO Day 7. Prompt for the day: Write a poem that can be a “song: something to clap, snap or jump around to.” I’ve changed the words here to the childhood rhyme, “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, shut the door. etc”
If you don’t want to read a political statement in explanation of the poem above, stop reading here.
Today, the President of the United States is playing the “proverbial game of chicken” with an unstable and violent regime. “A whole civilization will die tonight” if Iran doesn’t open the Strait of Hormuz by 8 PM EST. Note: the Strait of Hormuz was open until the US and Israel bombed Iran. Listen to President Trump’s recent public appearances: IE standing beside the giant Easter Bunny at the annual Easter Egg Roll, talking about Iran, how great his military is; telling children they can sell the pictures he colors with them because he’s signing them and his autograph is worth a lot of money. But they couldn’t sell anything from President Biden because he had people follow him around with an autopen. Look at his Truth Social posts in the last few days: laced with expletives. The man is more than unhinged. He is seriously mentally ill. He is not competent or fit to be in the office of the Presidency.
It is time to evoke the 25th amendement and remove him from office. At the very least, his family should stage a serious intervention meeting with him; as should members of Congress. Handle it discreetly and quietly if they wish. If he won’t resign, invoke the 25th amendement. We can not allow this man to continue in this powerful position.
Rooftops cold, lifeless. No sharing. No caring. Dead metaphorically.
Values depleted. Hopper’s view of the future, stark warning. Resist.
Jarring emptiness. Where were you when it happened? Democracy failed.
Today Sanaa hosts OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We can either post a poem of our choosing OR post a poem related to the image above.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here. There is a man among us who struts and frets his hour upon the stage, leading others who listen blindly. His words, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing that is truth.
What is past is prologue. Poets shouldst therefore heed the Bard, his timeless words meaningful yet today. There have been many great men that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them. But how is one to label this man as great? Perhaps in the way of Satan’s greatness controlling some, luring others. After all, the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. Oh what men will dare to do! Let no such man be trusted.
What of those who follow, whose integrity be lost? Lawless are they that make their wills their law. There’s small choice in rotten apples.
In these chaotic times, what is our fate, my friends? It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. For each of us can add to the light, hold our candle high in windows across the land. One will become many, and many become a multitude. In light’s refraction, his rabid followers stagger. They shall greet fear in their mirror. Positions no longer secure as multitudes greet them shouting “SHAME”. Truthtellers stand in solidarity, voices raised, we cannot be ignored. THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!
The Bard penned: And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale. Loud enough, persistent enough, we must be the solution. Hands that right the scales of Justice. We must take control of the tale. Destiny be in our hands.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril hosts and asks us to consider fate. She suggests we could, for example, consider Frost’s or Shakespeare’s words on fate. I’ve chosen to refer to the Bard himself, within my poem. All of the bolded lines are quotations from Shakespeare. Let the Bard speak to you in these chaotic times!
All images except the scales of Justice are from recent demonstrations I’ve participated in. The scales of Justice image is from Pixabay.com
. . . on the precipice, fulcrum loaded, solar eclipse of political moves. Millions watch across the globe piece by piece, light diminishes. Cold suffocating hot air engulfs a nation as vitriol spews. Lies repeated hold strong
Sleep marred by days of nightmares. Innocents assaulted, banished. Aid rescinded, innocents die. What power are my words when thousands follow blindly refusing to call the man what he is.
User and abuser of people. Expunger of honest history repeating tenets of horrific history. One-armed salutes multiply behind closed doors. We live now in a darkly evil tunnel.
Humans hammer on its cold metal walls scream warnings sadly unheeded. Spineless creatures grovel in the muck lick the boot, kiss the ring, subservient to an orange tyrant who redefines the words “bully pulpit”.
Poem created and published * the day after Harvard refused to capitulate to Trump’s demands for federal oversight on admissions, curriculum, faculty hires, and general University policies
* on the day Trump retaliated by freezing $2 billion of federal funds from Harvard including critical research grants to Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston Children’s Hospital, Brigham-Women’s Hospital, Dana-Farber Cancer Insstitute and Beth Israel Deaconess Mecial Center (all affiliated with Harvard Medical School).
*one day after Trump defied the Supreme Court’s order announcing in a press conference while meeting with the President of El Salvadore, that he would not ask for the release of Kilmar Abrego Garcia from an El Salvadore prison, even though his administration admitted his abduction and imprisonment there was an “administrative error”.
*and at least one month after Trump cancelled 5800 USAID contracts including some related to polio, HIV, tuberculosis, and malaria clinics in African countries. “People will die,” said Dr. Catherine Kyobutungi, executive director of the African Population and Health Research Center, “but we will never know [how many] because even the programs to count the dead are cut.”
Promises glibly made.- Lies repeated so many times, swallowed by the gullible. Round up the vermin, ship ‘em all out! January 6th insurrectionists? Patriots all. Guard rails gone, Project 2025 ready to go. Convicted felon, self-described pussy grabber. If elected, God help us all.
Quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words sans title) that includes a form of the word “promise” – today’s prompt at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
lillian the home poet 