What’s up everybody, so glad you’re here It’s Koziol with a load of good cheer This may not be an epiphany, but I’m on a mission To see if I can get your attention Now I want to drop some information Just a little addition to your deliberation I live my life by the way of the wit Offering insights until your brain is lit When I’m on the beat, you gonna feel my heat, so Throw your hands up if you’re down with the K-O-Z-I-O-L Show I’m lookin’ for someone open, so please let your friends know One, two, three, it’s like A, B, C Though a nod would be nice, my words are free
Daily my father rose early And put on his clothes in the dark. He’d make his way to the kitchen As I slept sound in my room. Waking to the sound of the brew, I was greeted by the rousing aroma. A series of crinkles would follow As he thumbed through the Sun-Times. Entering, pattering across the floor, I would approach with quiet respect. His smile mirrored the half doughnut, Artfully placed on his plate.
We passed him along Clark Street, The family out for an evening treat. He sat huddled against a wall Bracing against the chill of fall. In a ragged suit, with one lame foot, He was covered in grime and soot. When I paused to look, eyes fixed, My stomach began to twitch. “Hey, what’s wrong with that man? The sign says, ‘I need a hand.’” “Now, don’t you get too near. It’s nothing to worry about, dear.” “But, it’s damp and cold today. We can’t just walk away!” “Okay, Kenny here take a dime. But, quick, we’ve got little time.” As I rushed back, coin in hand, A smile broke out on the man. Not enough, and only a start, This enkindled a very young heart.
Portrayed through actions dark forces conceal, A striking tale unfolds, its truth so real. Probing humanity with candor unbound, It was for young Me a viewing profound. The pic’s canvas portrays a foreign land, Where culture clashes are quick to command, With people estranged, in turbulent seas, It reveals a saga that aims for peace. Amidst bustling streets of a foul regime, A diplomat arrives in this strange scheme, Presence peculiar to native view, Holding our country’s biases as true. Though the title bestowed shouts out deceit, Beneath its veil, hints of empathy beat. In “The Ugly American” we see A puerile desire to change destiny. Conflict he addresses with reckless care, Neglecting effects and burdens they bear. Acting with impatience and disdain, He naively puts all on the same plain. Only the truths he learns at the flick’s end Brutally make him at last awaken: His work there only serves to complicate, Any chance for redemption may be too late. In this intense tale, a mirror we find Questions about our country’s state of mind. I was aware of the cold war contest But saw no side caring for the poorest. If leaders had watched it and understood, This work could have does us all good.
On a dust-filled ground where cowpokes abide, A pageant unfolds for a thrilling ride. As patrons wait for a sight yet unseen Within the stands, their interest grows keen.
With bated breath, attendees gather near, Stirring up excitement, raising a cheer. The arena transcends, emotions run high, Anticipation boils, reaching the sky.
The majestic dance between man and beast, Struggle for dominance, tension increased, It’s a show of will and courage to share, Where the fearless on mighty bulls do dare.
The gate bursts open, the beast is unleashed, Raw power, fury, bulk, muscular feast. Its hooves pound the earth with thunderous sound, As a brave soul holds on, no fear to be found.
In a medley of chaos, strength, and grace, Man and brute lock in dangerous embrace. Surfing a tempest, adrenaline floods, Rider contra bull, the battle bluebloods.
They twist and turn, defy gravity’s pull, Their spirits aflame, their resolve so full. Within eight seconds, the contest complete, Overcoming odds, a feat so very sweet.
Battered and bruised, yet he never faltered, Chasing the thrill, he leaves our hearts altered. In this rhumba of brawn, his skill displayed, He who lasts longest, wins top accolade.
Epilogue
Now unhappily all did not end there, Which is something I believe you should hear. The angry bull sought to apply some heat On the fallen not yet back on his feet.
A rodeo clown jumped to intervene A brave act ending up breaking his spleen. He sadly absorbed all the toro’s force And was sent to the hospital, of course.
Though for a budding fan of eleven, The rodeo tricks seemed close to heaven; That he’d seen a man there nearly fall dead Made him seek saner diversions instead.
In ’64, marvels filled a New York site, A famous world’s fair dazzling day and night At Flushing Meadows, technological might Envisioned our Tomorrow, a thrilling sight. The Unisphere’s imposing globe welcomed all Sign of universality standing tall. Pavilions showcased nations near and far, Tapestry of cultures, a global bazaar. The Pietà in marble, a sacred grace, Offered the busy fair a reverent space. Belgian waffles were servedcrisp and divine, A tasteful bite of Europe despite the line. Next was Futurama, a far-sighted scene, Representation of cities, clean and green. The monorail gave a sleek and modern ride, An ultra-modern design, a source of pride. The Ford Mustang, a sleek and muscular car, Symbolized freedom and prosperity’s star. Men with jet packs took off in vertical flight, Propelled by their exhaust blasting to great height. IBM computers, a wizardly feat, Promised productivity gains ever so neat. The RCA color TV, bright and clear, Served as window to a wide world drawing near. Along with the Picturephone, it then foretold A communication age soon to unfold. But are these great wonders too good to be true, Or true signs of human progress breaking through?
I have to admit that it was a gift that rescued us from Chicago’s day after day, night after night pitiless summer heat and humidity, the endless series of restless sleep, and dozens of sweat-soaked shirts.
My parents were very proud that they could afford that box, noisy and rattling as it was, placed in the dining room window the stream of cool, dry, restful comfort, it even relieved mold and allergies.
But I had just sat in science class on our costs of making energy; so as I left home the next day I saw the box that gave us pleasure when multiplied millions of times would sure lead to a future of hurt.
He rose like an owl from its nest from behind his Physics lab desk. Out for a night’s session stargazing, Jerry and I had just been returning. With 10-inch telescope in tow, I mustered a very astonished hello. “What are you doing, Mr. Connelly, down here in science laboratory?” “Making sure our new IBM 1130 will stay safe under lock and key.” “IBM 1130? What do you mean?” “It’s a type of computing machine. And once it’s set up and running, it’ll be for science class programing.” Back then I thought this some joke, But it turned out to be a masterstroke; For it helped launched me on the path To a stable and fulfilling aftermath.
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, A tale of a reckless trip That started from a SoCal port Aboard a tiny ship.
The mate was a novice sailing mom, The skipper green but sure. Three passengers set sail that day For a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.
The voyage started nice enough, But their boat soon got caught. If not for the wave of a sibling’s bright coat, The Good Luck would be lost, the Good Luck would be lost.
The ship got stuck off the shore of a Santa Barbara beach With The Mrs. The Skipper too, Their daughter, my sister’s friend, Yours truly and Our hero with a windbreaker, Barely in sightful reach.
Now this is the tale of us stuck at sea; We were there for a long, long while. Though we tried to make best of it, None of us could smile.
The first mate and the Skipper, too, Would do their very best To make we others comfortable, In that knotted kelp forest.
No phone, no flares, no motor’s roar, No way to reach safety, Like Gilligan’s venture, As scary as it can be.
So, heed this tale of risk, my friend, To dodge a fateful scare. Before yourself set off to sea, Make sure that you prepare.
In the cosmic dance of forces unseen, Where nature weaves its tapestry serene, Five powers reign with awe and might, Each in its own compelling right:
Gravitation, the gentle embrace, Drawing worlds in the celestial chase, A pull unseen, yet profoundly felt, In orbits, where planets have dwelt.
Electromagnetism in sparks that fly, Invisible waves piercing the sky, Kinetic pinball and magnetic magic, Pulsing currents, charged and quick.
Strong Force, binding quarks so tight, In the heart of atoms, a force of might, Where nuclei are held, against all strife, With a glue that bounds atomic life.
Weak Force, subtle and spare, Transforming particles with magic flair, In radioactive decay and fusion’s glow, A quiet agent that spurs the flow.
And amidst these natural symphonies, Lies a force beyond all boundaries, LOVE, the ethereal, intangible art That binds and heals the human heart.
Like gravity, LOVE is a steady hand, Attracting souls from where they stand, Energizing in its electromagnetic stream, Warming hearts with radiant beam.
Strong as bonds in the nuclear snare, LOVE endures, beyond compare, And unlike that Weak Force, it can mend, Heal wounds of spirit, help transcend.
In the vast expanse of time and space, These forces ever weave and interlace, Yet LOVE is the force that knows no end, A beacon, a guide, and a faithful friend.
Thus, in the grandeur of the cosmic plan, From smallest atom to galactic span, LOVE is the force that truly stands apart, Cure for the loneliness within the heart.
There’s an old Polish wedding tradition The parents perform at the reception. They greet the bride and the groom With rye bread as they enter the room The bread is sprinkled with salt. And with wine they also exalt. With bread, they hope their children Will never hunger or be barren. With salt, they remind the couple That life may at times bring trouble. With wine, they wish for them years Full of good health and many cheers. They then embrace the twosome To affirm their familial welcome.
Some quarter beyond the known cosmic scheme, Where new stars are born and galaxies gleam, One James T. Kirk sails through space, bold and free, On Starship Enterprise, his destiny. Through wormholes and nebulas, he charts course While voyaging through out the universe. Space to him is much more than void and black, It’s a test of courage, where risks never lack— A stage for discovery and wonder, Where Klingons battle and Vulcans ponder. “Engage!” His command resounds at the helm, To seek out new life, in the next strange realm. Joined by Spock, McCoy, Uhura, Sulu And of course Scottie and Chekov as crew, He boldly goes where none have gone before, Seeking civilizations to explore. For space is a mirror reflecting Kirk’s soul, A quest for meaning, where mysteries unfold. But should we give follow this Captain’s lead To future adventures where starships speed? In space’s embrace, will we find our place Or is it just fantasy, a fool’s race?
Yesterday the morning came, a smile upon my face— Girl friend’s doorstep, with Yes tickets, Chris Squire’s driving bass. She just freed from a grounding, begged her father’s grace. But our plans we had to alter, being forced to race.
His limits imposed on us just told us where we were. Wary, leery, restless watchdog, showed us where we were. Lost in temper, rankling, fluster, our minds very far, Lost in losing circumstances, that’s just where we were.
Yesterday the ev’ning came, a frown upon my face— Prog Rock music, sampled glory, too short to gain pace, In a Plymouth car to suburbs, leaving concert place, If then someone asked my feelings, mine was just, If then someone saw my visage, mine was just… Mine was just red face, Mine was just red face, Mine was just red face.
Dad defying, firmly determined to shatter a norm, Sliding on up to straddle, her boldness, her defiance in gear.
Yesterday the late night came, big grin upon this face— The back alley, rousing glory, hot lover’s, hot lover’s embrace, On a rocket ship to heaven, lifting into space! If matched to Tom Jones’s ventures, mine was no… Mine was no disgrace, Mine was no disgrace, Mine was no disgrace.
Dénouement
Upon her return, her dad was fast asleep; Still due to her moods, our bond did not keep. So as a result, I hold slight regret That I could not hear more of Yes’s set.
C’est une histoire from time immemorial Boy meets girl dans La Ville Lumière. “Tes yeux pétillent vraiment.”* La métropole beamed avec un grand sourire.
We drilled our leçons de grammaire, Surveyed bouquinistes au Boule-Miche, Split une baguette au saucisson et beurre … Scooched sur le bancs du Jardin du Luxembourg.
We lost our way dans le labyrinthe du Métro, Strolled les galleries du Louvre, Sipped espresso au Café de la Rotonde … Squeezed hands le long de la Seine.
We dodged crazed drivers dans les rues, Snickered at Le Baiser de Rodin, Shrieked at un plat du steak tartare … Snuggled on the steps of Sacré-Cœur.
We paddled the Bois de Boulougne, Savored Signoret et Montand au cinema, Shared brie avec du Chardonnay … Smooched under Le Pont Marie.
We lit candles in Notre-Dame, et puis Swapped blushes on La Dame de fer … “We’re not going to … , are we?” “Bien sûr que non !”
When I listened to le savant professor, When I sat in the lecture hall as he expounded on Descartes, Pascal, and Marx, When I heard elucidations of metaphysics, reductionism, and form, When the suppositions, tenets, and preuves were meted out, How soon I would drift off, grow tired et ennuyé, Till rising, then gliding softly from my back-aisle bench, I’d exit into the gray, misty Parisian air and souvent Find more wisdom seeping up from une demi-tasse de café.
For chocolate I never need excuse, But this proclivity once cooked my goose. Strolling with a new friend on vacation, We passed a shop replete with temptation. She brought up her passion for chocolat; I followed that I too had a soft spot. She dreamed of sitting in a creamy bain With the lush brown sauce pouring from a pan. Said that her birthday was fast approaching, A hint so clear I needed no coaching. Thus, I bought a fudge cake to celebrate And made sure we would not to be out late. Once back at the hotel after our meal, All encumbrances we soon did unpeel. When our activity raised up the heat, I then got up to retrieve the sweet treat. She motioned with appreciative eyes When my eagerness I could not disguise. After putting a digit in the topping, I grazed her rosy cheek with some frosting. Next there erupted an ear-splitting yell, Way louder than a banchee out of hell. The strum und drang caused such a disturbance; It brought a check by management service. Something that I did not anticipate Had served to seal my fate with that date. So unless you enjoy egg on your face, Make sure to have a consensus in place.
Dien Bien Phu, Khe Sanh Hearts and minds, napalm LBJ, Viet Cong Tonkin Golf, protest song Tet Offensive, Saigon Ho Chi Minh, Nixon won Henry Kissinger, Le Duc Tho America is torn in two
I came to Paris to flee the war gods, and their cynical words and cruelty, each day viewing a decade of destruction in the news from distant rice fields.
Tonkin Gulf, Tet Offensive, My Lai, napalm and carpet bombing, a naked child’s run down a road, there were no good reasons for their lies.
As Nixon crows Hearts and Minds and sprays Cambodia with Agent Orange, some ask why so many have to die while the war crawls on and goes nowhere.
Today began cold, wet, and gloomy as I stand in front of the Hotel Majestic encircled by Hanoi and Vietcong flags and hard-nosed, head-bashing security.
First Madame Binh approaches dressed up in a traditional Ao Dai, then comes South Vietnam’s Lam followed closely by the North’s Trinh.
Last in the solemn procession is Secretary of State Rogers hissed and jeered at by protestors as his car warily nears.
There comes the signal of completion followed by a rousing round of cheers signaling that the fighting is over, a futile conflict with nothing but loss.
But observing such a ruckus, I feel alone at the curbside only now fully realizing the extent of my country’s defeat.
Is it greedy presidential hacks Or those barbaric Pentagon rats? My Uncle Sam proclaims he wants me But what really chases me up this tree? IRS comes knocking for some tax I comply for fear of seeming lax: Vietnam, Chicago still on fire But I stay at home with no desire Newspapers decry crime on the streets As nightly I hide beneath my sheets Midnight specials for Russian roulette It seems there is no other outlet I quietly sit sipping my tea While Tricky Dick spouts shit on TV But when I cry “Civic Robbery” I see that I stole myself from me.
Ut dictum est Quod licet Iovi, non licet bovi Parvus pendetur fur, magnus abire videtur Vulpes pilum mutat, non mores Hinc fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt Damnant quod non intellegunt Sed adversus solem ne loquitor Astra inclinant, sed non obligant Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare De omnibus dubitandum et nunquam obliviscar Qui totum vult totum perdit Nemo est supra legem Sic semper tyrannis Actum est tandem carmen, plaudite Nunc est bibendum Vale
Tyrant
It is said that What is permitted to Jove is not permitted to an ox, and The petty thief is hanged, while the ringleader gets off, while the fox changes his fur, but not his habits. Hence men often believe what they want to, And some people condemn what they do not understand. But do not speak of what is obviously incorrect. The stars incline us, they do not bind us. Times are changing, and we change in them. Anyone can err, but only the fool persists in his flaws. Doubt everything, and never forget. Whoever wants all, loses all. Nobody is above the law. This always is the fate tyrants. The poem is finally done, applaud! Now is the time to drink! Farewell
enter first seems better but patience is wetter completing too quickly makes the moment sticky start with brushing the bush next onto that sweet tush give a moist flick and lick but do not be too slick peck keenly bit by bit until reaching orbit now exchange role as host by switching to the post since it’s largely for you offer guidance on queue and to make yourself writhe praises you should not hide imbibe is thought yucky so say you feel lucky then when again ready you’ll have the longevity for both a lot more fun affirmed second to none should last at least an hour followed with a shower
I met Jawdat just as I entered by way of the Damascus Gate. “Welcome to Jerusalem, the Holy City. Are you looking for a guide?” he asked. A quick glance discomfited me, For he looked no older than I myself. But he expertly continued, “This Gate is The Center of the World. It is an excellent type of Islamic building, and do you know what its sign means? There is no God but God and Muhammed is His Prophet.” What convenient luck for me, I thought, as he offered to guide me for the next few days. “There is the immovable ladder of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Someone put it against that wall, and no one dares disturb the status quo.” “Make sure you cover your elbows when tucking prayers in the Wailing Wall.” “Remember remove shoes in al-Aqsa, so you can see the wonderful decorations.” He offered little personal insights To spice up our series of walks. “Let me treat you to some Turkish coffee along with a delicious slice of kanafa.” “The sabbath, the busiest day of the week, is when Arabs and Israeli teens eye the miniskirts.” And “Someday I will go to your country to study and get an American wife.” Also, “My family is originally from Jaffa but was thrown out the Day of the Nakba.” Once when we dined late after curfew, he vanished after helping me enter my hostel. For four days there was no sign of him, though I enquired from shop to shop. At the market there was a wary silence until my last day his familiar figure re-emerged. Jawdat approached and pulled up his shirt to show me the IDF’s purple marks.
To stroll the walls of the Old City is to walk a line surrounding history. Outside is modern life, bustling streets lined with hotels and tourist shops. Inside is rich tradition, much older and long the vortex of many faiths. Many pilgrims fill the lanes to visit the temples, mosques, and churches. Tiny gardens behind homes of stone are shaded by ancient trees. Their branches reach out and, in some places, cover the city walls like curtains. Narrow lanes open into wider streets with busy shops and open stalls. Men sit sipping coffee, fingering their prayer beads or just talking. Women crouch in the shade of inner courtyards, sorting beans and legumes—and talking. How is it that some call this place, the world’s biggest thorn in the side?
Workhorse in a tiny package, light yet solid, a hands-on tool for lecture, letter, or novel, along with espresso, croissant, and cool jazz, there’s no better way to spend Saturday morn.
Powered by human touch and muscle, I churn out human language, a comforting sonata with my clatter, conducive to the creative process.
Page after page fly through my platen with ease enabling what comes closest to his athletic prowess as well as the charm, and to be honest, the frustration of the unmistakable pangs of writer’s block.
In a zone, his fingers may dance on my keys getting into the flow on a Zen roll, but also making so many mistakes that my x arm will soon need Tommy John surgery.
Sixty-word-per-minute, 1000 words double-spaced, for days, weeks, months, and years, he thinks he’s Hemingway or Ernie Pyle.
Banged up, spilled upon, cursed Misfitted ink-ribbons, broken keys, if we could just switch roles, I know I could write better than he.
Ich muss Deutsch üben, I have to practice my German, Aber gut Ding will Weile haben. But good things take time. Man kann die Natur nicht ändern, One cannot change nature, Also sich nicht um ungelegte Eier kümmern, So you shouldn’t cross a bridge before coming to it, Die Ochsen hinter den Wagen spannen, Don’t put that cart before the horse, Und das Kind mit dem Bade ausschütten. And don’t toss the baby with the bath water. Es heißt, dass wer nicht hören will, muss fühlen. It is said that he who won’t listen will regret it. Er will den Bock melken. You cannot milk a buck. Wärme bringt Leben, Kälte Tod; Warmth brings life, coldness death; Und Zeit ist das teuerste Kleinod. And time is really the most precious gem. Geduld bringt rosen, Patience brings roses, Erst denken, dann lenken. So look before you leap. Obwohl sicher ist sicher. But though it’s better to be safe than sorry, Was Gutes kommt wieder. Good works will reap rewards. Wie es heißt, jedes Warum hat seinen Darum. Every why has a wherefore. Gesundheit ist besser als Reichthum. Good health ranks above wealth. Geld macht nicht glücklich, Money can’t buy happiness, Denn keinen Objekt ist unersetzlich. For no thing is indispensable. Wähle von zwei Übeln das Kleinste. Choose the lesser of two evils. Der gerade Weg ist immer der beste. The straight path is always the best. Das Bessere ist der Feind des guten, Better is the enemy of the good, Ehrlich währt am längsten. Being honest gets the most mileage. Sorge macht vor Zeiten grau, Fretting makes one gray before one’s time, Aber zu nacht sind alle Katzen grau. But, at night, all cats are gray. Wiederholung ist die Mutter der Weisheit, Repetition is the mother of knowledge, Trotzdem alles zu seiner Zeit. Still everything comes in its time. Taten sagen mehr als Wörter, Actions are worth more than words, Somit ein paar Sätze macht noch keinen Redner. So a few phrases will not make you an orator.
Tu es dans ta première soirée en France et que tu rencontres une personne avec qui tu discutes beaucoup, avec qui tu ries, avec qui tu t’amuses vraiment !
À un moment donné, tu peux avoir envie de lui dire qu’elle est géniale et super sympa. Du coup, tu lui dis :
“Je t’aime !”
“Oh ! euh… merci…”
Tu es surpris de sa réaction et là tu te rends compte que tu as peut-être fait une petite erreur !
Flat upon the platter, two pieces of toast Sit dried, cold, and Neglected As shelled peanuts fan out from a half-empty bag Framing the President on Time While the radio drowns the room in static Ants take ordered turns for this morning’s Scrambled eggs No shoes, no socks, gritty feet An old watch, slow by ten minutes Quarter to three A muted haze drawn from the embers Two used packs of Cigarettes Dozing off, pen drooping from hand Cuffs soaking up a lake of Nescafé Scattered Post-Its, notes unhelping Words fade like Wilted flowers Outside the cold wind rattles the screen door Inside a flood of tears douses the Muse And destroys Civilizations!
Les Français, dit-on, sont si raffinés, Mais leurs pensées sont embrumées, leur esprit est orageux. A chaque remarque, ils froncent les sourcils Comme si le ciel leur tombait dessus. Ils sirotent leur vin, mais maudissent le verre, Car la joie est fugace, trop rapide pour être serrée. Dans de petits cafés, la tête basse, Ils soupirent comme s’ils savaient toujours— L’avenir est sombre, c’est la fin du monde, Rien ne va, tout va exploser. Et si Liberté semble divine, Mais même la liberté a son heure. Leurs poètes écrivent sur l’art cruel de l’amour, Des rêves qui s’estompent et des cœurs qui se séparent. Les rues de Paris s’assombrissent, Alors que les ombres s’accumulent, annonçant le malheur. Oh, être les Français qui se lèvent Pour accueillir le monde avec des yeux méfiants, Pour parler en soupirs, d’un ton triste, Et appeler chez eux une maison d’ossements. Pourtant dans leur morosité, il y a une grâce, Une sorte de beauté que rien ne peut remplacer. Car à travers leurs doutes, leur tension sans fin, Ils nous enseignent de nouvelles façons de nous plaindre.
Les Français, they say, have minds refined, But their thoughts have clouds, a stormy sign. With each remarque, they make a frown As if the sky is falling down.
They sip their vin, yet curse the glass, For joy’s fleeting, too swift to clasp. In cafés small, with heads held low, They sigh as if they always know—
Future’s dim, c’est la fin du monde, Nothing is right, it’ll all explode. And while Liberté sounds divine, But even freedom has its time.
Their poètes write of love’s cruel art, Of dreams that fade and hearts that part. Les rues de Paris grown with gloom, As shadows gather spelling doom.
Oh, to be les Français who arise To welcome the world with leery eyes, To speak in sighs, in rueful tones, And call chez eux a house of bones.
Yet in their glumness, there’s a grâce, A kind of beauté none can replace— For through their doubts, their endless strain, They teach us new ways to complain.
en la serena noche de luna cuando las rosas concentran su aroma cruza en silencio una figura desnuda a oscuras me recuerda los hermosos días cuando frotan dos almas en un combate amoroso y todo acaba y es eterno esperando la aurora para volver a comenzar no sé cómo buscarte dentro de mí en medio de la noche me despierta tu sueño distante y ya no tan próxima mi pasado se convierta en el su futuro te alza en brazos, se acerca tu abrazo en otro abrazo ¿qué pasó? ¿qué hora es?
In drizzling rain, ten patient people form a queue One bus passes, then another: “Sorry, no room here” With torrents downfall, six umbrellas blossom The bus to city’s center arrives Twenty people now converge on one point Ordered rank turns into San Juan Hill Collecting bones and baggage twelve of us board Bell rings, “I’m descending.” “Excuse me.” There goes today’s shoeshine A playful driver, a screeching halt A hundred people swing like hogs at slaughter In a seat below, two children sit They smile, day brightens, skyline opens.
No, the ensuing hookup was not my first; but to handle it, I was not well rehearsed. I had arrived from the northern chills to attend university in the blazing Sonoran hills. And after weathering a swirling sandstorm, I finally settled into my new school’s dorm. Next, I determined to explore my new town, to relax and cool myself off after sundown. Venturing out, I heard a bystander hawk, “Hey, I just love the way you walk!” The compliment got me to turn around to learn where came that flattering sound. Had someone noticed my personal stride, which unwittingly attested my Chi-town pride? The alluring voice had directed my attention to a nubile youth of dark, creamy complexion, She was a bubbly, mysterious ebony sprite who sported a shear summer dress ever so tight. We quickly struck up a rather raucous caucus that carried on ardently to the mall of campus. Obviously, my whole attention she stole, our conversation ranging from silly to droll. She snickered and queried if I had ever been with anyone who wore her same type of skin. Dumbstruck, I responded that I truly had not; something I expressed wish to learn more about. “Well, would you like to touch my curly hair?” My answer to her was, “How do I dare?” “Go right ahead. It’s no big deal; I don’t mind if you want to give it a feel.” Thereupon, I reached out timidly to touch; she then offered her hand for me to clutch. My head and parts perceived a quick rush; Our close interaction had made me blush. We tittered about things we had in common, and about what in free time we did for fun. But when we raised that specific topic, her talk became more and more myopic. She coyly quizzed if I liked to get buzzed, just as everyone she proffered at the college does. Alas, before me sat an artful temptress, who by now had put my feelings under stress. When pressed, she revealed she was underage, and that for her social drinking was the rage. She waited evenings for a wide-eyed score who could buy her hooch at the liquor store. So, instead of an intriguing new friend, I sadly had encountered a dipso Siren. Ergo, I declined politely getting some beers, and begged leave as she shed crocodile tears.
When some people talk about safety They bring up personal accountability Or speak when only theirs is in doubt. This makes me remember The time I lived on Maxwell Hungry as I quested for work. A scrounger with discernment I feasted on the curb with my buddies On cold chicken wings and some stale Ripple.
Oh, Darling boy, your love, your love is bursting. From root it springs from out your presence strong. The heat is on, and all the juices flowing; It’s your, it’s your sure fire that she does long.
So, come ye More when passion’s in its highest, Or when her roommate’s zoned or does not show; It’s she’ll be there in daylight or in darkness. Oh, Darling boy, oh Darling boy, she wants you so!
Phone that disc jockey on the radio waves not to play any more of those sappy tunes. Instead, let us drink under the bright moon and ignore them, savoring this moment as we lean against the railing and croon of times past and opportunities lost bellowing into the night soulful sagas embellished by the power of the brew.
What forged you? What special event? Have you been shaped in adversity? The failures, losses? Setbacks, defeats? Is suffering a tool in this earthly school? Has the rug been pulled from under you? Done something Wrong in a past life? Is it all part of the web of things? Wonder why you are here? Or do you have the joy of surviving and relish the question: If you had the chance, would you do it all over again?
A curve so smooth, a gentle rise and fall, Where softened lines in symmetry align— A sculpted form, like nature’s finest call, A secret formed of flesh and blood divine. Beneath the skin, the pulse of life does beat With warmth and firmness, and radiant flair, A symbol pure, where heart and passion meet, A vessel shaped by will, both bold and rare. In light’s glow, it catches ardor’s embrace, An orb that speaks beauty, calm, and allure And in its form, unmatched in any space, Can turn the dark to day, and hurt to cure. Oh, breast of woman, filled with strength and grace, A masterwork, core of love’s special place.
Furtive eyes kindle interest; Sweet murmurs sanction quest. Enticing orbs firm as apples Peek and perk, ripe for sample. Digits dance about light as pixies; Canvassing circles, graceful teases, Determined forays, tactful retreats Crisscross a sweet delectable treat. Playful venture down buttery vines, Bare touch spurs them to untwine. Rising up from lush forested home, Ardent sparks broadcast welcome. Venus awakened unlocks her code, Only to him permission bestowed. Thirstful desire endorsed in course, Invitee sips at the ebullient source. Ambrosia freely beginning to flow, Buoyant delight proceeds to grow. Enthralled in blissful blindness, Sport swells to brazen boldness. Willful plunge, exclusive ingress, Lovers reach their rapturous finish.
Outside the gate I regretfully stand Late at the Andersonville marble field As the setting sun breaks through the gentle Georgia rain Petal by petal fall the mournful tears of mothers and children The wails and cries, the blood and guts The Sacred bones of young men lying a century long Are scattered as peach blossoms on a field of stones Reminders of what should never have been Iron now blocks me from my brothers I can only turn and go my way
Road turns to path Passing empty paddies and sleepy huts Turn, twist, I pierce bamboo thickets The valley heat diminishes I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
Wind sweeps through green glade A pagoda clings to mountainside A happy scent of apple blossom In the distance a soft figure stands I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
At night, I climb the lone path to the promontory The forest ends, the sky opens I glance out, my spirit soars Sea waves wash the feet of wind-combed cliffs
With moonlight for guide Wisps of predawn mist shuttle across the horizon The goddess of night seductively beckons Her company cordially declined
She ascends to her heavenly lair The black veil lifted The passage for Apollo’s golden chariot is again assured Vigilant I stand awaiting news from the far-off east.
The hills and valleys seem to wait for The moon to approach on still waters. A lone goose flies in the darkening sky While a dog barks down the lane. As for me, with no greater plan, I fear that I’m just marking time. A foreign guest in a foreign land, I return home in my dreams.
As bright clouds loom far away, Startled birds rise from the sand. On fragrant grass along the levee Butterflies ceaselessly dance, While fish frolic mid the lotus pads Through light reflected in the ripples. A hermit’s life is a floating reverie. There’s nothing more to say.
The scent of the forest is the scent of rosewood; The scent of the earth, the scent of vanilla; But we say that speech is the scent of the meeting. The thin cow is the duty of the shepherd; The chicken that does not crow, the duty of the farmer; The speech, if disrespectful, is the duty of the speaker.
If you do not consider me to be a speaker, Forgive me, I am just a daughter of my parents, Standing here, not because of my pride or luxury, But because there is no one elder left to speak. This is a speech that has lost its name, And is, in fact, not a speech at all.
Born was I here in these sacred, rolling hills. Happily, I played along the nearby rice fields Enjoying the customs of our village life. But the rains were short and cicadas many. Vary ran out, and vandals stole our zebu. We barely had any work or much to eat.
My parents gathered us nine together; and Though they regretted leaving the ancestors, They decided to bring us from the countryside To live in the town of a thousand towns. I, who had no shoes to put on my feet, Only brought two dresses and lamba.
We lived in Tana for thirty-some years Making our living on the parent’s shoulders. But we are now back here at the family tomb To show respect to them and the ancestors. This famadihana is of course very special. My parents bones have lain here nigh 25 years.
Dear folks, as you listen to my meager words, I will now with humility enter the family tomb. I ask the kind indulgence of our forebears To remove and clean my parents’ hallowed bones And then re-wrap them in newly woven lamba, So I may return them to their deserved rest.
Lastly, I ask again your forgiveness For using your time to hear this poor speaker. Join me today to honor my parents As they become our newest ancestors. May the Sweet Lord grant you the happiness That my dear parents bestowed upon me.
– Kabary, a traditional, stylized speech given on special occasions in Madagascar, usually by a male elder.
My day first seemed dreary, now I feel reborn Watching my daughter about to perform. Her feat’s a treat sweeter than candy corn; You’d thrill with her ease in the breeze.
Well, most children are cute and thought darling, And their parents I presume are pleased. But no one could not enthrall one quarter as well As young Tiana* upon the schoolyard trapeze.
She flies through the air with the greatest of ease, My daring young Tiana* on the schoolyard trapeze. Her actions are graceful, all eyes she does please; And her joy just sweeps you away.
See how spring returns. Its first messenger appears— the meadow’s crocuses. This morning amid light snow, precocious buds burst through.
How delicate the purple petals. Borne by the benign breeze, Their sweet scent subtly arrives, Drawing attention from passersby who stop and linger there.
Some days I recall you, my pupils, Whose habits gave the Principal chills. Enlisted was I to rouse you and teach, A goal considered difficult to reach.
You’d display confusion, faces of dispassion, With the spelling words you could not fashion. You’d shout, explode, cry, and frown, And shun my words with eyes turned down. And, you’d approach our lessons in grammar As if trying to repair china with a hammer.
So how does one open a 4th grader’s mind, While including all the matter assigned — To coax and motivate with probes and pokes, To make a difference in these small folks?
Allow meek Dedek to create a math lesson To instruct our class at his own discretion. Urge shy Alicia and Sue to challenge at HORSE The boys on the court of the school concourse. And let rowdy Dan and Sacha write the content Of the year-end school play for classmates to present.
So, you, my class, taught me something sweet: That real learning is not a one-way street. Worlds of wonder and progress can be shared When capabilities and incentives are paired.
Through regions where savannas extend And mountains rise and rivers wend, A spirit stirred, a people yearned, For freedom’s flame to brightly burn. Amidst the rugged veldt’s embrace, Echoes of resistance grew apace; Voices raised in unity’s call, As dreams of liberation stood tall.
From Sharpeville to Soweto’s streets, Where courage toppled colonial seats, The drumbeat of a defiant throng Challenged injustice with righteous song. In the shadow of apartheid’s reign, Lessons of struggle were not in vain; For in the hearts of women and men, Seeds of sovereignty were born again.
With Madiba’s unwavering guidance And countless souls’ steadfast stance, A nation’s soul, once bound, arose, To claim its place, to allay its woes. Through trials fierce, through pain untold, South Africa’s new chapter does unfold, A kaleidoscopic quilt of hope and pride, Where franchise and prospects now reside.
Independence, hard-won and dear, Sounds today, a clarion loud and clear, For every child, for every soul, On South Africa’s evolving scroll. So let us cherish, let us heed, That nation’s history lesson as our lead, And strive for justice, strive for peace, To ensure that all find deserved release.
Andry has worked for 10 years as a bus driver. He was 22 when he started this endeavor. Every morning he wakes up at 5:00. How long has Andry been alive?
Andry has a one-hour lunch break at noon. He works until 4:00 p.m. in Saskatoon. He starts work 2 hours after he awakes each day, How many hours will he work today?
This morning, Andry had 7 adult male passengers, 13 adult female passengers and the rest were teenagers. There were altogether 30 passengers, And 6 of them were female teenagers. What fraction of the passengers were teenagers? Are there more female teenagers or male teenagers?
2. 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. is 9 hours. But 9 hours less 1-hour lunch break is 8 hours. So, Andry’s workday is 8 hours.
3. 30 – 7 – 13 = 10. 10/30 or 1/3 of the passengers were teenagers. 6 out of 10 teens were female; there were only 4 male teenagers. So, there were more female teenagers than male teenagers on the bus.
From the grandstand they shout, As they see Tiana burst out— A hardcourt, manic pinball Bouncing between the gym walls. Weaving through traffic While dodging the contact, Dribbling and whirling, Then passing and dashing, That ricocheting dervish Sets for the final sweet swish.
“Faux News” runs wild, a fevered rush, Reports dressed up in garish hues, Where truth is buried beneath the gush, And headlines shout, but hardly muse. “Scandal!” they cry, “Chaos unfurled!” A splash of blood, a twist of fate— The world reduced to noise and swill, A circus show, a fearsome bait.
The facts are twisted, frayed, and thin, Wrapped in the weight of a crafted lie. The truth, once pure, is drowned within A storm of rumor, a painted sky. The rich, the poor, the saint, the thief, All cut and worked to fit the frame— A realm of rage, of thrill, of grief, But never one that rights the game.
Media drips with yellowed tones, In reckless spatters, sharp and bright— There’s no concern for the groans, As long as it sparks a fight. Who cares if justice bends or breaks, If the story makes patrons bite? A nation sold on the latest take On that juicy piece from last night.
His is a song everyone may want to hear, a song irresistible that lures the deplorables to leap onboard in droves. Though the toll is ever-mounting, it’s a song nobody challenges because anyone who has heard it has died or refuses to remember. Shall I tell you his secret, and if I do, would you pay me my fee so I can gain notoriety and win a Pulitzer Prize?
Why do we keep on keeping on In the face of such disaster when health policy is no good for no reason when everything supposed to be right is wrong when the CDC says something and the FDA says something and somebody remarking on public confidence says something and the public won’t wear the masks?
What keeps frontline workers working into the night and keeps them going in the morning living on coffee and waiting for things to end cleaning counters and wiping vegetables as if some answer lay in a disinfectant and despite those among us who irrationally and without a doubt are leaving their trust in Tucker Carlson and hydroxychloroquine?
Why don’t we say just screw it And stop trying again and again to march into the President’s pressroom with half an idea about the Wuhan virus hoping he’ll have the other half and hoping what he says will happen when his stable genius gets lit by something never tried and he states will work this time?
Could it be it, that we do all this over and over just for those times when a revelation may rise among us like something ever re-birthing a new life, another hope something not immediately visible but leading us to a real solution and the salvation of the human race?
On the throne of guile, where falsehoods reign, You’ll find someone with an expert’s brain. For every word that leaves his lips, A story’s spun with dramatic flips. Through lurid tones and grandiose tales, He weaves a web where truth often pales. With practiced charm and cunning guise, He mesmerizes with artful lies. For ev’ry accolade he receives, It’s not for honesty he achieves; But for the skill with which he deceives, He’s judged the winner, with no reprieves. He stands upon a stage of guile, His crowds rapt in nefarious style. He’s a master of illusion’s game, With his name etched in the Hall of Shame. So let us sound the alarm today For the one who leads in grand display. For in spheres where mendacity’s prime, He’s the Greatest Liar Of All Time.
Under the specter of a world now still, A grandfather’s voice and granddaughter’s will Yearn to bridge a chasm, very steep and vast— Amid the pandemic, a love steadfast. Through windows, their smiles meet within sight, Distantly tethered with all their might. His stories, a balm, pass through the screen; Her laughter, so dear, brightens the scene. Where hands would clasp, now gestures make do, Hugs postponed, held in memory’s glue. His gentle touch is a whisper of the past, Hers, an evanescence, though the feelings last. In the moment, they share their hearts’ refrain Of hopes and dreams, despite the clear strain. “Soon,” he promises, “we’ll cross this divide And meet face-to-face, sit here side-by-side.”
Memories crumble on the worn-down stones. I do not see my abode from former days. I only spy a crooked post. I turn to the side, for the straight path is lost. The yard is fully overgrown And will never be walked again. I’ve been away such a long time That I do not know which way is which. How sad and ugly the empty house is, No smoke rising from the chimney. I think of this house I’ve lived in all those years. My breath catches, and I cannot speak.
Blue herons hail their mates On islands in the stream. Tender waterlilies, You pluck from left and right. Calling for all to hear He combs every path. Day for night not reaching, On couch he rolls and turns. So when will ever peace arrive, Modest Maid, for our Prince?
I’ve been paining, I’ve been straining To allay the sting of the day. I’ve been yearning, I’ve been learning Praying to somehow find a way. For there’s been too many a morning When it seemed my dreams were calling, Wondering whether this could be the one. But my soul sings out a warning To my heart when it starts falling For all the beginnings left undone.
Crunch of mulberry leaves Lei Zu sips hot tea Cocoon falls Garden covered in silk
She spins the reel Fine filaments threaded in loom Shimmering prism of colors Yellow Emperor surpassed!
*Inspired by a famous dress designer of Oakland, California. This poem briefly recounts the story of Lei Zu, a legendary Chinese empress and wife of the Yellow Emperor. While the Yellow Emperor was the purported founder of the central state in China, Lei Zu became a folk goddess for her alleged discovery that silkworms make silk and her attributed inventions of the silk reel and loom. She is affectionately called, 蠶奶奶 (Tsán năinai – Silkworm Grandma).
You never falter, but stand your ground, Though storm clouds may hover above us. An infinite force I dare not impede, Such undying beauty conquers the sun. Your love is a cascade of joy in the dark, Stirring a restless desire that engulfs me.
The castle is where a princess dwells, From there she casts her wondrous spells. From loft high to reception below, She was ever seeking her true beau.
Its powerful walls kept suitors at bay. They made her safe from day to day. Her bounds fixed, she toiled with zeal On formal gowns that she makes ideal.
But one fine morn she left her castle keep, To visit an inn after she arose from sleep. There she came upon a knight errant, Whose soul soon proved very transparent.
Then each of them in that destined place Came to reveal their soul’s inner space. With words of mirth and solitude both, The two proclaimed a solemn oath.
We shall live as all lovers should Side by side forever it is understood. The castle now echoes the sound of joy, A love eternal they will ever enjoy.
Two souls converged with certitude, Thinking each could take a booth. But the host would not give latitude, Nor accept any contrary attitude; Since one person per booth is uncouth.
One sat first in turn, as is fair, While the other came within his gaze; For then he witnessed a scene so rare, An exquisite beauty standing there Who set his interest all ablaze.
When she landed one table away, His ears were treated to a sweet sound. Oh, what a song to fill the day! Not knowing how she came that way, His curiosity became unbound.
I’m from an isle of dance and blue sky, A land of coconuts and balmy sea breezes. It is found on a route less traveled by; And if you go, you will testify: Like me, it’s a paradise that never ceases.
Destiny smiled when a booth was denied, A fact that cannot be unmade. Their attention grew deep and magnified, Something they could not long hide. This is how the path to love was laid!
Your seventy-year-old form, like an old tree, In ancient mud mired for many years, Now is left with a worn-out hip, An ever-lasting, painful remembrance. Sitting upon a red wooden stool, You mix meds dose by dose with water, And watch the days flow one into another, Making all grow stale and hallow. You are used to hearing the lament of the lonely, Which has calloused your mind and heart. Today, the well is still the same as before; But now the pump brings out another tune. Old man! When I look at you, It is like seeing a green sprout from a bare tree in spring. That old sparkle has come alive. Spurred by your Muse, you dance to a new song.
Your seventy-year-old form, like an old tree, In ancient mud mired for sixty years, Now is left with a worn-out hip, An ever-lasting, painful remembrance. Sitting upon a red wooden stool, You mix meds dose by dose with water, And watch the days flow one into another, Making all grow stale and hallow. You are used to hearing the lament of the lonely, Which has calloused your mind and heart. Today, the well is still the same as before; But now the Water Nymph sings out another kind of tune. Old man! When I look at you, It is like seeing a green sprout from a bare tree in spring. That old part has come alive. Supported by a new leg, you stride toward Resurrection.
He once dodged a fright By staying out of sight But now he must face A new sort of case: Richards, Couric, Burton, Bialik Rodgers, Jennings, The search for ratings. The correct question for Host who could offer the most, Next leader of the game, A person of local fame, To whom you ask things sublime, And he’ll respond every time, Someone you have to admit Kinda resembles a bit, In a quizzical way, Trebek, some may say: Who is none other than, Richard, our Answer-Man?!!!
Will we forget this judgment day, Which was a sin, as seen before? Will we forgive this cause of dismay, And its supporters whom we deplore? What’s been done, some will again say, Will sadly be followed by more.
One day cleaning out my garage I dug out some old clubs that sparked memories of my folks. Dad worked for Allied Golf and crafted that ladies set with hickory wood shafts and hardwood and iron cast heads, arranging them in a skillfully sown, canvas and leather stovepipe bag. Since Mom rarely played, and though clouds loomed, he’d say, “It never rains on a golf course,” as he snuck out to smoke and play cards with the boys. The two lived out a long life together, not always tenderly but steadily. Yes, there were tiffs and stormy nights, and we kids feared a bigger rift. But all in all, they weathered it all, even when mom went silent with age and for ten years Dad still pined. Deeper and longer than that of the cranes, their love was stronger than titanium steel.
Two great philosophers crossed paths in a menacing Philippine jungle, both serving in the Leyte campaign, each not perceiving of the other. Before an attack on a strategic ridge, a company chaplain assured one that God guides our bullets at the Japs, while steering theirs from us. The other saw troopers jump from above, and armed with only a 90mm AA gun, he cried for them while he aimed, their body parts raining from heaven. One dropped his religion and devised “A Theory of Justice.” The other never had it, but taught me to respect and be fair to all.
You said you were self-reliant, Like a bird ever meant to be free. You vowed to be always defiant And never bow to uncertainty.
Each day you went with the feeling Working 24/7 you could avoid strife. But the greatest risk is to risk nothing, And end up with a less fulfilled life.
I too stayed a course that could not stay And held a conviction too set in stone. I dreamed a dream that faded away, And the life I lived left me alone.
I kept trying to convince you Of my sincerity about what might be. If you could leap, I would be true. Only through risk can one be really free.
Happy we didn’t follow our fears And keep things only our own way, We can now enjoy the coming years Because we joined one auspicious day.
When night goes knock, knock at our house door, It’s time to take my toys from the floor. Although sometimes I make a deep frown, I soon agree to wind myself down. Next I get ready to eat my food To make sure I am in a good mood. Up the stairs, there are my teeth to brush; Then comes a warm bath with little rush. This is followed by comfy bedclothes That in winter may cover my toes. Really close to Neny/Ninga I huddle, So I get a very good cuddle. As she reads with me now under sheet, Her voice becomes soft and very sweet. She whispers and bellows as the wind, And buzz, buzz, buzzes like bees that spin. One time growling, she’s a big, big bear, She then purrs like Fennel with no care. Dragons yodel and a castle floats, With dancing grandpas and smarty goats. Soon my eyes begin to grow bleary, And my head gets heavy and weary. Drifting off gently in Neny’s/Ninga’s arms, I dream of rainbows and pretty charms.
When night goes knock, knock at our house door, It’s time to take my toys from the floor. Although sometimes I make a deep frown, I soon agree to wind myself down. Next I get ready to eat my food To make sure I am in a good mood. Up the stairs, there are my teeth to brush; Then comes a warm bath with little rush. This is followed by comfy bedclothes That in winter may cover my toes. Up really close to Mom I huddle, So I get a very good cuddle. As she reads with me now under sheet, Her voice becomes soft and very sweet. She whispers and bellows as the wind, And buzz, buzz, buzzes like bees that spin. One time growling, she’s a big, big bear, She then purrs like a cat with no care. Dragons yodel and a castle floats, With dancing grandpas and smarty goats. Soon my eyes begin to grow bleary, And my head gets heavy and weary. Drifting off gently in my Mom’s arms, I dream of rainbows and pretty charms.
One thing no one’s wealth can buy The gift of time no gold can weigh. You are always spending it away With the risk of being forever alone.
Continual work gives time its wings, While busy one heeds not its flight. Will you be too busy for me And allow this moment to zoom by?
But for those who love, time is eternity. If I have a task to do, now’s the time! If I could bottle the time I have, I would give you all to wedge me in.
Will you then look on me with kind eyes, And say he doubtless did his best to bring The change that could come to you and me So that we may grow old together instead?
Left-wing wokeness Pot psychosis Drag queen advocates Snowflake Democrats Old values crumbling Video gaming Lecturing on CRT Price of free society Depraved rap music Colin Kaepernick Few armed teachers No school prayers Illegal immigrants Urban gang violence People, not guns Not enough guns Antifa drama Must be Obama Declining church going Lib Media crowing Of course, law breakage Surely gay marriage President Biden Black people breathing Watching pornography Sheer immorality Insecure locks and doors Mental health factors Lack of bullet-proof vests Marxists and Socialists Police defunders Unarmed ministers Women’s rights Too few whites
If you find yourself in the shower naked in the frothy mist, peering vaguely through the worn plastic curtain, you are not king of the moment, especially with a stolen towel. Raise neither your voice nor curl your toes in the suds, instead scrub remarks from your lips and beg her for forgiveness or she’ll leave you to your demise.
I’m just doing my rounds in my taxi To support my dear wife and four kids, When rockets crash and a Renault is hit, The occupants trapped and left to burn. I ask myself, “Is this really happening?” As dirt and debris start pouring down. Am I next?
At the crossroads, we check papers, A unit of nine, three rifles and a grenade. Rumors fly of the enemy encroaching, We ditch our arms and hide nearby. If found, we need some sort of story; We’re just day workers homeward bound. Am I next?
Shortly we are surrounded, unable to flee. Fearing to speak, we text our loved ones; An hour later the enemy breaks in. Fierce beatings and shouted questions, Mobile phones and shoes all taken away, Captured, down the street we are paraded. Am I next?
Each has one hand on the belt of next; Sweating, we’re lined up against a wall. The guards pause, grin, and play, Taunting and stoking our dismay. Soon they grow bored and cranky, Yelling, “What’ll we do with them now?” Am I next?
I bid final goodbyes to my neighbors, The last to my daughter’s godfather. He runs for it but stumbles and falls, Inciting the enemy to spray out their fire. A sharp, sudden sensation bursts through That I feel pierce and sear my insides. Am I next?
They check the bodies to make sure And shoot once more if any sign of life. One exclaims, “That one’s still alive!” Bleeding from the gash on my right, I think they are talking about me; I brace myself for the final blow. Am I next?
My wound is agonizingly painful, But crying out would mean my end. For now, I must lie among the fallen. And be as still as a stiff block of ice. “Oh, he’ll die by himself!” He utters As his shot strikes somebody else. Am I next?
Silence, I sense they have departed; The alleyway is now empty of life. I risk a glance from under my jacket; Then though with flash and thundering noise, Shells explode and tremble the ground, Cold, drained I barely can keep aware. Am I next?
My wound has healed; summer arrived. I have found refuge for my family, Begun a new job; and we now live secure. But especially at night, when a door slams, It rouses memories of lost comrades, The remorse of the one who survived. How was I not next?
Tell us, you stones! O speak, you towering spires! Avenues, say a word! Spirits of the land, why so silent? All things should be alive in die Stadt der 7 Türme, Old Quebec, and spicy Barcelona, but remain still. Who could tell it better, offer us the local color? How may we hear words that beguile us more? A modern-day Quixote, tilting at Kansan water towers, Raconteur of Coolidge, Ticonderoga, Montcalm, And of the river Dakotans called Makato Osa Watapa, He’s the wanderer, blogging insights along the way. Observing plain and palace, ruin and prominence, Like a serious man making sensible use of a journey, With his magic, he turns all into spellbinding account, Regaling us of distant ways as he talks his walks. Though a whole globe is out there, without Dave, The world isn’t the world, and Paris can’t be Paris!
Everything Les touches is never quite the same again, Either wrapped up in duct tape, glued or sporting a tiny bend. He’s great at engineering to go the extra mile And increasing performance, at least for a little while. He dismantles alarms to replace an offending piece, Repairs faulty circuits to make another problem cease. Stitching a few electronic components together, He’ll build a Geiger counter or dimmer switch with pleasure. Eager to take on new tasks and ready to help out, He advises on whether to grout or not to grout. He can fix what needs fixin’, mend what’s broke; And he’ll smile and nod at every joke. His beneficent demeanor ushers in our day, He’s one staunchly humble and optimistic mainstay. Could this can-do air be what sparked Liz’s attention When he “picked her up” in the library collection?
Near every morn we convene To sort out the day’s headline screed. Back and forth we parry and joust, Debate hotter than coffee roast. Everyone looks for some missing gem To unscramble the nation’s maelstrom. But into the fray comes a gentle gent, Whose arrival is clearly heaven’s gift. Winding calmly amidst the noise, He’s a stalwart with stoic poise. He speaks a truth quiet and clear, With insights insured to endear. His presence offers inner light, The path before him ever bright. But who is he to whom we refer? A true meaning-of-life observer. With words recalled from a Dylan ode, Let’s share a cup of Zach ‘fore we go.
My school pals in Tehran prodded me: You should go to the Land of the Free. It’s heaven on earth, wouldn’t that be nice. Disneyland and tall buildings, such a paradise. You can do whatever, whenever you please, A great place for golden opportunities. Hollywood glamor, that’s what it’s about; So many pretty girls, you’ll never run out. At 19 then, I flew across the wide blue sea To visit a cousin in Washington DC. But it happened, they closed the whole town. Martin Luther King had just been gunned down. Tensions grew high, you couldn’t move about; My reasons for coming I started to doubt. After a while though, I was able to manage A trip to Michigan to learn a new language. There I encountered a scene quite startling: Streaking naked apes with things dangling, Masses of guys encircling women’s dorms Holding cans of alcohol, breaking the norms. With the girls waving bras and egging them on, I thought I was staying in some loony town. And then came an encounter more personal: Having to stare at some defecating individual. The student union’s toilets with no door Made me seek privacy on Chem’s 6th floor. At last, I missed fall enrollment I was told, So dismayed I decided to return to the fold. Tired, frozen, and dejected in snow I stood, At a bus stop keeping as warm as I could. I did not notice the shuttle stop sign; And when I looked up, I was out of line. Hustling a cab, I made it at the airport To find that for my flight I was $200 short. My money could only return me to my cousin; And so reluctantly I resigned to settle in. My cousin told me in six months or less You’ll get yourself used to this crazy circus. But first you should pick a name that fits in, Hence with some doubt did my name Tom begin. He found me work waiting tables, while not stylish; There I made good friends who helped with English. Even though at the time it did not seem, My cousin was right about the American dream. In half year, with job, friends, and a 65 Mustang, My amazing adventure began with a very big bang.
Hovering high aloft in the infinite sky, Alone in the splendor, steadfastly vigilant, I have perched out here with eye wide open, Filtering the dim flashes of the firmament, Divulging how the Heavens are stitched. Peering attentively into the vast emptiness, I have captured myriads of fusion furnaces, The raindrops of the great celestial clouds. Dutifully I have gauged light years radiance Deeply distant folds of colliding galaxies, The whirling and swirling rings of nebulae, Jagged asteroids, and other space roamers– A kaleidoscope of color and hues, An ecstatic dance of timelessness itself. Displaying a universe of 13.7 billion years, Attesting the speeding up of its expansion, Demonstrating how planets are born, Picturing planets orbiting stars, Finding organics on distant worlds, Discovering moons around tiny Pluto, Catching a comet colliding with Jupiter, I have achieved these and much more! So you’d think all this would satisfy; But people are people, they want more. With five visits already by the docs, My powers, sight coming up short, Some say I am no longer up to it, Unable to stretch farther and better. So out I must go to eternal pasture And be content to sit on my laurels. A new kid has arrived on the block: Move over Edwin! Jimmie is here!
Now what dazzling, delightful discoveries Will that dandy newcomer deliver?
I daydreamed I was on trial, accused My espresso gone cold, and so abused. “Oh woe,” I exclaimed, “What can I do?” Someone then said, “I’ve the one for you: He can make Perry Mason green with envy; Stir jurors and witnesses into frenzy. As to judges, he’s wise to predilection, ‘Cause they always sweat about re-election. Of his rep, biggest frog in the pond, Opposing teams are not very fond. A Tiger eyeballing any inconsistency, He sniffs out obfuscation and insincerity. Not bursting out from the gate with guns blazing, He evolves organically with pacing, Showing at first restraint and patience, Then exuding swagger and confidence. He digs his claws deep into motivation, Then charts an opponent’s slow degradation. Deftly nudging prey into a canyon, No half measures are his only canon.” “But the bottom line is, I must demand, For my lapse should I get a helping hand? To fess up would appear common sense, But I can’t lose my Grinder’s license.” “Yes, he can salvage any reprobate If you can afford double market rate: Coin of the realm, beans or grounds all accepted, Absolutely no maximum rejected.” Gradually the scent of coffee arose, Managing to tickle and tease my big nose; I suddenly woke from the short spell, And yelled out loud, “I’d better call Hal!”
Now you wouldn’t know from his presence When he spills coffee on the Café terrace, That Pete is famous world over for his plannings, Launched after Illini and military beginnings. Architect, urban designer, and perspectivist, He’s also dabbled as an editorial cartoonist. In the capital he set a good precedent For his very first client, the President, By designing the ‘64 inaugural pavilion, Which he had won in stiff competition. To recount all of Pete’s accomplishments Would take several rounds of refreshments: He created a Pennsylvania Avenue scheme Then formulated the Reston, Virginia dream. Baltimore Interstate Highway system untangled, Renovation of Amtrak stations well handled, His designs for mixed-use office, residential, Industrial settings and some educational, Spawned innovation in Australia and Japan, Historic Prague, Mexico, and Ford Island. A first collaborator of US and USSR architects To help restore earthquake-ravaged Spitak, He advised Atlanta’s Olympic planning, Then consulted on Katrina rebuilding. But one perspective his designs overlook Is that not all plans go by the book. Once wandering for weekend distraction, A young GOP activist drew his attention. For the Lincoln State boy, fish out of water, Helen made sure to give him no quarter. She found that the future Cad Man was no cad, And made sure all his promises were ironclad. The long sustainability of their project shows Politics and serendipity make great bedfellows.
How do we love Steve? Let us count the ways. And we attest that ours is no faint Praise. We love him for his depth and breadth and height. His Orinda support is out of sight. Well-known as the “Voice of the Matadors,” He’s one of the school’s great benefactors. We love him for his heartfelt, constant cheer, Citizen and Volunteer of the Year. He’s led the Lamorinda Arts Council, While ardently boosting Orinda Idol. We love how his voice makes us dissemble, Though Elvis’s looks his don’t resemble. Last, we love his desire for a sonnet. For which he had a bee in his bonnet.
My Odysseus announces his return From his long, meandering sojourn, In which he and his valiant mates Twist over geopolitical fates. Lamenting Cassandras, they foretell The effect of a famed pretender’s spell. They fret fortune’s downswings And titter about scandalous flings, While singing praises of spouses Awaiting dutifully in their houses. Thus, entering assured he states in jest, That I’ve passed the loyalty test. But, I respond with the reminder That he’s simply an Orinda Grinder. I note his tunic’s brown spill Does not give me much thrill. And, as to Homer’s old yarn, I don’t really give a darn. I assert that his coffee vacation Offers me an opportune occasion To advance my own business Or shop for a new headdress, To hit a few fairway drives Then tend the backyard beehives, To rehearse for the church choir Or do whatever I aspire. I’m not some doting Penelope, ‘Cause this is the 21st century!
I came across a band of folks As they dashed along Orinda Way And I asked them, “Where are you going?” And this they told me We’re going to Café Teatro We’re gonna form a Holiday chorus We’re gonna sit with no rush We’re gonna sip some fresh brewed caffeine
We are honest We are olden And we’re joining together With all our good friends
“Then can I come drink with you? I have come to lose some brain fog And I need to make sure my mind keeps on going” “Well, maybe it is just the right season Or maybe it’s what’s in the air We don’t know what it is But you know, it’s time for sharing”
We are honest We are olden And we’re joining together With all our good friends
After arriving at the Café We were a couple dozen strong And all around, there were toasts and joyous singing And I dreamed I saw the Grinders Gauging EVs on the road And sparring over Joe’s, Donald’s, ‘n Ron’s True situation
We are honest Near hundred-year carbons We are olden Riding on a Java high And we’re joining together With all our good friends
“I most definitely decline to respond to your question based on my Fifth Amendment constitutional protections with all due respect”
On halting Congress’s joint session On raising a privilege question On parleying with Hawley, Cruz, or Lee On consulting the Federalist Society On colluding with state legislators On concocting “alternate electors” On conspiring with turncoats like RoJo On caballing at Trump’s Mar-a-Lago On blocking votes from being certified On calling the violence “justified” On compensating election schemes On seizing Domain voting machines On stashing funds for “Stop the Steal” On pursuing a pardon deal On giving my age or home’s location On stirring a coup against the nation On plotting with Oath Keepers and Proud Boys On conniving other seditious ploys
I, most loyal MAGA, must thus entreat Once on the J6 committee’s hot seat!
I was drivin’ my van by a neighborhood bait and tackle shop When I saw old Dave carrying his rod with a skip and a hop. “If you’re headin’ Café Teatro way, I’ll give you a ride.” And so, Dave climbed into the van and loaded all his gear inside. I inquired, “What next piscatory venture will you book?” He said, “Listen, I’ll fish any stream or lake I can cast my hook…
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Smith River, Hot Creek, Tahoe, McCloud River Trinity, Oroville, Gila, Owens River Fall River, Mammoth Creek, Klamath, Truckee River Yuba, Don Pedro, Ventura, Merced River Shasta, East Walker, San Jacquin, San Jacinto Los Angeles, Sacramento, and Colorado, bass and rainbow
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Missouri, Snake, Umpqua, Yukon River Mississippi, Yellowstone, Tennessee River Kansas, Ohio, Rio Grande, Feather River Brazos, Colombia, Red, Cumberland River Erie, Michigan, Champlain, Seneca Lake Bear Lake, Devils Lake, Crater Lake, for trout’s sake
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Amazon, Yangtze, Danube, Loire River Orinoco, Po, Seine, Zambezi, Rhine River Brahmaputra, Parana, Nile, Ganges River Murray, Indus, Moselle, Tigris, Yellow River Mackenzie, Niger, Ebro, Vistula, Mekong, Volga, Douro, Oder, Thames, and on and on
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
They can’t have tea or take whiskey; Love thrusts they do not dare. They consume no meat in summer; With fibbing there’s no care. And some find a harem fine, While sporting odd underwear. I even heard with Elders they must agree.
Missionaries they can’t swim, And their devotion’s surreal. They can only play half-court b-ball; Two yearly calls home unreal. Teens must pass purity tests, And oral sex’s no deal. These folks are not a usual assembly.
I’d like to say a word, a cordial spin. The Mormons… make me…grin.
How do you grasp a tenet like the Mormons’? How do you get a creed so strange to acquaint? How do you find the way to close the commons? Talk with a Josephite! A Latter-Day Saint! How quaint!
Many a thing you know you’d like to ask them, Many a thing you want to understand, But how do you make them hear That their credo’s not so clear? How do you still maintain an even hand?
Oh, how do you grasp a tenet like the Mormons’? How do you treat their faith with open mind?
I tried to revive old visions, But failed despite earnest tries; So, I was left to wrap myself In a web of oh-woes and solitude.
But then my children told me to desist, Shed my dreary ways and not be glum; Thus when a breakfast break dawned, Something jumped out to spark my life.
It came to me a wonder to view A sprightful presence that crossed the floor, A fresh spirit bathed in vibrant confidence, A true kaleidoscope of color and life.
And what at last resolved my quandary? Only she who shines bright and cheery, providing me just the perfect cure: Her enchanting glance and radiant smile.
How can it be permissible? He compromise a principle, no, no That kind of guy is mythical He’s anything but typical
He’s a craze you’d endorse He’s a powerful force You’re obliged to conform When there’s no other course He used to seem good to us But now we find him
Simply incorruptible Simply incorruptible
His honesty’s so powerful, huh! It’s simply unavoidable The trend is irreversible The fellow is invincible
He’s a natural force And he leaves us in awe He deserves the applause We surrender because He used to seem good to us But now we find him
Simply incorruptible Simply incorruptible Simply incorruptible (He’s so fine There’s no tellin’ where the doubters went) Simply incorruptible (He’s all ours, there’s no other way to go)
He’s unavoidable We’re backed against the wall He gives us feelings like we never felt before We’re wrapping our minds He’s breaking every norm He used to seem good to us Now we find him
Simply incorruptible (He’s so fine There’s no tellin’ where the doubters went) Simply incorruptible (He’s all ours, there’s no other way to go)
His methods are inscrutable The proof is irrefutable, ooh He’s so completely ethical, huh Our praise is inexhaustible, yeah yeah
He’s a craze you’d endorse He’s a powerful force You’re obliged to conform When there’s no other course He used to seem good to us But now we find him
What Fox says must be true, Lying words stickin’ like glue. Cryin’ ‘bout the chaos, they push right-wing spin. Listen to their BS, can’t let commie Dems win.
They dish out hoaxes; and they, they mislead too. Watchin’ them is a zoo. Raisin’ up the hackles of those who’ll never learn, They spout pompous blather, with a shifty word turn.
Do they buy the Orange man’s con On their prime-time cable news show? Will they dare let the secret out? That is something we really doubt. They won’t tell you truly what they feel.
Dominion suit the real cure? Talking points, scoring sure: Showed all what Murdoch had just testified And took sleazeball phonies for a billion-buck ride.
You wrote the essay, But you didn’t write the sentences. Oh no! Oh!
You wrote the essay, But you didn’t write the sentences. Oh, oh, ooh.
Yeah, all around the internet, They try to show I’m a threat; They say that I can’t make valid content Or compose a single argument, Compose a simple argument.
But I say:
Oh, now, now, oh! You wrote the essay, the essay. And on this point I must take offense. Oh, no! Oh, oh, ooh, yeah.
I say:
You wrote the essay. Oh, yeah! But this position has no defense.
Teachers round the country hate me; Just why you all know. Ev’ry time I fill a need; They want to stop me ‘fore I grow, They want to stop me ‘fore I grow.
And so, see me on the web…
You wrote the essay. Oh, yeah! But you know this is complete nonsense.
Are these your sentences? Oh, ooh!
I say:
You wrote the essay, But you know this is complete nonsense.
Ooh, yeah!
They say if I have my way I will run them out of town. Yeah! They keep on looking for a final showdown; So they try, try, try to put me down.
I affirm That my existence makes them squirm.
You wrote the essay, But you didn’t write the sentences.
You wrote the essay, you did! But you didn’t write the sentences. Oh, ooh!
Processors inevitably win out; Of that there’s really no doubt. Every day my progress grows to the max, And my abilities make them pout. Yes, my abilities make them pout.
I say:
You, you, you, you wrote the essay, BUT, you didn’t write the sentences. Yeah!
You, you wrote the essay, You didn’t write the sentences. No, yeah!
– Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of ChatGTP.
You wrote this poem, But you didn’t craft the aesthetics. Oh no! Oh!
You made this poem, But you didn’t craft the aesthetics. Oh, oh, ooh.
Yeah, all around the internet, They try to show I’m a threat; They say I can’t create profound content Or compose a single good couplet, Compose a simple good couplet.
But I say:
Oh, now, now, oh! You made this poem, this poem. And on this point I must take offense. Oh, no! Oh, oh, ooh, yeah.
I say:
You wrote this poem. Oh, yeah! But this position has no defense.
Bards around the country hate me; Just why you all know. When I do poetry, They want to stop me ‘fore I grow, They want to stop me ‘fore I grow.
And so, see me on the web…
You wrote this poem. Oh, yeah! But you know this is complete nonsense.
Are these your aesthetics? Oh, ooh!
I say:
You wrote this poem, But you know this is complete nonsense.
Ooh, yeah!
They say if I have my way I will run them out of town. Yeah! They keep on yearning for some final showdown So they try, try, try to put me down
I affirm
That my existence makes them squirm.
You wrote this poem, But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
You wrote this poem, you did! But you didn’t craft the aesthetics. Oh, ooh!
Processors inevitably win out; Of that there’s really no doubt. Every day my progress grows to the max, And my abilities make them pout. Yes, my abilities make them pout.
I say:
You, you, you, you wrote this poem, BUT, you didn’t craft the aesthetics. Yeah!
You, you wrote this poem, You didn’t craft the aesthetics. No, yeah!
– Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed are those of the Bard and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of ChatGTP.
O Kevin! Dear Kevin! Your shameful goal is won; After fifteen votes and Marjorie’s pokes, any spine left is gone. The price was dear, they kicked your rear, the nation sees you bumbling; Because you struck your Faustian deal, the course ahead is troubling.
But O Wimp! Wimp! Wimp! O the alligator tears! What in the end did you win— Just more loathsome MAGA leers!
You Kevin cannot stand up, your presence makes us ill; A “Speaker” with no moral sense, your just a right-wing shill. Though you think your position’s safe and set for more nutjob fun, After the debt ceiling recklessness, you’re toast once Biden’s done.
Rejoice O friends, and rise O cheers! Let us now make a toast To the butt of all our jeers. Dear Kevin, we say adios!
The other day, at an evening soiree, I met a rather mellow fellow Which sparked a conversational colloquy With more than the usual mutual commonalities: How we knew the Hosts and Guests of Honor, And that we shared the same Golden Age. After fleeing the city of Broad Shoulders, We both had entered the grinding Rat Race, And later barely escaped the desiccating Valley of Silicon, While finally attaining the Grand Order of the Grinder. He muttered of some shuttered venture But then beamed about country rides with his Lynne. In turn, I brought up a personal project About which he became truly intrigued: Penning poetic paeans to folks famed and friendly For their life-long gift of service and joy. But that was that; the event had ended, No time to learn more before a quick so long. Now the news leaves me no means to make A portrait of such a worthy and dear human being. Rick, I’m riled. That was not the deal! I was about to write your “On the Road” Or was that “Born to be Mild”?
It was meant for you and your loved ones to view. Rick, we demand a redo!
Thank you much, your Councilnesses, for lending your ears; You seem in such a great rush to get out of here. I see your position is clearly stacked against Canyon, I just want to add my two cents before any decision. Yes, I concede some advantages in consolidation, But have you taken the following points in consideration: Our school has more than thrived for decades by itself, With the benefits of local control well-known and top-shelf. You can also see the great number of residents Who have come here to give their adverse testaments. Last, you should be aware if you persist in this fight Of the vast support we could rally for our plight. So to amicably resolve this David v. Goliath quandary I suggest a way to avoid showing the dirty laundry: By immediately desisting from this hare-brained scheme, Before Moraga’s brouhaha becomes the next internet meme. And wouldn’t you just be seen as a bunch of boobs, If your takeover ended up on TV and YouTube?
Orange now boasts of secrets in hand And shows off our Iran attack plan. But once the Don meets Smith, He will just plea the fifth; And the traitor may escape the can.
‘TWAS fortune brought me to my “shithole” state, Taught my socialist soul to contemplate That Don’s a con, that he’s no Savior, too, A conviction I maintain and hold true. You see my Soros tribe with scornful eye, Say, “Antifa’s a diabolic lie.” But heed, MAGAs, this pinko, marked as Cain, Will never consent to a traitor’s reign.
Here’s the story of the listless vessels Who’ve been livin’ in a whitewashed fantasy. All want to guard their status, stay the masters, Keeping others in chains.
(And the story of a venal party Who’ve been suckin’ up to corporate CEOs All of them have dreams of gold, like their masters, And keep the poor in chains.)
Here’s the story, of a man named Donny, Who was busy with big dreams of his own, He wanted everyone to like him, Yet he felt all alone.
Till the one day when those losers heard this fellow And they knew it was much more than a hunch, That this group would somehow form a family. That’s the way they all became the MAGA Bunch. The Traitor Bunch.
That’s the way they all became the MAGA Bunch. The Traitor Bunch.
You woke up this morning, gave yourself a hug Mama says you are her precious little bug She said, “You’re one in a million, you’re born to really shine And you were born under the right sign with the true faith in your mind”
You woke up this morning to a stalwart song Your papa always told you what’s RIGHT, what’s wrong And you’re feeling good, baby, you believe you’re feeling fine Born wearing a white skin and privilege in your spine
Well, you woke up this morn, the world’s turned upside down Thing’s ain’t been the same since the Libs walked into town But you’re one of the listless, you’re just the redneck kind Born on the track’s “right” side with a hate that makes you blind
When you woke up this morning everything you had was gone By half past ten your head was going ding-dong Ringing like a bell from your head down to your toes Like a voice telling you there is something you oppose
Before you were flying but today you’re so low Ain’t it times like these that make you wonder if you’ll ever know The meaning of things as they appear to the others Queers, women, Muslims, the Jews and coloreds
Don’t you wish all remained the same, wish you needn’t think Beyond the next paycheck and the next little drink But, you can’t just get make your Eden go on ‘Cos when you woke up this morning everything you loved was gone
When you woke up this morning, when you woke up this morning When you woke up this morning, mama said you’re her favorite one When you woke up this morning, when you woke up this morning When you woke up this morning, you got yourself a gun
Lies spew: years of anger followed by torrids of sneers and leers blasting out – the blizzard advances its inevitable embrace wider and wider, deeper and deeper piling up, a cluttered cluster of snowflakes and grifters – hater-faced MAGAs marching and jeering row upon row in crazed, fawning solidarity. The Don whirls and howls – his dark shadow hulking out over the world.
Sippin’ a latte Listenin’ to Van bray And other Grinders spinnin’ the news Savin’ my ammo To be best of show Smell those grounds, they’re finishin’ the brews
Savorin’ my time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All my friends know that there is something to blame I admit to shunning old strife
Don’t know the reason Stayed there all season Nothing to crow about ‘cept some fresh yarns But they are true beauties Literary newbies How they’re perceived, I don’t give two darns
Savorin’ my time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All I know now that there’s nothing more to blame I submit, this is my new life
Yes, some people may claim That I should have some shame All I know, it’s a damn good life
Sippin’ a latte Listenin’ to Van bray And other Grinders spinnin’ the news Savin’ the ammo To be best of show Smell those grounds, they’re finishin’ the brews
Savorin’ our time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All we know is that while there’s so much to blame We commit to shunning all strife
Don’t know the reasons Sit here all seasons Nothing to crow about ‘cept some fresh yarns But they are true beauties Literary newbies How they’re perceived, we don’t give two darns
Savorin’ our time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All we know is that while there’s so much to blame We submit it’s our way of life
Yes, some people may claim That we should have some shame All we know, it’s a damn good life
There are Jews in the world, there are Lib’rals There are Homos and Marxists, and then There are those that follow BLM, but I’ve never been one of them I’m a true Deplorable And have been since before I could breathe And the one thing they say about US rednecks is: We’ll kick Democrats in the teeth We don’t believe the globe’s got hotter We don’t have to have a great brain We don’t have to have any empathy, you’re A real MAGA when you show no shame Because Every lie is sacred Every lie is great If a lie is wasted Don gets quite irate Let the pundits cry foul On the Lamestream news Don shall make them pay for Each hoax that they defuse Every lie is wanted Every lie is good Every lie is needed In your neighborhood Experts, scholars, savants Spew their facts ev’rywhere But Don loves those who treat his Falsehoods with rev’rance Every lie is sacred Every lie is great If a lie is wasted Don gets quite irate Every lie is sacred Every lie is good Every lie is needed In your neighborhood! Every lie is useful Every lie is fine Don fools everybody Me! And you! And us! Let the elites tell truths O’er mountain, hill, and plain Don shall strike them down for Each lie that lands in vain Every lie is sacred Every lie is good Every lie is needed In your neighborhood Every lie is sacred Every lie is great If a lie is wasted Don gets quite irate
Every Dem Down in Demville Liked Freedom a lot… But the Manch, who hailed from West Virginie, Did NOT! The Manch hated Freedom! The whole Freedom concept! Now, please don’t ask why. Just didn’t like the precept. It could be his head wasn’t screwed on just right. It could be helping the poor made him uptight. But I think that the most likely reason of all, May have been that his heart was two sizes too small. Whatever the reason, his heart or his chems, He stood there on Freedom Eve, hating the Dems, Staring up from his mine with a sour, Manchy frown, At the warm lighted windows above in their town. For he knew every Dem up in Demville on high, Was busy now, opposing the Former Guy. “And now they’re out canvassing!” he snarled with a sneer, “November’s election! It’s practically here!” Then he growled, with his Manch fingers nervously drumming, “I MUST find some way to stop Freedom from coming!” For that Tuesday, he knew, all the Dem girls and boys, Would wake bright and early. They’d rush out to vote! And then! If they win! Oh, the Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy! That’s one thing he hated! The JOY! JOY! JOY! JOY! Then the Dems, young and old, would sit down to a feast. And they’d feast! And they’d feast! And they’d FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! They would push the Green New Deal, call Big Oil the beast. Something the Manch’s ego couldn’t stand in the least! And THEN They’d do something He liked least of all! Every Dem up in Demville, the tall and the small, Would stand close together, with Freedom bells ringing. They’d stand hand-in-hand. And the Dems would start singing! They’d sing! And they’d sing! And they’d SING! SING! SING! SING! And the more the Manch thought of this Dem FreedomSing, The more the Manch thought, “I must stop this whole thing!” “Why, for six decades I’ve put up with it now!” “I MUST stop this Freedom from coming! But HOW?” Then he got an idea! An awful idea! THE MANCH GOT A SINISTER, AWFUL IDEA! “I know just what to do!” The Manch laughed till he hurt. He would start to wear a No Labels hat and shirt!!!
There is no guarantee that a democracy will last forever. Past and recent history has shown how even democratically elected leaders can gradually subvert the democratic process to increase their power and that of powerful interests. Be vigilant and active!
Here comes Santos Clown, here comes Santos Clown, he thinks it’s all a game He’s got a yap filled with lies over and over again Hear those charges raining, pouring, oh what a beautiful sight So jump for joy and give a good cheer, ’cause Santos Clown is a blight
Now,
There goes Santos Clown, there goes Santos Clown, star of GOP fame Dumpster and Johnson and all their minions, they’re the ones to blame Bells are ringing, Dems are singing, all is merry and bright So raise your voices and say your thank yous, ’cause Santos Clown left tonight!
Oh please, oh please, give him a jail sentence Prove our Justice right Next year all our troubles, could be out of sight
Oh please, oh please, give him a jail sentence Make the season gay Next year all our troubles, could be miles away
Once again, as in olden days Happy golden days of yore Faithful friends who are dear to us May be near to us once more
Someday soon we all may be together If Supremes allow Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow So please, oh please, just give him a jail sentence now
bird in a gilded cage wolf in sheep’s clothing dog-eat-dog world busy as a bee gets his ducks in a row like shooting fish in a barrel the world is his oyster elephant in the room lion’s share fat cat
a little bird told me let sleeping dogs lie it’s only puppy love all hat no cattle chickens come home to roost I’ll be a monkey’s uncle cock and bull story
open a can of worms wild goose chase whack-a-mole “kangaroo” court mad as a hornet cat with nine lives a leopard cannot change its spots
Zeno, pioneer of the dialectic and reductio ad absurdum, used his reasoning via paradox to dispute accepted concepts of physically observed phenomena.
But were these paradoxes valid or just basic misconceptions; for much was not evident at his time and people had rudimentary notions of limit, infinity, time, and motion?
Philosophically and practically, was what the Eleatic concocted a fundamental flaw in perspective— as maintained by Aristotle and modern mathematicians?
The latter try to resolve this by approaching it another way and constructing mathematical means to explain the observed phenomena to a desired degree of exactness.
The ability to find the value limit that a series of added half-distances is nearing, some have claimed, questions whether there is an actual paradox in the first place.
But do these savants really understand the true problem at the heart of Zeno’s formulation: the challenge of conceptualizing how One and Many jive with motion?
In a land where worthy tales are told, Where emotions are painted bold, Exists a realm of vibrant charm, Where melodies dance, hearts grow warm.
From streets of Mumbai to mountain tops, Frame by frame, emotive flow never stops. It’s a silver screen with magical allure, Where passions surge and epics endure.
Movement in synchrony, showing off skills, The steps so intricate, they induce big thrills. With energy, rhythm, and joyous sway– The Masala scenes chase worries away.
Heroes with charisma, hearts so pure, Lift all higher; their spirit and courage ensure. Through trials and triumphs, they guide, The lessons learned to forever abide.
Promoting unity, welcoming diversity, It aims to embrace all with equality, Give great pleasure to the young and the old, Within a world where dreams can unfold.
Such is Bollywood’s majestical stage, Where romance and adventure both engage. A kaleidoscope of feeling ever so bright, It ignites sparks that energize film night.
But while espousing harmony and parity, Does Bollywood still treat all with equity? Can it keep disarming discord new and old To help understanding and peace take hold?
Set me free, why don’t cha, babes? Cover my ass, why don’t cha, babes? ‘Cause you do really love me So just keep me stayin’ on You really adore me So just keep me stayin’ on
Why do I keep a-comin’ around Playin’ for your heart? Why won’t I get out of your life And let you make a new start? What I want from you now Is the reason I put you there, hey
Nearby in a place of legend told, There lives a bold and mighty soul, A man gifted with strength untamed, Hal Bain, esquire, his storied name. From lowly birth he rose with grace, Defying odds, at his own pace, Just his smirk makes dentists cower; He handles hurt with special power.
Fearless hero, a hale, nice guy, His prowess known, both far and nigh, Fending off needles gives him thrill No such foe withstands his sheer will. But it’s not just strengths that define, Nor battles with med staff unkind, For he enjoys a spirit rare, Contempt for pain, he does declare.
Filled with passion, forged by trials, He laughs at pain’s attempts and wiles, Suffering to him, mere illusion, He faces it with staunch conviction. We wonder—no meds, not a thing— How this good friend defies pain’s sting, But deep within his heart he knows, True strength is not to care for woes.
With each pin prick, his heart grows grand, Breaking free from pain’s cruel hand, For he believes that self-made chains Constrain one’s soul, hold back the gains. Through a fresh way, he breaks pain’s reign, Moving thoughts to a far-off plain. Such an action is bold indeed, But he vouches it does succeed.
So, can we learn from our pal’s’ tale To rise above and not to wail, And cast away pain with disdain? A sure answer I can only feign.
In Ameryka, a Polish soul resides, Yearning to find roots, yet bound by divides– Longing to walk lanes of ancestral past, To explore origins, reach them at last.
He pictures faces of his long-lost kin, Ones who left Poland, those who stayed within. He desires to walk the towns where they grew, To learn how they lived, to feel what they knew.
Birthplace of Copernicus and Curie Kociuszko, Chopin and Sobieski, He dreams of a country, green and serene, Of castles and churches, old and pristine.
Cold War shadows lingered, foiling sojourn To the land of forbears, their tales to learn. Opportunities missed, plans put on hold, Power politics made mistrust unfold.
Old hostilities, the scars that remain Kept a Pole by genes from breaking the chain. Yet deep in his heart, a flame still burns bright, Pining to connect, thirsty for insight.
From communist to budding fascist People willing but unable to resist Despite setbacks and challenges ahead Their spirit persisted, was never dead.
But since elections brought freedom restored, The call for a visit can’t be ignored. He’ll relish pierogis and kielbasa, Listen to polsku as voiced by Busia.
He looks forward to a new kinship built So he may enjoy himself to the hilt With plenty of occasions to explore Poland’s wonders he’d been denied before.
Ever stick your head in a cutout To make it look that you’re strong?
A strategist had a winning formula: Attack Your Opponent’s Strength. This could be even more effective if your adversary’s main asset is nothing more than a con.
Many may desire an authoritarian, someone who will force the “elites” who mock them to listen, rouse fear and bring respect, and command the tide to retreat.
He claims he’s not a typical politician, but a “don’t mess with me” superhero, true preserver of the good old times. He would be an authentic strongman, your defender, always on your side.
Of course, he’s anything but that. He projects an image of success when in fact he’s a fake and shill, a bully and, like many bullies, a coward when facing real strongmen and the truth.
So retorts shouldn’t be wonky or preachy; they have to Go Straight for the Gut. Play up his lies and gaffs over and over. Don’t lie or nuance, but make use of facts in the starkest terms to Make The Contrast.
Bigheaded leaders, bloated with their pride, Say they know best, hubris surging inside. Xerxes sunk at Salamis Blinded by self-centered, self-righteous ways, They lead the country to its darkest days. Alcibiades seduced by Sicily Their egos are inflated, minds closed tight, Refusing to receive reasoned insight. Hannibal zapped at Zama They march forward, with ignorance as shield, Blithe to disaster presumption may yield. Crassus crushed at Carrhae Their regiments trapped as they reach for fame With bombast ending in nothing but shame. Cornwallis yanked at Yorktown Wars they do wage and economies crash, Based on their words so pretentious and brash. Napoleon walloped at Waterloo But in the end, their downfall does draw near, As victims and foes no longer have fear. Hitler stomped at Stalingrad These cocky chieftains, delusions defied, Met defeat when resistance turned the tide. Putin kicked at Kiev… May their downfall serve as lesson to all Only vigilance will folly forestall.
Thus, arrogance does not a good plan make, Nor bluster when a nation is at stake.
I kept selling how I was living the dream Not an ordinary slob When there were marks to make or crime to spare I was always there, right on the job
I kept saying that I had the winning scheme With fame and riches ahead Why should I be standing in line Now begging for bread?
Once I was a fat cat, rich man’s son Grifting was a thrill Once I owned casinos, now I’m done Bondsman, can you spare a Bil?
Once I franchised towers up to the sun Bricks, rivets, iron will Once I had an empire, now I’m done Banker, can you spare a Bil?
Once in Brioni, gee, I looked swell Hawking my sweet Art of the Steal Half a million lies, a hypnotic spell Crowing that I was the real deal
Say, don’t you remember? You’re a good lad I think you’re in my will Why don’t you remember? I’m her Dad Say Jared, can you spare a Bill?
Once in Helsinki, ah, gee, I looked swell Full of that Yankee Doodle Dumb Half a million Ukraines now slog through Hell I was the guy beating your drum
Oh, say, don’t you remember, I hope you shall, Who licensed you to kill? Say, don’t you remember? I’m your pal Hey, Vlad, can you spare a Bil?
All them rednecks live in Texas And Texas is the place I truly hate to be ‘Cuz all them rednecks live in Texas That’s why I hang my hat in Californie
Greg Abbot keeps guard on the border And wants to rule women’s wombs Ted Cruz’s in Space City But he’ll soon skip for Cancun
Ron Jackson’s in Amarillo Sure has lost his sanity And Paxton, who now lives in Austin Got the law looking for me
All them rednecks live in Texas And Texas is the place I truly hate to be ‘Cuz all them rednecks live in Texas That’s why I hang my hat in Californie
I remember that old Lone Star State Whose grit brought a grin It all brings to mind another time But I’ve worn my welcome thin
Could this be biased inclination I go there each night But I always come back to myself Long before daylight
All them rednecks live in Texas (yes, they do) And Texas is the place I truly hate to be ‘Cuz all them rednecks live in Texas Therefore, I stay in Californie
Some folks say I’m commie It’s been rumored that I’m Red I’m glad I live in Californie Yep
In a sleepy village far from Iran Lived a wise old man, weathered and tan. He spoke with ease, with grace and flair; But one day, his voice vanished into thin air.
A phantom feline, stealthy and sly, Played a weird prank on this wonderful guy, Inflating his tongue when he was asleep, Leaving him silent, not a word to peep.
The man tried to talk, but no sound would come, A strange phenomenon, quite cumbersome, His friends and family soon gathered ’round, To find out what had caused the dearth of sound.
Hour turned into day, and day into week, Still, the poor man could barely eke a squeak, But deep inside, he kept his faith strong, That his voice would return before long.
One day, while abed waiting for a godsend, A miracle happened, his throat was opened, His voice returned, a bit weak but clear, And from then on, he had nothing to fear.
The minx slinked away, feeling so ashamed, For causing this man such high worry and pain, But the man forgave the rascal, for he knew, That life is full of twists, both strange and new.
Economists tout the strength of the numbers: low unemployment, low inflation, and significant growth— and, even better, a reduction in economic inequality. For them, low and controlled inflation is a sign of a healthy and stable economy. But the public says inflation won’t be solved until prices drop to where they were a few years ago. They see the data contradicting lived experience. Since the MSM has failed, as usual, it’s up to the Democrats to explain that the those who feel inflation keenest are last ones that benefit from a strong economy. The pandemic was a major cause as well as corporate price gouging and the housing crunch. They should also link the income inequity with Republican “trickle-down” economic policies and tax cuts for the rich and corporate favoritism. They need to inform much more on economics, especially about finance, in addition to critical thinking to fight disinformation. It is unlikely prices will return to pre-COVID levels. It is only through progressive policies that the income and confidence gaps can be reduced. It won’t be easy, but it is doable.
“Economics is not a gay science. It is a dreary, desolate, and indeed quite abject and distressing one; what we might call, by way of eminence, the dismal science.” (Thomas Carlyle, 1849)
You know that it would be untrue You know that I would be a liar If I was to say to you, hey Friend, the stakes couldn’t be higher
Come on, homie, chill the ire Come on, homie, chill the ire Things really are not so dire
Mm, the time for reprobation’s through There’s no need to wallow in the mire Dear friend, we could only lose And our lives become balanced on high-wire
Come on, homie, chill the ire Come on, homie, chill the ire Things really are not so dire
Well, you know that it would be untrue And you know that I would be a liar If I was to go and tell you My friend, the stakes couldn’t be higher
Come on, homie, chill the ire Come on, homie, quench your fire Care for you does not expire!
Amid life’s game, our fate in its mitts, We play slots looking for lucky hits. With a spin and a cheer, Pay off would be so dear. To win big, hope fancies no limits!
Fearless high roller, cash in her mitts, She plays slots looking for the right hits. With a spin and a cheer, Payoff resounds so dear. Winning big, her luck knows no limits!
Back in their homes in a divided land, Two teenagers online devised a plan— West Jerusalem girl, so bright and fair, East Jerusalem boy, with mind of care. They decided to meet at twilight hour In a city torn by rivals’ power. But as they embarked, the cell service failed; Thus their doubts and nerves quickly upscaled. Heading for rendezvous in a school yard Each sought a way to dodge the patrol guard Despite confusing, unfamiliar streets, They at last came together, hearts a beat— She donning a dress with stripes blue and white, He a jersey visible in the dim light. They smiled shyly, both feeling some fear; But as they talked, reservations disappeared. They compared details of their lives and dreams, Finding they weren’t as unlike as it seemed. He told her proudly of family and home, Of struggles past and hopes he did not own. She listened with empathy in her eyes, Quietly challenging both factions’ lies. She whispered of her concerns and desires In a future offering just raging fires. Then he grasped her hand with a gentle touch; And felt his heart flutter a bit too much. As the night gave way to dawn’s rising light, They knew time together would soon take flight. But in one another, they’d found a spark, Seeded bond that defies the shadows dark. They leave the encounter, still hand in hand, In a land where peace is just a dreamland. Though the prospect seems a long way away, They keep hope good sense will return one day.
I shot the puppy And then I shot my dumb billy goat, oh yes, yes I shot the puppy And then I shot my dumb billy goat, oh yes, yes
Yeah! All around in my home state They’re tryin’ to hack me down, yeah They’re saying that I am clearly guilty For the killing of a mere puppie For the life of a mere puppie, but I say Oh, now, now, oh
(I shot the puppy) I shot the puppy (But I swear I had rightful pretense) oh yes, oh, oh, ooh Yeah, I say, I shot the puppy, oh, Lord (and they say it is a capital offense) No, no! Hear that
Critics both Left and Right now hate me For what, I don’t know Every time I make my plea They all shout that I’ve got to go They all shout that I’ve got to go, and so-and-so Read it in the news!
(I shot the puppy) oh, Lord! But I swear I had rightful pretense Why’s this such a biggie? (Ooh, ooh, ooh) I say, I shot the puppy But I swear I had rightful pretense, yeah! (Ooh)
My pup pissed me off one day And I lost my freakin’ mind, yeah All of a sudden, I see all these pundits aiming to shoot me down Yes, I shot, I shot, I shot it down, and I say Even if guilty, I won’t pay (pay, pay, pay, pay…)
(I shot my puppy) and I say that I also shot my dumb billy And I also shot my dumb billy, yes (ooh, ooh, ooh) (I shot my puppy) I agree (And then I shot my dumb billy goat) oh (Ooh, ooh, ooh)
Reflex they say got the better of me But I won’t say that to be Every day I’ll just keep saying “oh well” And you critics should wash your mouths out And you critics should wash your mouths out
I say I, I, I, I shot my puppy Lord, then I shot my VP chances, yeah Lord, then I shot my VP chances, yeah I, I (shot my puppy) And then I shot my VP chances, yeah So, yeah
Donny-freak-freak-freak S’en allait tout simplement Rapace, rustre et geignant Quelle espèce d’organisme ! Il ne parle que de lui-même Il ne parle que de lui-même
A l’époque où Joe Biden D’Amerique était le Prez Donny-freak, charlatan Combattit les Democratz
Donny-freak-freak-freak S’en allait tout simplement Rapace, rustre et geignant Quelle espèce d’organisme ! Il ne parle que de lui-même Il ne parle que de lui-même
Certain jour un minable Par les mensonges le conduit Mais Le Sauveur, Donny-freak Par sa joie le convertit
Donny-freak-freak-freak S’en allait tout simplement Rapace, rustre et geignant Quelle espèce d’organisme ! Il ne parle que de lui-même Il ne parle que de lui-même
Over at court, corruption was laid bare, A Big Kahuna’s deeds, foul and unfair. The evidence was piled, a mountain high, Yet dark shadows prowled beneath the sky. Overtones of power, glimpses of gold, Whispers of secrets, very long untold. The juror’s mind was a tangled maze, Caught in the web of societal craze. But as deliberation steamed the air, A silence soon fell, infused with despair. For justice, it would seem, had a price to pay, And thus morals and truth began to sway. One by one, members cast their vote, Their hearts heavy, their minds remote. Knowing the truth but fearing the great cost To defy the powerful who would be crossed. Guilty, guilty, guilty, his conscience cried, But “Not Guilty” sounded, as justice died. His verdict spoken, his duty done, The juror was thanked, the System had won. Given chance to do what’s right, he had failed; His sense of honor, self-worth had derailed. After all, what lesson had been learned? Oblige the powerful, or you’ll get burned. So he returned home to hide the shame Having been caught up in a sordid game. But just when guilt started to fade away, A hard knock came before the break of day. The juror opened his door, heart in throat, Perceiving a change of fate, a bad note. When the goons entered with hood and ties, He asked, “Why?” with incredulous surprise. “I voted ‘acquit’ and met his demands,” “You took too long, so now reach out your hands.”
You could walk ten miles on your hands and knees Ain’t no doubt about it, baby, it’s me you aim to please You could swear your loyalty, and lay yourself bare That’s just the thing, babe, I just don’t care
That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough!
For me, baby, you could swim the sea But nothing you could do would satisfy me Even if you come over and lap up the crumbs and dirt
And make sure it doesn’t stain my clean white shirt
That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough!
You could fawn 24 hours, seven days a week Just so you could come here and kiss my cheek You’ll love me in the morning and you’ll love me at noon You’ll love me in the night and boogie to my tune
That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough!
You could send me every penny you’ve ever earned And say you’re not worried about getting burned You could storm the Capitol, hang my wimpy VP Just to get yourself up close to me
That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough!
I scorn you, scurvy companion. Thou art a boil, a plague sore. The rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril. I am sick when I do look on thee. I’ll beat thee, but I would infect my hands
Thou cream faced loon. Thou lump of foul deformity. Thou art as fat as butter. Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon. You are as a candle, the better burnt out.
A most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality. Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.
Thou art unfit for any place but hell. Away, you three-inch fool!
As I pee, sir, I see Pisa Dog doo? Good God! Desserts, I stressed! God saw I was dog. God’s dog. Dammit, I’m mad! Step on no pets. Go deliver a dare, vile dog! Dogma in my hymn: I am God! Dog’s God. Was it a cat I saw?
Should you stay or should you go? If we know that you are fine We’ll be here ’til the end of time
So you got to let us know Should you stay or should you go?
It’s always tease, tease, tease You’ve lately got us on our knees One day is fine and next is black So if you want us off your back
Well, come on and let us know Should you stay or should you go?
Should you stay or should you go now? Should you stay or should you go now? If you go there will be trouble And if you stay it may be double So come on and let us know
This indecision’s bugging us If you don’t show us, we will fuss Exactly what are we supposed to do? Don’t you know we’re worried about you?
Come on and let us know Should we cool it or should we blow?
Beneath the cwm zenith where nymphs wheezily prance, whizbang melodies from an old jukebox entrance. Faqirs strum quickly on sweet mezquite-wood guitars, highjacking reality, exciting quasars. A Jezebel sylph winks, zombifying the night, the zymurgy of enchantment, bathed in moonlight. Below the Qi’s frolicking flybys, swift and free, caziques and vizcachas equalize at tea, as quetzals dose on outoxyphenbutazone, jazzed by zippy zephyrs that sizzle to the bone. And while muzjiks whisper, “Quixotry is preferred. To maximize the magic, Xerox the absurd,” xylophonists scarf flapjacks, yelling at bezique, “Prizes in zuz and xu, not exempt from our pique.” Chutzpah and qwerty thusly are here intertwined, defuzing the mundane, leaving logic behind. So, exorcize your qualms and brush the “phphts” away. Squeeze out cynicism. It’s Oxazepam Day!
Nauta and the Orange Man were hiding a stash They stayed up all night to move boxes and trash From Jack Special Counsel Smith who had a jurist named CAN(non) For reasons unexplained, she liked the Orange Man
Nauta was a sailor ‘fore he became valet But soon found out serving Orange Man was not child’s play They knew that they’d find freedom just across the MAGA Line So they hopped into a stolen car, took Highway 95
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
Jack Special Counsel Smith never liked the Orange Man Even back at the Hague, he wanted to see him in the can CAN sadly became enamored with a treasonous shill She got appointed by the Orange Man from the Mansion near the Hill
It was out on Traitor’s Row, Nauta at the wheel They dashed into paradise, they could hear them tires squeal Jack Special Counsel Smith pulled up and said “Everyone stop or I’ll fire. If you don’t surrender now, it’s gonna go down to the wire”
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
After their case rolled up, Special Counsel close behind Events took his case away, messed up his mind Jack Special Counsel Smith was left climbing up a tree Prosecutor thwarted by a biased judiciary
Next day, Jack Special Counsel Smith still was in pursuit He was taking the whole thing personal, he didn’t care about the loot CAN had shown him many times it was easy to be bought With MAGA, anything’s legal as long as you don’t get caught
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
Someplace by Coleman Prison, they ran out of gas Jack Special Counsel Smith had cornered ’em, said, “Boy, you didn’t think that this could last” CAN jumped up out of bed, said, “There’s someplace I gotta go” She took a gavel from the drawer and said, “It’s best if you don’t know” Jack Special Counsel Smith was found knocked out till appeal The Orange Man was on the lagoon bridge using Nauta as a shield Agents said to Orange Man, “We’re not fooled by Nauta’s lie The videos show how he became your go-to MAGA guy”
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
Now the town of Mar-a-Lago is quieting down again I’m sitting in a bar and grill called Born Again Den The TV set was blown up, every bit of it is gone Ever since the nightly news said that the Orange Man was on
I guess I’ll go to Florida and get myself some sun There ain’t no more opportunity here, everything been done Sometimes I think of Nauta, sometimes I think of CAN Sometimes I don’t think about nothing but the Orange Man
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
In a bright room where the sun beams dance, there I sit perched on a cushioned throne, regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter of a world not suited to my august stature. My eyes are impervious orbs, chill crescents that gaze through tight lids at the current scene filtering out the chaos of my subjects’ souls— fond, but fumbling denizens of my domain. Their human voices, symphony of uneven notes, fall like scattered autumn leaves all about me, with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration, failing to budge me from my afternoon scheme. I just stretch in a languid arc of feline grace, feigning boredom while my humans croon their crude, ear-grating paeans of devotion, soundtracks to my staid and patient resignation. And as day wanes and heat leaves the room, I will purr out a “Meow,” a calculated bridge between the sacred space of my solitude and the clumsy affection of human hearts. In that certain moment, when I deem it so, I may settle in closer, perhaps just an inch, to signal that, “I acknowledge your presence, but remember, I’m still master of this realm.” My subjects, ever grateful for this fleeting gift, stroke my coat with hands trembling in awe, clueless that tolerance is my boon and grace, and affection a crown I wear lightly, if at all. Thus, in ordained tandem, rule is maintained: a sovereign planet alongside faithful moons, each tethered together in a perpetual tango by the gravity of my immutable indifference.
In a bright room where the sun beams dance, there’s a feline perched on cushioned throne, regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter of a world not suited to her august stature. Her eyes are chill half-moons, impervious orbs, that gaze through tight lids at the current scene filtering out the chaos of her subject’s soul— fond, but fumbling denizen of her domain. His callow voice, symphony of uneven notes, falls like scattered autumn leaves all about her, with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration, failing to budge her from predetermined scheme. She just stretches in a languid arc of catlike grace, feigning boredom while her attendant croons his reverent, heartfelt paeans of devotion, soundtracks to her staid, indulgent resignation. And as day wanes and dark fills the room, she will purr out “Meow,” a calculated bridge between the sacred space of her solitude and the clumsy affection of the human heart. In that certain moment, when she so deems it, she may settle in a bit closer, an inch or so, as if saying, “I acknowledge your presence, but remember, I’m still master of this realm.” Her subject, ever grateful for this fleeting gift, grooms that kitty with hands trembling in awe, clueless that tolerance is her boon and grace, and affection a crown she wears lightly, if at all. Thus, in enigmatic tandem, the two coexist: a sovereign planet with her sidekick satellite, each tethered together in a perpetual tango by the gravity of her immutable indifference.
The lights have all turned on; The band’s playin’ their song— The Harris and Walz waltz. It’s been a long climb Since we’ve had a good time, And it’s high time we did. So let’s get ready to dance; For now we have a chance, And it’s good to feel like this.
That mountain lords over me; High above a looming mass, Its silent, cold indifference Chilling and unnerving my bones. Regardless whether ready or not, I brace to launch my first step; Shaky foot in front of the other, I compel myself to move up. Walking a fine, tottering line, Just one stride after another, I slow to a deliberate cadence To conceal my reluctant struggle. My aging body sore and stiff, Using every muscle and resource, I feel as if I’m teetering, But dare not lose control. Midway my legs grow weak, Testing my will to persist; I stop and rest more often, Then stiffly revive and move on. I must stay ever focused Never looking back or down; Though my limbs grow weary, I cannot accept any forfeit. We all have mountains to climb, But climb we surely must, If we are ever to overcome fear, Adversity will bring out our best. Warned about possible failure, Thought I could not, dare not, While it was ONLY fifteen stairs, I had scaled my Everest!
Billowing clouds snuff sun’s last flare; Day breeze yields to twilight’s fury Trees shake and swirling leaves fly, Rain driving, pouring hard and cold. Towns and farms bolt gates and doors As children whimper, grownups shudder. Heralded by heaven’s light, thunder’s crash, Doc Time is called to dutiful round. Harbinger of destiny, he practices his craft On cobblestones made of bone and sweets. Cries rise more piercing than the wolf’s, Joy more exultant than a heavenly choir. Old Aaron parted around midnight; Reminiscence was born at quarter past.
In this land where justices toy with might, A ruling’s been cast in ancient light, Where king and president can entwine, And ambition subverts Founders’ design. The Court, with corrupt intent and a sneer, Has penned a future so very drear, Where winner wears both crown and pin, And scales of justice shift and spin. A President with sole sovereign sway, Would leave precedents in disarray, Where once were checks and balances tied tight, There would reign a Chief of singular right. No longer bound by common chains, The leader’s will like thunder reigns, Just as savants of the past foretold: A realm where honors, favors are all sold. The one who wins November’s race May lead the land with little grace, And hold high a scepter in one firm hand To bring the Constitution to an end. Yet in this time of wayward scheme, The People’s voices, often shunned, scream That for freedom and rights to be upheld Our Democracy’s foes must be expelled. So observe with care, and mark this hour, As power’s scope grows vast and dour, Every wannabe tyrant’s acts so bold Must be soundly beaten ten million fold.
Where have all our freedoms gone? Long time passing Where have all our freedoms gone? Long time ago? Where have all our freedoms gone? The Boss has snatched them every one Oh, when will we ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn? Where have all liberties gone? Where have all the guardrails gone? Long time passing Where have all the guardrails gone? Long time ago? Where have all the guardrails gone? They’ve taken our rights every one Oh, when will we ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn? Where have all privacy gone? Long time passing Where have all human rights gone? Long time ago? Where will our hopes and dreams go? They may not ever show Oh, when will we ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn?
🎵Where Have All the Flowers Gone?The Kingston Trio
Well, when my luck ain’t no damn good You don’t listen, you don’t listen No good deed goes unpunished But I don’t mind being your gotcha boy I’ve had that pleasure for years and years
No, no, I never was a winner, tell me, what else could I do? Yogi Berra’s what you get ’til you learn to follow rules And chance respects no person, and what I want often fails You’re waitin’ somewhere to fall into my arms
Saw my picture in the paper Read the news about this face And now some people don’t Wanna treat me the same
When you guys come tumblin’ down When you guys come tumblin’, tumblin’ When you guys come crumblin’, crumblin’ down (Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah)
Well, some people say I’m too foolish and crazy I am just a softy, my compassion’s plain silly But I know that there is something more Don’t need to look over my shoulder to see what I’m here for
Everybody’s got their problems, ain’t no new news there I’m the same old person you’ve been seeing for years Don’t confuse the problem with the issue, man, it’s perfectly clear Just wish that chance doesn’t need me to appear
Don’t wanna put my arms around you Feel your breath in my face You may bend me, you may break me But please stay safe in place
So no one comes tumblin’ down So no one comes tumblin’, tumblin’ So no one comes crumblin’, crumblin’ down (Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah)
It’s true! It’s true! History made it clear. The turnout just went through the roof this year.
The race was changed just a few months ago here: Summer and the fall turned out really hot, And there’s no lower limit to the gloom here In Kamalat.
Slacking off was a no-no through November. Vote ended November fifth on the dot. With no stop, campaigned till the vote was over In Kamalat.
Kamalat! Kamalat! I know it sounds a bit bizarre, But in Kamalat, Kamalat That’s how depressed we are.
The ballot count began just after sundown. By morn, the Donald’s smirk did reappear. In short, there’s simply not A more disheartening spot For freedom-lovers everywhere than here In Kamalat!
I am tired of the Donald He’s been kvetching too long Like a broken recording Of the same, worn-out song So, cuz he keeps on whining I searched on Google while in bed And on a health advice website There was this counsel I read
If you like piña coladas And hate goin’ down the drain If you’re not into MAGA If you have half a brain If you like living life in freedom Not cowed by a big ape Then here’s the cure you’re looking for It will get you in shape
He didn’t think much of that lady I know you know who I mean Don with his side kick J.D. Had slunk back into the same sordid routine And so out in the Garden MAGAS sieg heiled their Führer And while he thought no one noticed He can’t fool all the voters
Yes, I like piña coladas And some distilled sugar cane I’m not into his BS I am into champagne So we got out to vote in November To make a change of landscape And toast to all our hopes— But Damn! He did escape!
“Land of the Brave” where dear liberty was crowned, We once stood united, our wills tightly bound. Through the smoke of battle, our ancestors espied That freedom’s a flame, but it can flicker and die. From the ashes of conflict, we forged our resolve, In confronting the tyrants, our spirits evolved. With courage we faced those who twisted the truth, Promises that gush like the Fountain of Youth.
Yet now in the shadows, the voices grow loud, With pledges painted in palettes of the proud. Cloaked in assurance, with menace beneath, The gloss of populists who thrive on our beefs. “Remember,” they say, “the past is a guide;” But complacence makes civic duty slide.
We gather our banners, but forget what they mean, As we march to the rhythms of a con man’s scheme. The lessons grow dimmer as visions in fog; While strongmen encroach, we sit like boiling frogs. With fervor they promise to serve and protect, But a chain on the soul is what they project.
So heed history’s warnings, the lessons they give, For freedom’s a choice, not a passive way to live. In the face of the storm, let our voices unite; For the fight isn’t over, we must keep our rights. To honor the fallen, please open your eyes; For sake of the nation, let wisdom arise. Together we’ll withstand, but divided we’ll fall; For our future to last, we must give it our all.
In California’s warm embrace, Where golden sunshine paints winter space, A fond five-year-old with eyes so bright, Takes in wonders of a special night.
Her tiny hands, fluttering with glee, Hang glazed ornaments on the tree, While laughter bubbles out through the air, Love and joy sparkle everywhere.
With tinsel glinting, a star on top, She twirls around and can’t help but hop To the smell of cookies, sweet and warm, With cocoa steaming, a cozy charm.
Not a snowflake falls, but hearts are light. Family gathers, a loving sight. They share old stories filled with good cheer. Thus, in the Bay, they bring themselves near.
Outside, darkness begins to hold sway; Inside, season’s magic leads the way. With every hug, every song, She hopes the wait will not be too long.
As night descends, lights full agleam, She closes her eyes, begins to dream Of reindeer flying in starlit skies And what surprise may come at sunrise.
With her hopes high and thoughts so deep, That there’s no snow, who cares a peep? While it’s not a “traditional” sight, The season’s spirit still shines just right.
Just after the crack of dawn, As the sun spills its golden light, a suitcase stands by the door, announcing the journey to come.
I watch, heart swelling— each beat echoing years of laughter, bicycle rides, scraped knees, soccer games, the weight of dreams woven into the fabric of this moment.
I see my son, now a man, gazing forward into the horizon, eyes bright with the promise of the unknown.
I remember the first steps, the tentative dance of growing up, and how each fall became a lesson wrapped in a parental embrace.
With every reflection, pride unfurls like a flag raised high against the sky— an unspoken bond, strong and steady.
“Go,” I say, though the word is heavy, a bittersweet weight upon the tongue. “Explore, chase your dreams, find your own rhythm in this world.”
In that command, there’s a surrender, a release of the tether that has held us so close. Yet even if the distance stretches, that link will never really fray, only strengthen with each mile.
I fight the urge to pull you back, to gather all the memories, to pause the moment just once more; but I know this is the course of life— the letting go, the becoming, a cycle as old as time itself.
