Questions of Heroes and Saints

Do heroes have to be perfect

in order to earn our respect?

Must they be free from all blemish?

Is that what we’ve come to expect?

How much stain, how much tarnish,

how much of a character blemish

can be glossed over by splashing

on coats of whitewash and varnish

before the seething and gnashing

of the oppressed leads to the trashing

of monument to those held dear

in eruptions of violent clashing?

The answers, my friends, are clear.

Let’s open our ears and try to hear

the history of brutal oppression

that cause so many to live in fear.

Since if we can’t learn this lesson

we’ll lose more than an election!

Folks, it’s high time to reject

this notion that every hero warrants beatification!

His Master’s Voice?

They must think us dogs

salivating to their bells

doing tricks for tiny treats!

~

And how can they not

when we drool at every cue

playing games they tell us to?

~

Is there any choice?

After all, they hold the cards

and set the rules we must regard.

~

Why must we regard

their arbitrary edicts

when their only care

is their self-serving interests?

Bite the hands that feed, I say!

Ignore their strident bellows!

Exercise our every freedom!

Let us run across the meadows!

Stuck in the Middle with Him

Three oh one point nine!

Broadcast on all the networks.

Label it Fake News

And some will eat that sandwich

Unaware its their last meal.

Our neighbors may, even yet,

Construct and pay for his great wall

If only to shut him in.

And could you blame them?

Hopefully, in time

When we wake up and appeal

For them to let us exit

They will show us charity

Alien to our leader!

On The Borderline Again

His smarmy tongue waggles,
weaving glowing gossamers, clouding hearts and minds
with mists of glittering unreason.

His garbled glossolalia

explains inexplicable,

defends indefensible,

justifies vast injustices.

Before his words, miasmas
of fecund decay shift,
begins to resemble aromas
of lavender and roses.

Venomously,

crass caresses

of slimy snake oil

conceal cuts of serrated steel.

Hope and reason succumbs
to resignation and despair.
Luminous hope drowns struggling
in seas of gilded sludge.

As growing thick dark shrouds

envelop all, he pauses,

draws breath, smiles.

In that instant his spells shatter!

Plug your ears, Ulysses!
There are no second chances.

Make America What?


I have been staying out of most political conversations for months. Today, While I was driving around the county, providing community mental health services to people who would be most negatively impacted by a Trump Presidency, I realized that the Trump campaign signs needed editing to more accurately reflect the affect of his campaign on the state of interpersonal relations in this country. When I got home, I decided to make my feelings on this subject crystal clear by designing this postage stamp.

Senses and Senselessness

See those bloody shirts a wave,

lying us the reasons for?

Hear those shiny sabres rattle,

their deathly, hollow, call to war?

Feel the ache of frightened souls,

for whom living’s now a chore?

Taste the bitter widow’s tears

as she greets you at her door

to receive the tragic news

of husband dead on distant shore?

Smell the acrid tangy fumes

of burning corpse and scattered gore

drifting from the battle field;

is that enough or need you more?

 

Dancing to the Pipers’ Tune

The Pipers grin, and fan this Flag debate,

incite this nation to gyrate.

Now some of us think, “Ain’t this great!”,

as we leap right into that quagmire,

dance St. John’s dance and hallucinate

as if inflamed by St. Anthony’s fire.

Those evil minstrels must think us fools,

gullible, unthinking tools.

They build a madcap set of rules

And watch the herd beasts prance.

If we give in to these evil ghouls,
we all will swing in St. Vitus’ dance.
You can love your flag or scream and shout,

but I think I’ll sit this dance out.