POEM: Hard on the Poor

Hard on the

Our compass
Goes south
Skewering
Those below
Under lyin’
abashed
Without abjections
Needle US
Too say
Pricks
Hand shakers
And grand standers
Razing just for fund
He’ll freeze over
Before changing any position
Undertaking another bleak poll
Never about-facing mistakes
Fueled by deft ears
As the eaves drop on the homeless
Given props by spooks
Out of focus groups
Like miss diagnosing
The mortified
A rhino virus
In the middle of the living
Room for a growing boy
Like a Pinocchio knows
Running up bills
Virulent peckers
A fecund plague
Deifying gravitas
With hearts sow cold
Bringing them to their sneeze
A wretched climax
Eyes watering
When seize it

And
Members stiff
The public
Relations
A press corpse
Unable to issue a retraction
Interminable hacks
That even in their coffin
They are still
Convinced that they are
Looking up
Mean wile
Enjoin bye
The least of these
Has been
All ready
Spinning
In their gravy
Known as
Underground
Ever more
Digging their new haunts
Offering no quarter
Giving berth
To just deserts
Best served
Cold
As south is south
And north is north
Encompassing
Probity

This poem offers a bevy of mixed and social commentary.  I wrote this poem before the latest shutdown, but its themes are eternal in .  The get richer and the get the shaft.  Republicans moralize to others and then epitomize sleaziness themselves.  is governed more by than the needs of the people.  Proselytizing politicians paint themselves into a corner driving their internal contradictions into explosive stupidity matched only by their intransigence.

Still, gives feedback.  wends its way into the path of even the morally blind.  With , the subtle nuances of ’s ways can be discerned from a distance, and it’s gentle signs guide us in .  With increasing foolishness, a dulled capacity to read ’s kindly signs, ever-increasingly blunt warnings of impending danger will be offered.  If we insist on continuing down ever-increasingly perilous paths, mere red flags will turn to — sometimes physical , sometimes emotional , sometimes is the province of fools, whose understanding ends at blunt instruments.  May we keep our eye on ’s gentle signs guiding us to amidst giant oafs clumsily swinging their blunt instruments.

Leave a Reply