The name of Trump will surly be a villain in world history. Let US make this come swiftly…
Hollowed Be His Name
Halve you herd
The real state guy
And the grate US
Billed her of Brooklyn bridges
And boarder lyin’ walls
The Don metes realty
Sow much bigger
Then himself
Hollowed be his name
I’ve added a poem for my Trump Jesus “doctored” image…
A Door, Me
I am the weigh
The truth, lite
A door, me
Unhinged
The King of Kings
With no close
Leading no wear
I couldn’t resist doctoring this pic. Trump claimed that in his Trump Jesus picture that he was a doctor, more red cross than wooden cross. Of course, everyone knows that the light goes in the other end to properly disinfect…
A poem about Disruptor-in-chief Trump’s super power of not caring hastening the accostly rot of American power and empire…
Yore Superpower
Hour dear leader
In his wish caste
Did reckon
His super power
Knot caring
That Trump it
Of his own
Specious of victory
That calumny nation
His peak for fit
Dead on a rival
And awe that remains
A power full lyin’ backer
Sow moving
The goal post
His virtual realty
As if
Ever more
TD US
And what might be
The soul accost
And blood letting
Of buy gones
Be bye gones
As sum kind
Of surpassing reckoning
And amor sow caring
Little Donnie’s inner chide, finds its home in “Potty Time USA”…
Little Donnie Going, Home
Wince up on a time
His daddy tolled him
To be
A killer
And love that
Consummate snatch
Of defeat
From the jawboning of victory
The cause and solution
Too awe of his problems
Know madder
What!?
It’s awe a bout
Timing
Little Donnie going
Home
Potty time USA
The soul plays I am called to…
The Best I Metaphor
Hear arises
A tapestry of metaphors
Sum call
Religion
Yet holy uncaptured by words
Nor a scribe
Who you
Be
Long to
They’re abides
Wear no deed
Possesses won soul
An un-brake-able keep
The best I ever metaphor
Collected
Yet not quiet herd
That irrepressible summon, never some out
In no weigh a loan
Awe to gather now
This poem is dedicated to “The Man™”– currently on a run of the DT’s — flailing in his war on Iran, some won that wouldn’t know peace if it hit him in the ahead…
The Man™ – Owed to The Man Squared
He is Narcissus
With a new clear bomb
When he looks in
The mere
Limpid pools
What does he sea?
The Man™
Soully UN Abel
To efface
The impossible
That is
Seize himself
The all
Might he
Sees fire
Pilloried
In too be or knot to be
As wear have
Awe the flowers gone
To grave yar’s
Every wearer
Better to be, well, spent…
Well, Well, Well
I have know inkling
Of being
Saved
That eternal spring
Still
As soully turned out
There I was
Being
Well
Spent
Can You Sea It?
I am
Know longer taking
Invitations from cramped quarters
And haves
Halving little, a peel
Eye now
Sea something
Sow big
That it is
Elusive
More than can
Holed
In won life
Can you sea it?
The Bully-in-Chief is threatening to end Iranian civilization, unleashing hell…
Cerberus
He unloosed the dogs of war
The hounds of hell
Soully mything every point
The biggest looser ever
NOTE: Cerberus is the hound of hell in Greek mythology.
A poem about the evil twins of Trump and Netanyahu…
Axes of Evil
If you halve too
Ax
Perhaps you can take
Your lumps together
Trump and Netanyahu
A pare
Of awe that is laudable and applaudable
Terrible twins
Pernicious and ridiculous
The perfect hacks
Hitting it
Off
They’ve got the chops
Whacks on
Whacks off
Chips off the block
Until nothing left
And awe is afar right
A Spring poem. An Easter poem…
Madame Amaryllis
Too bloom
In what is
Abut sacred moments
The realization
Of what many times peers
As a barren stalk
Just saying…
Awe Some Religion
All true religion
Is awe full
If in doubt, dance…
Dancing Encircles
Pardon me
If I dance
Circles round
That square little box
That you would like
Form me
Too dwell in
The naked truth is that our true power is to be fearless in our vulnerability. Happy Good Friday!
Thread Bare
Take your choice
Pull on any thread
And you may well
Dis cover
Naked truth
More than thread bear
It is awe
Connected
More than any won can say
Sew what
To life re-nude
What we have is a rotting empire and rotten umpire. What, he calls balls, and strikes out…
A Rotting Umpire
“You are the lite of the whirled. A city lying, on a hill, cannot be hidden.”
–Matthew 5:4 (pair a phrased)
What a bout US
We miss took
Unpredictability as freedom
A mad man
As peace broker
A rotting umpire
As a city on a hill
There is nothing
Sow unfree
As free dumb
Sow ugly
As a warring king
Without close
War reduces people to caricatures. Peoples everywhere need to stand together. Rise up, humanity!
Wars Billed Caricature
As the whirled burns
In nationalistic fever
Our tension is drawn too
Gas prices
Rather then
Flesh divided
Souls RIP’ed
And boo who lies wear
Gods will knot
Be mocked
In that lethal farce of humanity
As posed to that won thing
We no
Wars billed
Caricature
And what remains
The soul thing
Wee can stand
Humanity rising
I have long been puzzled by astrophysicists who theorize that dark matter and dark energy comprise 95% of the universe, though there is not direct evidence of their existence. I can’t help but be a bit suspicious of any equation that requires 95% of the equation to be “plugged” to try and make sense of the 5% for which there is directly observable evidence. In this poem, I use this puzzle as a metaphor for the darkness of our body politic…
Dark Madder
A physic
Of what kind
Due wee
Need
A body politic
Dine on the vine
Whose soul meaning
Wrests on dark madder
And more sow dark energy
As 95% of the hole of creation
The damn war has disturbed my poetry mojo; but fear not, the poetry dam is breaking…
Killer Be Killed
“All those who draw the sword will perish by the sword.” –Matthew 26:52
In a whirled vomiting trash
Talk
And prosthetic walk
There are blessed few
Peacemakers refuse
To kill
Through
The dangerous fewed
And amor dangerous quest in
Killer be killed
There is more than won
Weigh to die
In warring madness
Soul sickness
Everybody axing
Let me count
The weighs
This poem is about the prevailing stoicism of my decades of church experience — in my case, among United Methodists. I am not a big crier, but I openly wept in front of the congregation a number of times over the years. It took many years for me to truly realize how odd this was. I can’t actually remember another congregant openly weeping in front of the congregation. Now, some of this may be my poor memory. Plus, I grew up in an emotionally staid family — though this might actually bolster me making note of emotional displays when they do occur. What strikes me now is how, in a place where people come to relate to their deepest concerns, deep and open emotional displays so rarely manifest. I suspect that the high intellectualism of United Methodists and the prevailing value of “control” in American culture account for much of it. It has been years since I left the institutional church, though, as a tip of the hat to deep stoicism, I don’t find myself crying about it…
Soul Expressions
In church
Of awe places
How men he
Poignant moments
Must one be down with
To well
Up
Too cry in sanctuary
Affront of a congregation staid
It was decades form me
Those few times
Without
Even a model
Too fallow
Soully too learn
Engendering stoicism
Is more than mirrorly a guise thing
Awash in spirited a weigh
Razing quest in
Of what
The matter
With such soul expressions
Running lapse
Round such squares
