June, 2017


Fletcher, Namkai-Meche, and Best.
Standing up against the poison that divides,
Pushed back against the bloodless, bleeding tides,
Now, one forever scarred and two forever rest.

A vector on a train, their fate
with Christian – my, what’s in a name –
A soul at war, a hatred to proclaim,
An offer to his father god of hate.

This is the now for some – the time to kill
To subjugate or slay the demon other
Ignoring truth: we share a common mother
And yet in death I am your brother still.

Some look away. Some run. Some freeze or stare.
I lie awake and ask, “if I were there…?”


Screw the global village.
It’s time to pillage.


It appears that The President’s stiffin’
The comedian Kathy Griffin.
Her career may be dead
Over some tasteless head.
He can dish, but not take, the riffin’.


From terror to government swindling,
Respect for life seems to be dwindling.
Must corruption and hate
Determine our fate?
We have got to be more than just kindling.


Farage and his ilk are the champs
As the response to terror up-ramps.
This Brexit romancer
Suggests that the answer
Is putting all Arabs in camps.


One thousand three hundred and twenty-four
Days until the next inauguration.
Occurrences defy imagination
In numbers that are hard for keeping score.

Despite our best, Democracy is tired
And throwing tantrums on and off the stage
Expressions new of violence and rage
A TV Boss who’s catchphrase is “you’re fired”.

And shouting, always shouting, drowning out
Compassion, conversation and debate
While headlines scream the newest scenes of hate
And spew a mix of fear, half-truths and doubt.

Within this noise I long to hear the sound
Of Babel’s Tower tumbling to the ground.


I don’t mean to drag out that bit again,
But glyphosate’s a deadly carcinogen.
Monsanto’s collusion
Sold safety’s illusion.
What an upstanding corporate citizen!


Alone, two men faced off in a green room.
And so began a tense and subtle dance.
One claims to favor truth at every chance.
The other: loyalty. But then, to what and whom?

And what in fact did we expect to hear.
That certain players warrant a free ride?
That Russian agents snuck a man inside?
That Sessions and McConnell both are queer?

Let’s hear from he who led the FBI.
And how they’d work a hostile foreign power.
But will the guilty ever truly cower,
And will we ever know the real why.

With history as our guide, we get the sense
That politics abides no innocence.


Did Comey throw Trump in the tank?
Is Flynn tied to some Russian bank?
During CNN’s tizzy,
Our Congress was busy
Carving up what was left of Dodd-Frank.


The lobbyists pulled off a trick,
Knowing just what makes our congress tick.
They’ve helped tip the scale:
Banks are too big to fail,
But the rest are poor to get sick.


Union-bustin’, poor-bashin’ Paul Ryan
Says the president’s green, but he’s tryin’
“He’s just new to this”
Ach! My ass he can kiss!
His sorry excuse I ain’t buyin’.


Politics has many fine pupils
Schooled in dollars and euros and rubles.
First, you’re up, sittin’ pretty,
While your “friends” feed the kitty
Then you ask how you lost all your scruples.


As your morning progresses, please note:
A Health Care Bill soon gets a vote.
Crafted behind our backs,
The compassion it lacks
Will hurt as it’s crammed down our throats.


On Monday, stalwart men around a table
Reflected clear the strangeness of our days
A shameless shower of loyalty and praise
Heaped on this bully child they enable.

They sing about his “record-setting pace”
And one by one, they baldly kiss his ring
To wipe away all trace of Comey’s sting
And daring not to speak truth to his face.

For just beyond the tweeting midnight rambles
Our health, our land, our rights all ebb away
A country-wide assault of truth-decay
A sad, corrupted government in shambles.

And Priebus says how blessed he is to serve.
Speed up my friend. A lot. Here comes the curve.


So many deaths. So little time to grieve.
The fire, the lead, the anger. Then, the blood.
Has what was once the trickle become the flood.
What innocent will be the next to leave.

I look for justice served and come up blank.
Does one deserve to die for what one thinks?
Does one have rights to kill because life stinks?
Is this to what collectively we’ve sank.

My thoughts and prayers are weary now. No more.
I long to raise my hands in gratitude.
But cannot shake this pessimistic attitude
For what tomorrow’s headlines have in store.

Each breath we take affords us more to give.
Til otherwise informed, let’s fiercely live.


I have some friends who think he’s a creep,
While others praise one of Christ’s sheep.
But hero or cur, one thing is for sure –
Right now, he’s one lawyer’d up Veep.


It’s hard to say what is so great
About House Bill sixteen-two-eight.
Behind the scenes wrangling
Leaves poor and sick dangling
While the lucky and healthy can skate.


A Milwaukee sheriff named Clarke
Made his prisons no walk in the park.
Sporting badges and patches,
A man died down his hatches,
And he’s harder on you if you’re dark.

But despite his hard line resume
At the DHS he will not play.
Has a shadow been cast
By some skeletons past?
At the moment, we really can’t say.


For whispers where
They hide their bones,
There’s no one quite like


Ex-NSA head Flynn, it seems,
Sold surveillance to evil regimes.
To keep under duress
Dissidents and the press.
Cash sings while democracy screams.


A Senate head by name of Mitch
Knew his purpose was serving the rich.
So his Medicaid cuts
Kicked the sick and poor’s butts.
That heartless old son of a bitch.


The reins of power, once touched, are fiercely grasped.
And who among us still could walk away,
Despite the harm we’d do if we should stay.
Who’d dare admit the sacred prime has passed.

And when the plan becomes but to remain,
How many righteous goals must we so sadly see go,
The sacrifice of dreams eclipsed by ego.
The glory of the past can be the future’s bane.

A bloodless passing of the crown? How rare indeed.
How many allies lost for fear of youth
When coveting the throne eclipses truth,
When truth above all else is what we need.

Let go the reins, but stay to guide and teach,
Or see The House forever out of reach.


When Healthcare from Hell was contested,
And deep Medicaid cuts were protested.
The disabled, the scared,
The poor and impaired,
Were simply dragged off and arrested.


One July 6th in ol’ Falcon Heights,
A policeman had two in his sights.
The events that transpired –
The seven shots fired
Wouldn’t happen if those two were whites.

But NRA words of support
Are pretty much coming up short.
What was legally carried
Led to one getting buried,
And another acquitted in court.


Our President proposed something grand:
For new immigrants, welfare is banned.
What a fine, forward plan!
(Someone please tell the man
That it’s already law of the land).


We don’t know what cuts are in store,
But we know who the profits are for.
You don’t need to quote it.
It’s the people who wrote it
Who have the “meanness” at their core.


At briefings now,
It seems that Sean
Is scared to turn
The cameras on.


On the one thousand
Three hundred-
And -second
What did
Have to


A countdown til the next Administration.
While headlines favor gossip over issues,
And for each victim we break out the tissues,
The real powers work to shape our nation.

Above all else, preserve the status quo:
To squeeze more from the lower 99.
This will not change should 45 resign.
(A truth both sides along the aisle know)

All up in arms o’er some offensive tweet.
While softly, bills appear upon the docket
With crafty laws, designed to pick our pocket
By Red and Blue, complicit in deceit.

Each day, solutions seem more out of range.
A far cry from Obama’s “Hope and Change”


While today’s morning news headlines greets
Us with outrage for Donald Trump tweets.
We’d best save our fires
For the crooks and the liars
Who take up Congressional seats.

May, 2017


For my birthday, the greatest of presents?
To dine on Mar a Lago pheasants,
Play a round of 18,
Do some things quite obscene,
Then go laugh and point at the peasants.



With his spending bill in disarray
Trump’s mad at the Dems who won’t play.
He says “we’ll show this town –
We’ll shut government down!”
Ah, the leadership skills on display!


Our existence is a fragile dance.
A balance of creatures and plants.
Monsanto’s lies
Jeopardize food supplies
We’d all better give bees a chance.


The guy who wrote Art of The Deal
Is the first to say he’s a Big Wheel.
Some are disappointed.
Others claim he’s anointed.
But to me, he is just a schlemiel.


The problems that you might have had before,
Like Lupus, Herpes, Gout and Heart Disease,
Parkinson’s, the Stones in your Kidneys
Sleep Apnea or things Tuburculor,

An Ulcer, Sickle Cell and Paraplegia
Lung Cancer, Restless Leg, COPD
A Pacemaker or Hepatitis C
Thyroid Issues, Schizophrenia

Depression, Prostate Problems, Bulimia
Lymphoma, Migraines, Muscular Dystrophy
High Cholesterol, Hysterectomy
Blood Clots, Autism, Crohn’s, Dementia,

Are no longer covered, being “pre-existing”,
And for this, in the wind, poor lives are twisting.


It’s enough to make words fail ya
When your president decides ta nail ya.
Goodbye safety net.
Goodbye Medicaid, yet
he praises health care in Australia.


Welcome foreign businessman to Great U S of A.
And now here’s just a subtle hint where you might want to stay:
Majestic gilded towers that boldly show his name,
DC, New York and Florida are where to bring your game.

A salesman he is by trade, a president by hobby
But take a look from where you stand, the name that’s in the lobby.
The drapes and curtains all say Trump, as does the center dome,
And all the Trump note pads and pens to take to friends back home.

Trump postcards and an ashtray. A Trump plunger if you’re stuck.
Free Trump balls for a round of golf that you can kiss for luck.
Lay your head on a Trump pillow. Savor your Trump good-night mint.
Let your feet sink in the carpet. Who’s carpet? Need a hint?

In the morning, take a shower in the stall that’s marked with “T”
And the Trump encrusted tile? Please, be careful where you pee.
Organic Trump shampoo and soap and mouthwash never fail ya.
Feel the soft and thick Trump terry robe against your genitalia.

And when you’d like to dine, there’s Trump on every plate and glass
And by the time the deal’s done, there’ll be Trump on your ass.
It’s not to peddle influence. Don’t dare say such a thing.
At least for the time being, he’s President, not King.

But just one question as you go, one thing that’s not quite clear.
Explain to me why there is no conflict of interest here.


You can argue for Repub or Dem
But neither side has a real gem.
There’s no great decision
Just sad lack of vision
And a “vote for us ‘cause we’re not THEM”.


On the stand, Sally Yates is no fool.
She’s articulate, truthful and cool.
And not on the fence
About Flynn’s lies to Pence
For his time as covert Russian tool.


This FBI, so “cherished and respected”,
But will its Russian probe come to a halt,
And will we ever know true cause and fault
With Comey suddenly so “re-directed”.

Long questioned for the timing of his leaks.
Long doubted by the Senate for deception.
Long thwarted grasping for encryption.
No sympathy for when his nausea peaks.

One wonders can Democracy survive
Such ignorance, and internecine coups.
Who has the guts to stand up and refuse
To give the ghost of Nixon a high five.

Who’d want this Top Cop job, and why?
Perhaps young Edward Snowden might apply…


Bharara, Comey and Yates.
How odd they’d find similar fates.
Each investigation
On behalf of our Nation
Led to them being shown exit gates.


Sessions says “lock ’em all up for drugs.
Enough with the handshakes and hugs.”
Good news, this decision
If you’re a private prison,
Or with high-level white-collar thugs.


Thirteen hundred and forty eight,
The days continue, ever counting,
And stories – strange upon stranger – keep mounting,
On twisted paths to making something great.

Some laugh and point as Trump, he sticks it to ’em.
While others cry “resist, revolt, impeach!”
While others still find truths beyond the reach
Of mainstream sources, who can but refute ’em.

And daily now, silent and unsilent rage.
Explosions dot the landscape and inside.
As Sacred Knowns get taken for a ride.
100 years from now – a book? or just a page.

Each moment, choices. A chance to fight or flee.
Find ways to be the change you want to see.


Donald Trump gave his best wishes to
The new grads of Liberty U.
The proceedings went swell.
Being friends with Falwell,
It’s the one place where no one would boo.

5/15/17 – Mother’s Day

A question for Mary MacLeod –
When you look at your son, are you proud?
Are you fine with his rudeness
His ego and crudeness,
Or prefer he were kind, and less loud.


Sharing secrets that are classified
Is an action that many have tried.
I’m sure there’s a reason.
So I won’t call it treason,
But for it, the Rosenbergs died.


It’s enough to drive one insane
And perhaps cause severe gastric pain
So I think that today
I will break, if I may,
And put DT out of my brain.


Oh, shed a tear
For Roger Ailes.
Instead of ‘fessing up,
He bails.

Poor Roger Ailes
That pudgy old elf.
In hell there’s no one to touch
But yourself.


You can act like you really don’t care, or
You can scream in panic and terror.
You can laugh at Trump jokes
But there’s still many folks
Who don’t think they voted in error.


I will try to keep this rhyme cleaner
And not creep into things more obscener,
But only an ass
Thinks a 15 year-old lass
Would want to see Anthony’s Weiner.


The Saudis. Long-time allies, albeit troubled ones.
But still a deal had been struck, perhaps some time ago.
One-hundred ten, in billions now, and all that worth in guns.
We wring our hands, we shake our heads. But why, we’ll never know.

These are our schools, our roads, our arts, our student loans.
This is our health, both separately and in sets.
While still we curse at strangers met upon our phones,
And few among us qualify as of the “gets”.

In prayer and in my life, I often ponder sin.
And humbly seek forgiveness for the times that I’ve caused pain.
And long to someday drain the swamp – the swamp that lies within.
One-hundred ten, in billions now. In loss of life. Insane.

Don’t preach to me of sacred plans. I cannot seek salvation
From any god that pleasures in destroying his creation.


So The Prez wants to cut some assistance.
I’ll assume that he’ll meet with resistance.
But others just sigh,
“Hey, let the poor die.
It’s so over-rated, existence.”


On the stand, Flynn makes quite the defendant
In his uniform, he looks resplendent.
Ah, the tales he’d tell.
But damnit to Hell,
He’s taking the 5th amendment.


When Trump groped an Arabic sphere,
The Internet leaned back in fear,
Suspecting conspiracy
Or Islamic heresy,
While Melania watched with a sneer.


On one side stood a man of peace
Of mercy and humility.
The other side had one who’d fleece
The poor, and boast virility.

The awkwardness this photo found.
The striking clash of worlds and style
The boundless soul, the soulless bound.
The grimace and the clueless smile

These differences both stark and odd
Inspiring shame and pity.
For one here serves both man and God.
The other? Grabbin’ kitty.


Man, the things that he says! The nerve!
Every day a new reason to swerve.
What does all this reflect?
Someone said, “You elect
The government that you deserve”.


Is this rash of abuse of reporters
Quite OK among right-wing supporters?
Such behavior – uncouth
In pursuit of the truth
Is a game plan within fascist borders.


I think there’s a place in this nation
For “backchannel” “communication”.
It should happen at night
Twixt the Left and the Right
And, of course, involve inebriation.


Climate Change is not worth my rhyme.
The EPA’s wasting our time.
It’s only a hoax!
Trust the fossil fuel folks!
Like sugar and ciggies, they’re fine!


When it comes to our nation’s Intel,
Our president does it up swell!
In matters Top Secret
You wonder who leaked it?
There’s no need to ask. He’ll just tell.


The Cubans called Castro El Jefe.
In Europe some crave plain Nescafé.
But you must be insane
If you can explain
The mystery of Donald’s covfefe.

April, 2017

The April Fool
He is not jokin’
Beneath the Sideshow
Power has spoken.
With pen in hand,
He’ll slash away.
The New Agenda
Is in play.
No Laff Track clap trap
Obscures that sound
Of Human Rights
as they get ground

A daily verse to the perverse.
A daily rhyme to the sublime
insanity that seems to bind our time
together, (tho yes it could be so much worse).

One thousand three hundred eighty nine more
Continues this push-pull cheering, sobbing
Great or Grating? Still, this subtle robbing
Eroding what stood proudly once before.

To shadow hands, our world is just a toy
With pawns and puppets playing out their roles
For those who broker lives and steal souls
But still, it is our right to find our Joy.

There’s more to hope for than this verse displays,
And more to do than sit and count the days.

With Pruitt
The EPA’s man,
you’d best
breathe deeply
while you

There once was a judge named Gorsuch
Who didn’t like poor people much.
So the Dems tried to muster
A House filibuster.
Those with privilege seem out of touch.

A Russian dictator named Putin
Solved his problems though poison & shootin’
But upon deep reflection,
That he hacked our election
Is a matter, still, of some disputin’.

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the stalwart GOP
Cruz and Rubio were slippin’, and the rest were lost at sea.
Poor Kasich seemed a RINO and Jeb Bush was still a Bush
But no one quite expected it was Trump who’d kick their tush.

The Democrats, they had their gal – or maybe she had them.
For the DNC conspired to keep ol’ Bernie in the ‘pen.
This time around, no Barry O was there to block her way,
But no single mainstream pundit won the bet on that sad day.

TV Debates were called a draw, and no one quite knew why
A man could be the victor for not spitting on his tie.
But from the bleak fly-over states to fields of alt-right hate,
They knew a pussy-grabbin’ clown would make this country great.

Behind the scenes, and gradually, a new advisor crept.
He sported a gin-blossom nose, and clothes in which he slept.
He hated DC Bureaucrats, and vowed to clear the air,
And had support from Mercer, the Anarchist Billionaire.

But in the meantime, Donald led like Nero back in Rome,
With Conway perched upon her knees just looking quite at home
While at Sean Spicer’s podium amongst evasive lies,
Alternate facts just sat there. In piles, and drawing flies.

His campaign promises fell moot – no wall, no Muslim ban
But privacy and “climate change” were tossed into the can.
His Healthcare plan was DOA – it simply wouldn’t fly.
The Freedom Caucus voted “no” ‘cause not enough would die.

Behind the scenes, Steve Bannon stood. Quite mum about his plots –
A world where he and Alex Jones would get to call the shots
Then when his bloated face had graced the front of Time one day,
Some folks, they started askin’ ‘round – who is he, anyway?

They say he came from Goldman Sachs, and left as a VP
And then he went to Breitbart News and trashed the Left with glee.
He made some propaganda films that proved the Right was right
And all along, with Mercer, his good buddy, he stayed tight.

Who really knew what Bannon wanted when he came to town.
The Donald’s ear? He had it. Still, the word was gettin’ ‘round
That past the policy advice, he had far darker aims –
He longed to see the system crash and burn and left in flames.

But Donald Trump defended him just as an old friend should.
And he who sits at his right hand once said, “Darkness is good.”
But something happened here today, the whys we’ll never know
Kept secret too, the deeper truths beneath this sad sideshow

For somewhere in our Government, behind the fastened doors,
Where Generals can fantasize about their Global Wars.
Back in the hallowed NSC, you’ll hear a joyous shout,
One thousand, three-eight-five to go, Steve Bannon has struck out.

It’s not what Bill O’Reilly did
And not that Trump condones it
It’s not who’s in the White House,
But the secret group that owns it.

There once was a man named Assad.
As a ruler he thought he was God.
With astounding velocities,
He committed atrocities.
I’m sorry. This world is too odd.

Because then, without asking please,
With his bombs, Trump made more casualties.
Then lamented the cost
Of innocents lost,
But he still won’t let in refugees.

As distressing as I find these times,
I’m still sitting here writing rhymes.
My daily obsession
Helps stave off depression
Til I get locked up for Thought Crimes.

One thousand three hundred and eighty two
And each day, new events, so sad and strange
With peace and justice sadly out of range
While power rests in hands of just the few

Say no to crimes of rigged elections
Vote out the shills bought off by cash confections
Remove the ones who’d piss on your protections
And those who have to kill to get erections.

Retire elected puppets bought and paid
By billionaires and right-wing think-tank thugs
Blackly financed by sex and guns and drugs
The ones who of the Truth they are afraid

There still are ways for stopping evil’s climb.
Find power in the ballot while there’s time

This is number 1,381.
And we’re havin’ so much fun…
Lay me down
Roll me over
Do it again.

I want a government that works for guys like me.
That builds us roads that work and schools that teach.
Not some prosperity forever out of reach.
But spacious skies from sea to shining sea.

Don’t give me leaders who just stand around and bitch.
Plot narrow points along a party line
And live their lives in mansions far too fine
While making poorer poor and richer rich.

And when we’re old or sick, to lend a hand
To those who lived their lives as best they could.
A government that serves collective good
And acts as grateful steward of our land.

And then I see the government we got
And wonder how the hell that it got bought.

Yesterday, Dr. Dao was enroute
To Kentucky, but given the boot.
This brutal tirade
Has now sadly made
The concept of “Friendly Skies” moot.

Sean Spicer, he sure has a flair
For blurting untruths without care.
How senseless and crass –
“Hitler never used gas”.
He should talk to some folks who were there.

Kim Jong Un –
Please put down the gun.

Eleven tons of power
Fall down from the sky
And in a mile radius
No time to say goodbye.

“We don’t kill no civilians”
We’ve heard that one before
We also know that truth’s
The first casualty of war

The journalists all in a row
Will take down what is said
Then play it back in black and white
So we don’t see the red.

I have no love for ISIS
Or Radical Islam
But please explain – why did we drop
This Mother of All Bombs.

He called this mission a success
A huge, tremendous score.
I’m pretty sure he liked it
And soon, there might be more.

The game of global Real Estate
A grab for oil and sand
There’s no Art to the Deal
Just the button in his hand.

Golden eggs are a charming addition
To an annual White House tradition.
For the party this Easter
He’ll grab a mom’s keister
And charge all the kiddies admission.

Ayn Rand, could you lend a hand?
Or is it for you: all about Me.
Must you shun complexities of We?
Is your Sacred self so god-damned grand?

I get your fetish for the human will
I also have wondered, “Who is John Galt?”
But is it truly the collective’s fault
When the lucky few take far beyond their fill?

Is human value but a bottom line?
Our greatest purpose only to consume?
To simply be – have we run out of room
In bowing to free market’s Frankenstein?

This poem comes to me as one big question
And from your answer I might get indigestion.

As months progress,
The question burns ~
What is inside

Behind the black mask
There lies,
For sure,
Another agent

There once was a rally in Berkeley
Where some goons on the right acted jerkily.
Them fascist provokers
Brought clubs, knives and pokers.
While the police looked on somewhat quirkily.

This morning, we saw on TV
That FOX News has dumped Bill O’Rielly.
He was given the boot
And a Gold Parachute.
In all fairness, he never touched me.

On Earth Day, a nod to Scott Pruitt.
Climate change is a hoax. Nothing to it.
As things slowly get hotter,
Some day, under water,
He’ll sadly admit that he blew it.

Rush Limbaugh is an addict.
Bill’s a sexist pig
Ann Coulter is a scarecrow
With no brains beneath her wig.

Then there’s Tucker Carlson
With his mommy-tied bow-tie.
And if Glen Beck should come to mind,
I only wonder why.

The local Michael Savage?
A bully and a hack.
I’m glad that Milo went away,
And please never come back.

“Performance artist” Alex Jones
Is paranoid and mad
And Koppel said Sean Hannity,
For America, is bad.

These shouting, ranting pundits
Hot air like passing gas,
Debates like All-Star Wrestling
But only with less class.

Where are the thoughtful voices
To speak for the Red State
Who don’t spew tired insults
And ratings-driven hate

On either side, politically,
It’s reasoned thought I crave.
Somewhere, old William Buckley
Is a’ rolling in his grave.

Days to go: One-Three-Six-Seven.
All good children go to Heaven.

Three Cheers for our boy Jeffery Sessions.
His policies, mostly regressions.
While for Justice he’s crowing,
His white sheet is showing.
No wonder there’s voter suppression.

The billionaire Betsy DeVoss
Of the whole country’s schools was made boss.
For our students I fret.
Empty minds full of debt.
And each science class gets its own cross.

Our grants for the Arts are quite small.
Not much of our budget at all.
But they still get the slash
To help free up more cash
To build 2,000 miles of wall.

Our President: narcissist, manic.
Still, some say there’s no need to panic.
Some march, others fret.
Some have voter regret.
Dusting deck chairs upon the Titanic.

One-thousand three hundred and sixty-two
Days until this administration ends
And still the Corporate Media pretends
This sad joke is not on me and you.

On what to do, elected Dems still draw a blank
So marchers pick a cause and fill the streets
Their clever phrases raised on signs and sheets
While those who call the shots march to the bank.

One hundred days. So many swamps to drain.
So many walls to build, bridges to burn.
So much fake news exhausting to unlearn
And far too many drugs to mask our pain.

To Great America, let us raise our drink.
A subsidiary of Koch Brothers, Inc.

At the Press Dinner on Saturday,
Donald Trump did not come to play.
He eschewed their lampooning
Preferring the swooning
Of his dear friends at the NRA.

March, 2017


With days to go
At fourteen-oh-five
Please celebrate
Your being alive.


The days to go
Are Fourteen – O – Four.
Kellyanne Conway
Is a parlor house whore.


With days to go
At fourteen-oh-three
Don’t let 45
Put his hand on your knee.


With his “Yes Men” advisors in tow,
His First Lady is still a no-show.
Will Democracy thrive,
Or just rich guys survive –
Fourteen-Hundred & Two days to go.


Fourteen Hundred and One.
And the fun’s just begun!
Slashing budgets except for Defense.
He’s not qualified.
He big-talked, and lied.
Would we rather have President Pence?


There’s Fourteen Hundred Days!
Let’s hear Hip-Hip Hoorays!

(Except from people who are gay
Or came from countries far away
The scientists and teachers too,
Unlucky folks who get the flu,
And have no cash to see their Docs,
The bees all dying by the flock,
The Native folk who daily pray
On land where their ancestors lay,
Artistic folks who must create
And all the foreign heads of state,
The ones not deaf to those in need
Or fueled by power, lust and greed
The hearts that ache, the souls that grieve
The fools who want clean air to breathe
The sick, the scared, the sad, the old,
The folks who don’t do what they’re told.
The Eagle, Buffalo and Foxes
Those who don’t fit into boxes.
Made by those who claim to see
The truth about what you should be,
And those who think and those who feel
And have to beg for their next meal
Because they lost their safety net
To fund defense department debt,
And social justice league attorneys
And all of us who cast for Bernie.)

To those of you who’re left to cheer –
You have a pleasant day, m’ dear.


Thirteen hundred and ninety nine days
Until the Madness End.
Unless ,INC comes after your name,
Neil Gorsuch is not your friend.


Thirteen hundred and ninety eight
I ain’t got no more time for hate.


One thousand three hundred and ninety seven
Days til this administration ends.
With bitter arguments twixt families and friends
As whether it’s path leads to hell or heaven.

Emailed leaks and Russians fill the news
Alluding to and masking plans beneath.
Dark visionaries rotting Freedom’s Wreath.
Believe with all your heart the Truths you choose.

And as a rhyming counter of the days,
Distractions from the things left undiscussed –
This sad and crumbling edifice that is us.
The price a future generation pays.

My counting down – a mask for my confusion,
Lamenting every obvious conclusion.


Thirteen-ninety-six days to go
That health care vote was quite a show.
The Freedom Caucus had him eating crow.
Let’s hear it again for The Party of No.


The Tower where Mrs. Trump stays
Has a bill our society pays.
Barricades and 5-0
Costing mountains of dough
Thirteen hundred and ninety five days.


With the common folk he’s out of touch.
With their minimum wages and such.
Doesn’t care if you’re tired.
Freeze to death or get fired.
Vote ‘no’ on Neil Gorsuch.


Only 1,393 days to go.



Thirteen hundred and ninety two days
Until I hope we will be parting ways
With this pretender to an elevated station,
This avowed enemy of education,
Champion of deniers of science,
Advocate of self reliance
Unless you’re of the moneyed elite,
Or nourished at the lobbyist teat.
One-percent? Russian?
Pick up the phone. Otherwise, sorry.
Yer on yer own.
Man of the deal. Man of action.
Treating governance as a financial transaction.
Such a gamer. Such a kidder.
Selling legacies to the highest bidder.
Fearful of press, avoider of arts
Narcissistic whiffer of his own farts
Making America great again
Yes, let the deregulation begin!
Jobs! Jobs! Jobs! At any cost, growth!
A cynical mockery of a sacred oath.
Who’s woods these are, I think I know.
His house is in a gated village though.

Poems are made by fools like me.
But only God can make a tree.


Thirteen hundred and ninety one.
Celebrated, in brief, with rhyme.
Telling the truth’s not always fun,
But General Flynn – you should try it sometime.