[One of my hopeless competitors–T.S. Eliot]
I must admit to a poetical streak in my nature. I can hold it back no longer. As if struck by lightning, the following two poems occurred to me.
After decades of national trauma,
Brought on by two terms of Obama,
America rose
On the tips of her toes,
And canceled the liberal Drama.
Pretty cool, eh? Eat your heart out, T.S. Eliot. And then there’s this:
Progressives found some dynamite,
Couldn’t understand it quite.
Unbridled hubris never pays:
It rained libs for seven days.
Now if that doesn’t get you, what will? All I gotta do now is wait for that call from the Pulitzer Prize Committee.
Bravo! Encore!
Your poems are working well,
It’s very clear to tell
That you weave words with skill
The liberals’ lies you kill
Deserve full refutation.
Your well-earned reputation
Of uprightness enlightened
Keeps all the Lefties frightened.
–Ray Miller
Our Cherished Minority Groups
Have got us all jumping through hoops.
You just can’t appease ’em,
You never can please ’em–
And they’re backed up by government snoops.
Ha ha! 😆 Very nice!
The Left verses Right’s battle is wearisome and long,
But it’s really a fight over whose Right and whose Wrong.
The Left has its standard, which is Karl Marx,
The Right has Jesus living in peoples’ hearts.
Have I started something here?
Here’s one I wrote some time ago but is still pertinent (note that it’s under copyright):
BENEDICTION FROM A BREADLINE
The scalpers overcharged us for the play
We starred in, overtaxed us for the scenes
Cut from the script. Still, none so blessed as they
Who, sleeping sweetly in their limousines,
Rejoice to hear their prisoners at play.
Our carts before the nightmare, we will park
In metered fields of praise—though, it is true,
Those hands held out to bless us from the dark
Bear a bejeweled and holy likeness to
The hands that picked our pockets in the park.
So pour the last libation down the sink
And pay the pickled piper, who demands
A surtax on the hemlock in our drink.
Come, let us kiss and part. And let our hands
Wave gaily from the quicksand as we sink.
© 2022 Phoebe S. Spinrad
Wow.