My Poetical Slip is Showing

[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.

8 comments on “My Poetical Slip is Showing

  1. 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

  2. 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.

  3. 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.

  4. Here’s one I wrote some time ago but is still pertinent (note that it’s under copyright):


    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

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