poetry: catherine wolf – the faithful faithless

The Faithful Faithless
After signing 37 petitions, I dreamed
Sunday night 37 faithless members
of the electoral college, but faithful
to the national popular vote,
defected from the orange Rump
and voted for Hillary.
Russian hacking couldn’t turn
our election upside down.
America was great again!
But when I turned on the TV Monday night,
America was raped again.
Two electors dressed in camouflage
fatigues snuck away from the orange Slime
and voted for Kasich and Ron Paul.
On the blue Pantsuit side,
three deranged defectors voted Colin Powell,
one voted for Bernie to keep our revolution alive,
one flew to Native American
Faith Spotted Eagle’s perch.
Hillary won 2,800,000 more than Tiny Fingers,
why isn’t she the President-elect?
Because the electoral college uses
nonsensical rules of assigning electors to states.
It tilts power to small population states.
It’s hardly a college, more like doggy daycare.
Now we’re stuck with climate contrarian,
women-groping, Muslim-hating, Putin-loving,
nuke-hawking, lying-tweeting, cancerous Lump.
Time for a Lumpectomy!

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poetry: catherine wolf – magic spell against trump

Magic Spell Against Trump
Orange Trump,
You rump!
You love Putin,
here’s my sputum.
You brag about women groping.
You’ll end up in jail I’m hoping.
You orange vampire,
you suck blood from those you hire.
You lie about everything, the height of Trump Tower, the popular vote.
Don’t gloat!
You want to deprive us of civil rights.
Hell no! We’ll fight!
You say climate change is a “Chinese hoax.”
Save that for your Florida grandchild when she croaks .

Pugnacious pug!
You’re asking for a slug.
Your businesses, we’ll investigate.
You’ll drown in corrupt-gate.
This country won’t tolerate you.
We’ll impeach, get rid of you.
No sociopath fascist will be president.
In the White House, you’ll no longer be resident.
We will put you in jail.
The end of “Hail
Trump!”

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POETRY: JIM ZOLA – EUGENE

Eugene

I wrote about his death until he died.
Then I became my father. The shift
was gradual, the way a house might inch,
year by year, down an incline towards the street.
Bushes feel the nudge. Sidewalk cracks
could tell a tale, but who would listen?
Eventually the house will tumble

beam to basement. Unless contractors
come in to bolster floor joists, add girders.
When my mother visits for Christmas,
his name isn’t spoken. But in photographs,
I feel his eyes follow my movements.
My oldest son lumbers into the kitchen,
comes to lean against me. I pull away,
afraid of what is already happening.

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POETRY : Bobbi Sinha-Morey – THE SCENT OF ORCHID

The Scent Of Orchid

I saw her bare back as she
leaned forward in her bath,
her brown hair pinned up to
reveal the back of her neck,
and I caught a glimpse of her
chin through the bathroom
door, open by just a quarter.
I could imagine the scent of
orchid on her skin, water
running over her fingers,
the palms of her hands;
my mother’s sister, and she
didn’t care if I happened to
see her. But her beauty, her
perfect form, aroused the spirit
in my heart and I had to draw
her on paper. I stole away to
my own bedroom and in
the pale eloquence of the moon
I drew her on one of the artist’s
tablets I had; every curve,
every detail, the grace we lovely
women shared. And when I was
done the pearl sheen of my
sheets remained the screen I
drew up against the night.
I slept there, dreaming of
a muse bathing by herself
in the gentle dropping of
a waterfall.
~
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poetry: r.t. castleberry – a transfer of affection

A TRANSFER OF AFFECTION

Watching her movie look-alike,
I went to bed remembering
an Alabama ex-girlfriend.
I woke later, hard at the memory.
Younger than me,
she gave head, loved light jazz,
told me stories of her babies lost in divorce.
Engaged twice,
we drove ourselves to distraction
and transfers out of state.
She married in Birmingham, moved home
to monitor her mother’s health,
fell in with a fishing crowd.
She sends holiday emails.
I check photos on Facebook.
Her mother passed.

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POETRY: ERREN GURAUD KELLY – YOU BRING THE JAZZ OUT IN ME…

You Bring Out The Jazz In Me…
 
You bring out the jazz in me
The Art Blakey, Max Roach the Roy Hanes in me
Seeing you  shake your hips like
Congas…the way you move your hips to a mamba
My heart pounding like drums inside my head
But this fever wont put me in bed
Instead I get out on the dance floor
Your body like a treble clef note
Makes me  want  to dance more
It’s true,  you do…
You bring out the jazz in me
The Fats Navarro , Terrence Blanchard  and  Dave Douglas in me
I want to mimic the trumpets shout…cure war and recession
Act a clown like Dizzy, fix this country of racism and oppression
Make this country great again, even better than trump
You make me sing sweet freedom, every time I see your rump
Make me want to take king’s place on  that balcony
Be a human shield for J.F.K.,  oh for the life of me
Maybe anarchy will prevail with the sound of a horn
Though my rage and fury causes flags to be torn
Maybe like Chet, I’ll walk both worlds between a boy
And a girl, I’ll help the alphabet army rock the world
This is my love letter,  from me it’s true
You bring out the song of revolution in me
Yes, you do…yes, you do.
You bring out the jazz in me
The Jaco Pastorious Charlie Mingus
And Paul Chambers in me,
See your body mimic the the shape of a double bass,
Grab your wide hips
Cos I’m all about that bass, could never be a gigolo
Though I’ve been a heartbreaker…I’ll play you like
A brass band, be a real love maker, as every note
Comes out of me rings true
Together,  were a symphony and i want to play you
Play you, play…you….
You bring out the jazz in me
The high hat and the double time in me
Feel the downbeat of you and
And the backbeat, that’s true
Watch my blood pressure rise and
Fall like arpeggios
Want to take five after swinging with you
But oh no, a rim shot salutes your
Brilliance
And I want to multi track your excellence
I want to solo with you for ever and
Ever
You bring out the jazz in me…the piano playing
Keyboard slaying shaman in me…I want to make
Robots rise like Herbie…and turn l.a.
Into a psychedelic sci fi  roller derby
Like Wynton Kelly, I’ll seduce you into a trance
And  we’ll wake up in a speakeasy, and I’ll watch you dance
Like Bill Evans, the song of the mademoiselle suits you
We’ll dive into hysteria like monk
Craziness suits you
I can lose myself in any dream I please
Be a warrior or a healer, by way of 88 keys
I’m an errand boy for rhythm it’s true
A masochist for aural pleasure, it’s all because of you
It’s  true, you do, bring  it out of me…
-for Lisa
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poetry: jd dehart – world goes

World Goes

Tomorrow, the world goes on,
they have no idea what has
transpired. It is as if everyone
lives in a vacuum.

Everyone continues to the road
to finding personal happiness
through grand spending. We must
be there at 7:30 AM, we must be
here by noon.
The memo is so important.

They have no idea what I have
lost in the process, and could barely
be bothered to slow down enough
to take note.

~

DeHart blogs here.

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