The Poet--What Lies Below!

What lies below!

As you and I now face the fear

that pols have so long dread,

we now must face the monster

that o’er the year’s all fed.

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The Poet--Awards (Oscar, Obie, Emmy, et al)

The Awards

(Oscar, Obie, Emmy, et al.) 

Performing artists earn applause

for aiding calm or cogitation.

But when honors are bestowed,

it should not be a coronation.

Observe the stars that play all roles

from peon to a sage or knight.

A thousand lines they’ll memorize,

but one “Thank You” takes a fortnight...

with guidance gone, their words turn trite.

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The Poet--Same Old Cliff

The Cli

           f

           f

Again, we face the same old cliff

that pols could not avoid.

They bluster, blunder and blame each other...

and harmony destroyed.

Instead of rule by Plato

our pols are mired in Play-Doh. 

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The Poet--Contraptions

Contraptions

Science brought us useful things...

found ways to raze harsh bastions.

It helped to make life easier...

till they devised contraptions.

Take cars for an example...

in past they were a snap to drive.

They added all their gimcracks,

and we can’t figure out the jive.

And, then there is the telephone...

that any idiot could use.

And, now phones have so many apps...

we do not talk, we search menus.

So, make them prove their next adaption

won’t morph into a damned contraption.

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The Poet--Obamacare...et al.

New Laws (Obamacare...et al.)

Here we go again,

the pols impose a tax.

And here we go again,

what they pay they relax.

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The Poet--State of the Union Speech

State of the Union Speech

The President, of course, spoke well,

his points made with fervor and force.

He hawked the plan to us he’d sell

but had to stretch some facts, of course.

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The Poet--Camouflage

Camouflage

Hunters say they cull the weak

to leave food for the strong.

Grand antlered heads upon their walls

tell all their statement’s wrong.

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The Poet--The Morning Paper

The Morning Paper

I used to like to read the news...

I guess that I do still,

that is if I can find it

within the ads that fill.

A page and a half of ads

bar headlines from my view.

The sports page has the same

from news that has value.

And, then there are the stickers

to tell me of some sale.

To see the front page news beneath

I must peal to unveil.

The pages extra wide of ads

never are by me outspread.

All those gimmicks fill the trash

ere any worthy news is read.

The news is on the internet...

on radio and TV.

But I still buy the paper...

it goes well with coffee. 

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The Poet--The Super Bowl

The Super Bowl 

I know it is the Super Bowl,

the media has told me so.

They have spent two weeks, or more,

to ensure we all will know.

I love football...that is clear.

I watch the contest every year.

I pick the team I deem the best...

adverse outcome drown in beer.

Like most, I have my favored teams

and, when they’re playing, pleasure streams.

But, if the other team should win,

I hold within unkind blasphemes.

Like, every year, I’ll join the throng

as Super Sunday comes along.

Yet, I’ll still bet on who’s the best...

and Baltimore won’t prove me wrong.

{I hope!}

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The Poet--Punxsutawney Phil

Punxsutawney Phil

The people of PA.

have the nerve to say

that Punxsutawney Phil

knows how long that we’ll feel chill.

If he had looked and found no shade,

a big mistake he would have made.

For six more weeks in winter's mill,

and Phil could end up as roadkill.

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