The Poet-New Year's Toast

New Year’s Toast

We do not know what comes this year

yet raise and quaff your cup,

for we again will persevere...

once we sober up.

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The Poet-The Holiday Season

The Holiday Season

We hear this Season’s call to all,

the urge to bond...let hearts be gay.

Time flips his page as last sand’s fall,

a moment’s pause...then new birthday.

So let us celebrate and share

the joy this Season brings,

and pray our kith and kin are heir

to all the love that from it springs.

Happy Holidays!

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The Poet-The Constitution

The Constitution

“We the People” chose those words

two hundred years ago...and more.

But little knew the hazards

translations can outpour.

Seems ev’ry time a Prez makes Feds

law precedents oft change.

I wonder why the new bipeds

old judgments now estrange.

The words within appear in ink,

containing freedmen’s chi.

Interpreters must pause to think...

your gist may just morph destiny.

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The Poet-Illegal's Poll

Illegal’s Poll

Don’t deport me, let me stay.

I’ll work, earn cash...send far away.

Don’t need to be a citizen...

just let me stray among free men.

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The Poet-Affluenza

Affluenza

Affluenza runs amok...

we need a shot, or pill.

If wealth can for their children pluck

new words to save them when they kill.

A shot used to inoculate

the judge who will resolve their fate.

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The Poet-Yutu

Yutu

China’s now industrial...

sent Yutu to the moon.

This may help them pave the way

to send some smog there soon.

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The Poet-The Unearthly Visitor

The Unearthly Visitor

Meteorite or bolide?

One’s very bright, one’s rarely eyed.

A bolide buzzed Tucson last night,

but, no one saw the thing alight.

It’s much too late to run in fear,

but, pray big brother isn’t near.

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The Poet-The Polls

The Polls

Politician, lawyer, banker...

few are known to stir more rancor.

Skills now  held in low esteem,

because they fleece us as a team.

Pols make laws they need not heed.

Those laws are bent to lawyers’ need.

And bankers are their corrupt crew...

for all do service their god, Greed.

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The Poet-The Stock Market

The Stock Market

The market rose and now it falls...

a nameless few guide puts or calls.

Are they but very fearful bunch...

or do they on the their neighbors lunch?

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ISON's Demise

ISON’s Demise

If ISON has shattered,

and pieces are splattered,

but few on the face of the sun,

it will not have mattered,

‘less those which are scattered,

head straight for the earth as they run.

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