The Peeresident

 

Ode to Donald Pee -
the insect politician, seems he
devours his followers-- daily!
Outed by the righteous Sir Comey
that in the mirror he does see
an entire country..and gleefully blurts-
ahhh- my just desserts!

Somewhere, wet eyes in upward stare
rise like a mighty flock in fervent prayer
that justice still exists, and everywhere
there is dread and fear, that the puppet strings
that make America sting in discord, may yet bring
the soul of its true self to rise, Phoenix-like from ashes
scorched ground, the Lord's whip has many lashes
and the greatest pain is in the joy of forgiveness

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The phrase "insect politician" borrowed with this attribution from the script and movie The Fly (1986) starring Jeff Goldblum,  directed and co-written by David Cronenberg.  © 6 hours ago, H. D. Moore    rhyme

TheRump of the joke

Turn of the year, Russia's gift
For America a political facelift
At the now far Righter House, grown stiff
Into a much Whiter House, it was as if-
someone turned on the spigot
unto a flow of infamous bigots.

Out - poured Breitbart and Bannon
Sessions and unknowns for secession
And the man from Kansas, for suppression
Ensure a snow-white ballot, and guns-
neither anti-black, nor Latino, he notes
unless they’d use the right to vote.

One woman said: white supremacist
Was like calling Smog a big mist

There’s no doubt, came from the horse’s mouth
And spread across the West and South
Spoken aloud and in code far and near
Wherever there be a lendable ear—
But then someone said no- he’s is not
No white supremacist, not a jot!

We are left, humbled and blind to stumble
Like the titan in Gaza so mistaken we mumbled
We had no idea- if he is not a white supremacist then
He must be wearing a deception, a brokered skin…

It is so shocking, the entire world taken suddenly aback--
For If not a white supremacist- then he must be Black!

Authors of Confusion

Into my childhood ears, wisdom poured

From the lips that held the most precious breath

The voice that carried a wisdom from then unto then, and even now

The tones of truths held dear, re-echo, resound

Reappear as that which cannot be long hidden.

Time reaps and returns like the grasp of the seas

That take and keep all things- until returned to the light.

The proof of what was, and that it has ever been,

Held in deeps and keep of the ages, but never gone.

God is not the author of confusion…

In the mysteries of eternities,

there is clarity in the mind of a child;

purity lies in the warm heart of truth

as age turns the young green leaves to gold.

Honesty is abundant like the sun

free to fill the eyes of all that welcome warmth,

and  so too is choice--

the voice within that quietly submits

to the noisy world.

As time molds and shapes us

Like trees agreed with wind and rain

To stand thus; we yet fulfill

The fruits of seasons. The sweetness

Of the inner place can fall from its natural place

Of inherent reflection, a fallen grace, buried

Beneath a worldly gold, and thus

Inscribed, a soul lost in the midst of life.

Tossed in chaos; the inner strife divided

The mansion of many rooms dissolves

Unfound, among rumors of crows in a defiant fog.

Defiant, even unto the burning thaw of dawn. Reborn

Are they now, disciples of the Lost, and chain bound followers,

Dedications of the  authors of confusion.