Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Four Poems


The Orange Line-- to take it
Is to plunge into the abyss
A hellish labyrinth of passages
 A Babylon of writhing limbs
Until out of it
One is yanked
Like a wide-eyed plate-bound fish
Into the polite and sunlit world
 And one's only sincere wish 
Is to take it never again, but alas
One is duty bound to ride 
  The orange line of life
Regardless of one's pride 
And while the smiling faces hint
  (Once one has gained the other side)
That the orange line does not exist, must be a myth
  For is it not too thoroughly belied
By the calm individuated spaces
   In which the others seem to abide?
One knows while one is on it, and in it--
One's knees jammed to one's chest
That it is the Orange Line that is the real
And the lie? -- 
  Is all the rest.


“’Proud of My Father’: Trump’s dramatic U-turn on air strikes in Syria ‘was sparked by daughter Ivanka’s heartbreak after gas attack’”
            ~ The Sun, April 8, 2017

What a grotesquely scripted domestic scene
Between the bestial Donald and the princess of mean
And one, I need not add, that never occurred
And wouldn’t tempt Chicken Little to credit a word
Unless we are to believe that children only evoke tears
When they are harmed by other’s fathers; one rather fears
That Ivanka and her brood of chillingly coiffed mods
Spared no sighs at all for the Syrian “child of God”
Turned away at the airport by the odious orange pelt
Known as her father --  why did she not melt
At the thought of the toddler separated from her dad
Because he was deported forever – was she not sad
At the thought of the Central American Minors, the many who applied
And waited for a year (or longer) to learn that the U.S. had lied
Where is the heartbreak for the hundredth civilian woman or man
Who died in Mosul a week previous – except by our hand?
If Ivanka’s tears really are such life-saving pearls
One wishes she could spare them for other Syrian boys and girls.


Why is it that deep within me
  is this hungry need
Just when things are going well –
  to let it all go to seed?
And in the very moment when a compliment,
  Long dreamt of, is given
To turn strangely sour? – I must be driven
By a cruel maudlin conception
Of life’s just deserts
  Finding fortune’s blessed me
My senses cry alert
This is the time, it foretokens
  For the Gethsemane kiss
And I’ll peck my own lips before I just

  Enjoy bliss


Why is it that within me
Is this terrible rage?
That either burns like a fire
Or stings like a cage?

And which must be let loose somewhere
  Lest I become a grump…

Fortunately it’s found a target
  Who deserves it -- i.e., Trump

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