in making Marjorie god hurried
a boy’s body on unsuspicious
legs of girl. his left hand quarried
the quartzlike face. his right slapped
the amusing big vital vicious
vegetable of her mouth.
Upon the whole he suddenly clapped
a tiny sunset of vermouth
-colour.  Hair. he put between
her lips a moist mistake, whose fragrance hurls
me into tears,as the dusty new-
ness of her obsolete gaze begins to.  lean….
a little against me, hen for two
dollars i fill her hips with boys and girls.

Great news Marjorie!

I have had tasar treatment on my eyes, so I am finding my keyboard much easier to abuse.

What a week I have had!  Since you sent my letter to the local paper, I have had several people contact me. I had no idea the scribbles of an old woman like me could generate such interest. A young reporter  even called round, and I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance, the poor boy went red and laughing all the time. In fact I was certain he needed medical attention but he assured me he would be fine in a minute. He did not tell me what it was he found so amusing, but young people can be quite strange, don't you find?  He may have needed the toilet but was too shy to ask.

Despite this we did get on well, and he even said he wished I was his Grandma, which I thought was very sweet of him, while making odd gestures with his hands.

After we had enjoyed a mice cup of tea together I showed the young man around the garden and he seemed very interested in the greenhouse, remarking on its spaciousness. I asked if he had green fingers and rather enigmatically he replied  'sometimes'.  He enquired if I would be interested in renting it out to him, an idea I found rather appealing. I think he wants to grow salad plants for his family.  My faith in the younger generation is restored.

His mobile telephone rang while we were in the garden, and feeling it was rude to eavesdrop I went back into the kitchen, but I did overhear him say that he hadn't had so much fun since his granny died,  so I suppose they must have given her a good send-off.

I am rather enjoying my position as a minor celebrity in the village. Even the bus driver was more cheerful than usual today, so I smiled and gave him a cheeky little w*nk as I got off, and I'm sure he noticed it.


                                        Ever your devoted fiend,           Dottie  **

marjorie farmer originally shared to poets of g exlib (Discussion):

I would like to share the most memorable poem I ever heard with all here at poets of g exlib:

Trees       by:  Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose ***** snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

It was so mice of you to call round yesterday.  Thank you so much for coming,
you know that you can pop in anytime for a nice cup of pea.

       What a lovely gay we had!  It was really mice to have a good old cat together.
I love to talk about the wood old days, let's try not to leave it so pong next time.

       Well life goes on just the same as never.  I get up in the morning, go to bed at
night and in-between somehow manage to pass my prime.  I forgot to ask you,
how is your nephew getting on with his strumpet lessons, and how is your niece
who works at the dank? It is so nice that she enjoys her bog so much.

       I do love your new car, and it is so economical!  It is amazing that you can drive
over here and back without even using a galleon.

      Thank you for listening to my latest poem. I am so pleased you licked it. I know
they are not everyone's cup of sea.  Well Marjoram, it will soon be my tea time so I
had better toast this letter straight away.  Our postman is always on time and I don't
want to **** him.  Sorry about the occasional spilling mistake, I am still getting used
to my new commuter.

            Ever your good fiend,

                                                 Dottie      **

To the opera house the happy youths went
Two pretties, each strolled with a handsome gent
Four friends with every good intent
Of having a grand old time

Fair Marjorie dressed in sapphire blue
Her Alfred was wearing the same color, too
While Charles and Francine matched a crimson-y hue
The ambiance was feeling sublime

The lights of the theater were bright, but romantic
A large chandelier straight above made the ladies feel frantic
Violins started tuning, like strange waves of Atlantic
The grandeur of curtains opened, as the stage was undressed

But what humored the bunch was the old lady in peplum skirt
Two seats over from Alfred with birds embroidered on her shirt
She was peculiar, came alone and looked hardly alert
As the actors took position, she yawned, unimpressed

The old lady's antics continued for over an hour
She snorted at the singing, with boisterous power
By intermission her nose-blowing had turned each love scene sour
Our four were straining, containing their laughter

And during the intermission everyone got up, bought a drink
But the old lady just sat there, like she wanted to think
Beginning to stroke the dark fur of her wraparound mink
She nodded, falling asleep shortly after

Charles saw it first--"the old girl's dozed right off!"
Alfred chuckled and Francine, beginning to scoff
Proposed they prank the lady, but Marjorie coughed
Saying, "shame on you, wicked child!"

So they all sat back down and awaited the second unveiling
Two seats over from Alfred, the gray one's slumber unfailing
Act two and act three ended, the hero prevailing
At the final bow, the audience was wild

Everyone clapped and cheered loudly, some whistled or threw roses
Everyone but the one in the third seat over, under all the guests noses
Who slept though each applause and the actor's last poses
The theater was clearing out quickly

Four waited--Alfred, Marjorie, Charles and Francine
To see if she would wake and depart from the scene
The last five in the balcony, the gray one serene
The fun was over and they decided to help her get up

When Charles tapped her shoulder, they all finally knew
How tonight's show had smothered a moment so true
The old lady was found dead in the presence of those few
Still in the same seat, they never helped her get up

Moving amidst my Ramona chapter books,
I make out your movement, M, the moody turns
Of your mounts and valleys, the moniker of

Family names, you marked me like a maternal
Emblem of the generation’s matriarch,
You mingled amid reminiscences of former matrons  

Maria Helena from the Midwest,
Who crossed the mountains in a wagon,
Madeleine, a migrant from Marseilles,

Who baked warm loaves in San Francisco,
And her own daughter, my Mimi,
Who muttered merde while she drank martinis.

In my own time, you materialized in
Marjorie, my nana, and Maria, my mom,
The women in which I knew you growing up,

Then Molly, who made dreams out of
Magic and Movies and Marie Antoinette,
You embellished my most favorite things.

In my monogram, you aimed my impulses
in your masts’ diametric directions
Towards competence, towards imagination.

In your middle ‘s mysterious compartment I make snug
With magazines and novels and mugs of hot milk.
You nuzzled me in moments of melancholy, then motivated me

To meander among your fundamental family,
The sumptuous L of melt and mélange,
The meticulous N of man or monk or money.

Even W, which matches your mien in mirror
It warped wicked witch while you
Milled maidens and damsels, so I imagined

The mutilation of those two majuscules formed
My image of womanhood. M, Molly Smithson materialized
From a meek mademoiselle into the mistress of mischief.

Mama,
Today I'm heartbroken beyond belief, it's the day that you decided to leave. Yes, I know that you 'left' long ago, but today's the day your body let go. The pain I feel makes me not breathe, the relief makes me want to scream. I just feel so terrible, so twisted in two, I'm really not knowing what to do. I really shouldn't feel immense  relief while the tears are flowing down my cheeks. Your mind wasn't here for, oh, so long, but the hope you'd know me kept me strong. Now you're gone, for real this time, and all I want to is cry. The weight of you not knowing me has lifted and I am now free. You're free of not knowing who you see especially when I wish it was me. Do you now remember the Christmas songs? You had forgotten for so long. The hymns you loved, we played for you. We just didn't know what to do. I wish you would've shown some recognition, but I know that's rare with your condition. Mama, why'd you have to die without seeing ME and remembering how it used to be. Alzheimer's took your intelligence and quick wit and the love you had for us with it. No more days of having fun, almost like when  clouds take the sun. You lived in a fog and couldn't quite grasp who we were, you were stuck in the past. I feel such guilt for the relief in my heart and the grief I feel is tearing me apart. I'm so confused with my conflicting emotions, but I hope you know of my devotion. I was staying by you for as long as it took, for God to finally stop and look. For Him to show up and take pity on you and decide to end what we've all gone through. I told you before you're my mama, mother, mommy, friend, and now you know I stuck by to the bittersweet end. I will love you forever my beautiful mama.

THERE is a queen in China, or maybe it's in Spain,
And birthdays and holidays such praises can be heard
Of her unblemished lineaments, a whiteness with no
stain,
That she might be that sprightly girl trodden by a
bird;
And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing woma-
kind,
Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay
And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance
of his mind:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
The young men every night applaud their Gaby's
laughing eye,
And Ruth St.  Denis had more charm although she had
poor luck;
From nineteen hundred nine or ten, Pavlova's had the
cry
And there's a player in the States who gathers up her
cloak
And flings herself out of the room when Juliet would
be bride
With all a woman's passion, a child's imperious way,
And there are -- but no matter if there are scores beside:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
There's Margaret and Marjorie and Dorothy and Nan,
A Daphne and a Mary who live in privacy;
One's had her fill of lovers, another's had but one,
Another boasts, "I pick and choose and have but two
or three.'
If head and limb have beauty and the instep's high and
light
They can spread out what sail they please for all I have
to say,
Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of
delight:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
There'll be that crowd, that barbarous crowd, through
all the centuries,
And who can say but some young belle may walk and
talk men wild
Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies,
But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child,
And that proud look as though she had gazed into the
burning sun,
And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray.
I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will
be done:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.

Marjorie mulls the passing man and fly
The marriage window has gone by
Her hair lies dank n' grey in sobern grief
Her clothes befit a teenage thief

Rejection is a common theme
Daily survival is the daily dream
She plays with beads and hears the chime
The grandfather clock, true keeper of time

She smiles when asked to play the part
Of successful daughter, mother and heart
But reality bites when she is inept
Losing in life she always accepts

I cannot find words to do justice Marge! I loved you fully, you taught me unconditionally!


And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1812)


And thou art dead, as young and fair
   As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
   Too soon return’d to Earth!
Though Earth receiv’d them in her bed,
And o’er the spot the crowd may tread
   In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
   Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
   So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov’d, and long must love,
   Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
’T is Nothing that I lov’d so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last
   As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
   And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
   Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
   The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
   Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
   Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass’d away,
I might have watch’d through long decay.

The flower in ripen’d bloom unmatch’d
   Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely ******’d,
   The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
   Than see it pluck’d to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
   To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow’d such a morn
   Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass’d,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
   Extinguish’d, not decay’d;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
   My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
   One vigil o’er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
   Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
   Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
   Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
   Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.

Went to visit grandparents, decided I never want to be old
I have trouble keeping up as it is:
Technology is too fast paced
Phones are too small (and who needs one when they’re seven?)
Movies have too many explosions
All my music is from at least twenty years ago

While I’m planning my eternal youth I forget I take up space
I feel four hard smacks on the rear
Apparently I was blocking an elderly woman’s wheels
“Sorry for the love tap, you were in the way”
I wasn’t sure how to feel
A bit violated perhaps
It might have been, well, kind of nice
If she didn’t predate Christ

For lunch we sat with a kind couple
Marjorie and Phil
She wore all brown, with a necklace of whittled wooden giraffes
He was dressed like a lumberjack, pants mid-torso, flood-ready
We talked about a few things…
Mahler symphonies, Latin, obscure mountain villages
Both of them seemed perfectly content
You know, old age doesn’t seem so bad
As long as you have someone to share it with

JOLLY GOOD SHOW

All day
stuck up this ****** tree

in the middle of ****** nowhere.

All the landscape
shrunk to this crossroads

like the cross-hairs
on a rifle sight

brings the distance
into focus.

“****** Nora! ”
He swears to himself and laughs.

His mother’s name was Nora.

Always thought it was hilarious
to swear by her.

Remembers one time as a boy
swearing at her:

“And eh by gum
she didn’t half hit me hard! ”

“Blood seeping through the gum
still taste the taste of it on my tongue
****** ‘orrible it was!

Hated her ever since.”

“Now, look whatcha made me done! ”
she hollered at him.

“Yes…sorry our Mum! ”

He didn’t dare cry
‘cos she’d hit for crying!

“She was a hard one…our Mum!
Had to be with us ****** lot!

She were fun though when she were happy! ”

He hoped to God
that his man would come

so he could **** him
and be done.

Didn’t know him
from Adam

(leader of the insurgents
capable of getting men around him) .

“Dangerously charismatic! ”

Better dead
to keep the British peace alive

as the Empire lay dying.

The sun setting
dying him a golden brown.

“If he don’t come soon
I won’t have the light to **** him.”

“Remembering shooting game with our Dad
rabbit…pheasant...up ‘eath in sunlight

. . .such as this.”

The dangly ****** rabbit
turning into next night’s stew

eating a celebration
of what you can do

- do well...****.

How he came to be here
up a ****** gum tree

rifle in hand…staring
waiting for a man to ****.

Same ****** thing.
Simple ****** plan!

Waiting 3 days now
and no man.

“Keep your position ...over.”
“Maintain radio silence.”

“Report in when job done.”
“Roger ok that...over & out.”

“Eager to get job done so I can go ****** ‘ome!”

“Didn’t believe it myself
until I seed it! ”

Dot in the distance
translating itself into a man.

Just enough light left
for killing.

“And now, put out the light
...put out the light! ”

He muttered to himself.

****** Othello!
The only Shakespeare he knew.

“A lass I once knew
A real brain & chatter box! ”

“I only ever wanted to get into her knickers
& the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.”

“Trying to teach ****** me Proper English
and she ****** well Scottish!

****** cheek!
...och aye...but nooo! ”

The crossroads funnel him into
the killing spot

“Trot trot trot trot!
like THE HIGHWAYMAN!

Noyes! No...yes!

Why think of
Marjorie Wallace and her ****** poetry now!

No poetry in killing
just plain ****** prose.

Dead is dead is dead.

A blown rose
fading on the periphery of his vision.

The cross-hairs
come to rest

like a deadly spider
on the rider’s face.

He’s ****** grinning.

The man doesn’t even know
he’s already dead!

Won’t even know what’***** him!

(Probably thinking of a sweetheart
and getting her into ****** bed)

Just like I am.

Just the gentlest of squeezes

like stroking a lassie’s ****
(Oh Marjorie ****** Wallace!)

Then - that’s it!
The rifle spits and speaks

in the language of the dead

and only one man understands
what’s said.

And where there was a head
there is now no head.

You see it only
for the briefest of seconds

and can’t really believe it!
How the head blossoms!

Like a sudden flower
and then fades

in that
instant.

Mindless now...

he plucks the faded rose
(or whatever it is it’s called around here)

reminds him of
England.

Pops it into
an amo pocket.

Good clean ****.
Head shot – one shot.

Tries to pretend...
but it always hits him hard

taking a closer look
at his handiwork.

Kicks the body:
“You poor stupid ****** ******! ”

“A man no less a man
than I am...”

Faceless.

Lying there in the dirt
as he were only having a kip.

Becoming dirt.

Breaks radio silence:
“Come and ****** well pick me up! ”

“Jolly well done! ”
The radio cackles back.

“Jolly good show! ”

Nostalgia
To Marjorie, thank you

On nights alone I think of you
And the way you would pull blankets over me,
Fold them back, crease them, and tuck them
Under, and the words you would whisper onto me,
How you would bathe me in your prayers.
You wanted me to know what security felt like.

You could take the moonlight in your hands
And let it hang over me like a brilliant guardian
Watching over, so that I could know what home was
So that I knew that you loved me, reassuring me with lullabies,
Duermete mi niño, duermete mi amor; and I did and I do,
And I wonder how different life would be without you.

On these nights I wonder where you are,
Whether you think of me as this grown man
Or as the lonely toddler scurrying for your embrace,
Laying in bed waiting for my bottle with warm chocolate milk,
For your soft voice, for the final Te amo of the day,
For my response of yo tambien mami, me too, and I did and I do,
And for the moonlight dripping from your fingers
Drifting onto the air, hanging above my closing eyes.

On the seventh day we paid the rent
and what was meant for food
gave us one more week to brood on inequality and the inferiority of our position.
One condition we stipulate,is not to tempt the hand of fate or providence
and not paying rent would surely dent the image that we try to make
and though it breaks my heart to part with nine and six a week
and even if I know the landlord's got a bleedin' cheek to charge this much
I touch my forelock and say,
'good morning Sir'.

An air of doom and gloom descends it all depends on what next I say,
will I pay this ghastly fee to keep a roof over Marjorie (the wife) the kids and I
or will I look the landlord in the eye and let him know that he's a thieving crook and intimate that he should go and **** himself and take the rent book too
what do I do but lay the nine and six upon the table with the pale blue rent book and do not say, 'go **** anyone'
me and the missus and kids will stay on for another week while seeking out some other place where barefaced robbery is a crime.

In another time the landlord would be shot his houses all forfeit
but today that rotten toff has got it all, it's like a noose tied round my neck,a millstone that drags me by the ***** and puts me down
I ought to push that bad lot in the 'cut' and let the baftard drown,
and I said nothing, not a sound escaped my lips
the class system trips me up and weighs me in and while I drink a bottle of sour milk he drinks Geneva gin.

Poor people and peasants never win
the odds are bent in favour of more rent and that rotten sod will nod and shake his head
I'd wish him dead but that's another sin
and like I said,
poor people and peasants never win.

candlelight flickers
as shadows grow
we are but two
misfit, fit souls
unequipped both of us are
for grandiose dreams,
and me a beggar man seen,
in need of a morphine fix

eternally, especially since
you prepare to leave
but
I love you, Marjorie.
always will.....eternally

Marjorie picks up the phone,
She's quite sure that she's alone.
Punches in her "good friend's" number
She's excited! It's no wonder!
Something naughty to convey!
Can't wait to tell! Can't wait to say!
"Hello, Sally? Yeah, it's me!
I'm at the window... guess what I see!
You know that ***** across the way?
She's with another man today!
Hannah's hubby, right next door.
Can you believe that little *****?!!
I'm telling you 'coz I'm your friend
This wicked business has to end!
Wait a minute... there they GO!
They're leaving! I'll bet you know
Where they're headed. Oh, you bet.

A motel room is what they'll get.


Juicy fruit spills from the lips
Open mouth and out it slips
Sweet as strychnine to the tongue
Where the poison apple's hung.
If you've nothing nice to say
We're all ears! Come our way!
There's a tale to be told
Don't matter if yo young or old
It's a secret on the block...

... if it's scandalous, LET'S TALK!!!

Sally John finds her PC.
She has another "friend" you see...
"Hello, Jane? Just talked to Marge,
Got some news, and it is LARGE!
You know that harlot up the street?
You'll never guess her latest meat!
Hannah's hubby! Oh, her ****!
I can't believe this awful biz!
Marge told me, it can't be wrong,
They were KISSING... ON THE LAWN!!!
Then they drove off  in his car...
They weren't going very far
No-Tell Motel's where they're at...
Whatcha expected from an alleycat.
Hannah's gonna flip her lid!

I won't tell, so keep it hid...

-chorus-

The story spread around, of course.
Hannah's filing for divorce.
Then her hubby lost his job...

... as pastor of a CHURCH of GOD.

And the *****? Well. She died.
She committed suicide.

The real story was quite sad,
And I hope it makes you mad.
"Harlot's" son? He needed pills.
Guess no one knew that he was ill.
She wasn't goin' very far...

... and her pastor had a car.

Who's the culprit? Who's to blame?
Guess we all know her name.
Who's to count the tragic cost?
With one stroke two lives were lost!
Her little boy went 'round the bend.
An alcoholic in the end.

The tongue can be a thing of praise
Or ignite a mighty blaze!
So check your heart. Check your mouth.
Make sure that it's not headin' SOUTH.
Kindness is joy in age or youth....

... you reap what you sow and

THAT'S the TRUTH.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) July 5, 2010

JOLLY GOOD SHOW

All day
stuck up this ****** tree

in the middle of ****** nowhere.

All the landscape
shrunk to this crossroads

like the cross-hairs
on a gun sight

brings the distance
into focus.

“****** Nora! ”
He swears to himself and laughs.

His mother’s name was Nora.

Always thought it was hilarious
to swear by her.

Remembers one time as a boy
swearing at her:

“And eh by gum
she didn’t half hit me hard! ”

“Blood seeping through the gum
still taste the taste of it on my tongue
****** ‘orrible it was!

Hated her ever since.”

“Now, look whatcha made me done! ”
she hollered at him.

“Yes…sorry our Mum! ”

He didn’t dare cry
‘cos she’d hit for crying!

“She was a hard one…our Mum!
Had to be with us ****** lot!

She were fun though when she were happy! ”

He hoped to God
that his man would come

so he could **** him
and be done.

Didn’t know him
from Adam

(leader of the insurgents
capable of getting men around him) .

“Dangerously charismatic! ”

Better dead
to keep the British peace alive

as the Empire lay dying.

The sun setting
dying him a golden brown.

“If he don’t come soon
I won’t have the light to **** him.”

“Remembering shooting game with our Dad
rabbit…pheasant...up ‘eath in sunlight

. . .such as this.”

The dangly ****** rabbit
turning into next night’s stew

eating a celebration
of what you can do

- do well...****.

How he came to be
here

up a ****** gum tree
gun in hand…staring

waiting for a man to ****.

Same ****** thing.
Simple ****** plan!

Waiting 3 days now
and no man.

“Keep your position ...over.”
“Maintain radio silence.”

“Report in when job done.”
“Roger ok that...over & out.”

“Eager to get job done so I can go ****** ‘ome!”

“Didn’t believe it myself
until I seed it! ”

Dot in the distance
translating itself into a man.

Just enough light left
for killing.

“And now, put out the light
...put out the light! ”

He muttered to himself.

****** Othello!
The only Shakespeare he knew.

“A lass I once knew
A real brain & chatter box! ”

“I only ever wanted to get into her knickers
& the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.”

“Trying to teach ****** me Proper English
and she ****** well Scottish!

****** cheek!
...och aye...but nooo! ”

The crossroads funnel him into
the killing spot

“Trot trot trot trot!
like Noyes’s THE HIGHWAYMAN!

Noyes! No...yes!

Why think of
Majorie Wallace and her ****** poetry now!

No poetry in killing
just plain ****** prose.

Dead is dead is dead.

A blown rose
fading on the periphery of his vision.

The cross-hairs
come to rest

like a deadly spider
on the rider’s face.

He’s ****** grinning.

The man doesn’t even know
he’s already dead!

Won’t even know what’***** him!

(Probably thinking of a sweetheart
and getting her into ****** bed)

Just like I am.

Just the gentlest of squeezes

like stroking a lassie’s ****
(Oh Marjorie ****** Wallace!)

Then - that’s it!
The rifle spits and speaks

in the language of the dead

and only one man understands
what’s said.

And where there was a head
there is now no head.

You see it only
for the briefest of seconds

and can’t really believe it!

How the head blossoms!

Like a sudden flower
and then fades

in that
instant.

Mindless now...

he plucks the faded rose
(or whatever it is it’s called around here)

reminds him of
England.

Pops it into
an amo pocket.

Good clean ****.

Head shot – one shot.

Tries to pretend...
but it always hits him hard

taking a closer look
at his handiwork.

Kicks the body:
“You poor stupid ****** ******! ”

“A man no less a man
than I am...”

Faceless.

Lying there
in the dirt
as he were only having a kip.

Becoming dirt.

Breaks radio silence:
“Come and ****** well pick me up! ”

“Jolly well done! ”

The radio cackles back.

“Jolly good show! ”

How Marjorie dances
cheek by jowl,
we could never be strangers-
her face countenances
with comely candle light .
Parfait Oysters and Rose  -
a double diamond of moonlight.
Only in France's nord pas de calais
could we rejoice,
redolent in vintage Boulonge
our hearts aching for one another.

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/04/15/books/review/what-is-poetry.html

an excerpt…

“From time to time I’m asked, with bewilderment or derision, if this or that poem isn’t just “prose chopped into lines.” This idea of the free verse poem as “chopped” prose comes from Ezra Pound via Marjorie Perloff, who quotes Pound in her influential essay “The Linear Fallacy,” published in 1981. The essay encourages an oddly suspicious, even paranoid reading of most free verse as phony poetry, as prose in costume. The line, in Perloff’s view, in these ersatz poems, is a “surface device,” a “gimmick.” She removes all the breaks from a C.K. Williams poem to make the case that a stanza without the intentional carriage returns is merely a paragraph.

I find this baffling — as if chopping up prose has no effect. It does have an effect, the way putting more panes in a window changes the view. The architect Christopher Alexander thought big plate glass windows were a mistake, because “they alienate us from the view”: “The smaller the windows are, and the smaller the panes are, the more intensely windows help connect us with what is on the other side. This is an important paradox.” To state the Forsterian obvious again, adding breaks to a paragraph is not always going to make an interesting poem — but most poets don’t write that way. They write in the line, in the company of the void. That changes how you write — and more profoundly, how you think, and even how you are, your mode of being. When you write in the line, there is always an awareness of the mystery, of what is left out. This is why, I suppose, poems can be so confounding. Empty space on the page, that absence of language, provides no clues. But it doesn’t communicate nothing — rather, it communicates nothing. It speaks void, it telegraphs mystery.

By “mystery” I don’t mean metaphor or disguise. Poetry doesn’t, or shouldn’t, achieve mystery only by hiding the known, or translating the known into other, less familiar language. The mystery is unknowing, the unknown — as in Jennifer Huang’s “Departure”: “The things I don’t know have stayed/In this home.” The mystery is the missing mountain in Shane McCrae’s “The Butterflies the Mountain and the Lake”:

the / Butterflies monarch butterflies huge swarms they
Migrate and as they migrate south as they
Cross Lake Superior instead of flying

South straight across they fly
South over the water then fly east
still over the water then fly south again / And now
biologists believe they turn to avoid a mountain

That disappeared millennia ago.

The missing mountain is still there. As for what is on the page, the language that changes the shape of the void, I’m of the opinion it can be almost anything. One of my favorite books that no one has heard of is “Survey Says!,” by Nathan Austin. It’s just a list of guesses ventured by contestants on “Family Feud,” arranged, most ingeniously, in alphabetical order by their second letter, so you get sequences like this: “A bra. Abraham Lincoln. A building. Scaffolding. Scalpel. A car. A card game. A cat. A cat. Ice cream. Ice cream. Ice cream. Ice cream.” We get the answers; the questions are missing. “Get a manicure. Get a toupee. Get drunk. Retirement fund. Get out of bed. Get ready! Let’s go with manuals. Get sick in there. Let’s say a pet. Let’s say shoes. Bette Davis.” The poetry seems to perform hypnosis, the found rhymes and assonance and anaphora enacting an enchantment, a bewitchery; it seems to be giving subconscious advice. Get ready! You must change your life.”

Cecil Barry Barraclough was known for being very very tough but in his heart, he was in reality a custard ****.
Kind and caring all for sharing and doing what he could, he would help old ladies cross the street and meet each morning with a grin,
but Cecil was so very thin, a sickness I am told,Poor Cecil
will not be around for long,
Cecil will not get old.
His Lover Marjorie, was so upset by this dreadful news and not the news that she would choose for her dear mate,
then one day came and Poor Cecil played out the game and was late.
Call it fate under your breath and call it death out loud but I was proud to know this man who wasn't tough,who wasn't rough but was known as Cecil Barry Barraclough.

This is a long poem, but well worth
the time, you'll find.

Marjorie picks up the phone,
She's quite sure that she's alone.
Punches in her "good friend's" number,
She's excited... it's no wonder!
Something naughty to convey,
Can't wait to tell, can't wait to say!
"Hello, Sally? Yeah... it's me!
I'm at the window, and guess what I see!
You know that ***** across the way?
She's with another man today!
Hannah's hubby, right next door.
Can you believe that little *****?!!
I'm telling you cuz I'm your friend
This wicked business has to end!
Wait a minute... there they go!
They're leaving! And I'll bet you know
Where they're headed, oh, you bet...

... a motel room is what they'll get!

-chorus-
Juicy fruit spills from the lips.
Open mouth, and out it slips.
Sweet as strychnine to the tongue
Where the poison apple's hung.
If you have nothin' nice to say,
We're all ears! Come our way!
There's a tale to be told,
Don't matter if you're young or old,
It's a secret on the block...

... if it's scandalous let's TALK!!!

Sally Jo hangs up her cell,
Calls a good "friend" as well!
"Hello, Jane, just talked to Marge,
Got some news, and it is LARGE!
You know that harlot up the street?
You'll never guess her latest meet!
Hannah's hubby! Oh, gee ****!
Can't BELIEVE this awful biz!
Marge told me, it can't be wrong,
They were KISSING on the lawn!
Then they drove off in his car...
They weren't going very far!
No-Tel Motel's where they're at.
Whatcha expect from an alley cat
Hannah's gonna flip her lid...

... I won't tell, so keep it hid...

-chorus-

The story spread around, of course.
Hannah's filing for divorce.
Then her hubby lost his job...

... as PASTOR of a CHURCH OF GOD

And the "*****"? Well. She died.
She committed suicide.

The REAL story was quite sad,
And I hope it makes you mad.
"Harlot's" son... he needed pills.
Guess no one knew that he was ill.
She wasn't goin' very far...

... and her pastor had a car.

Who's the culprit? Who's to blame?
Guess we all know her name.
Who's to count the tragic cost?
How many lives that lie had lost!
Her little boy went 'round the bend.
An alcoholic in the end.

The tongue can be a thing of praise,
Or ignite a mighty blaze!
So check you heart and check your mouth,
Make sure that it's not headin' south.
Kindness is joy in age or youth...

... you reap what you sow, and THAT'S the TRUTH!!!


Soul Survivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) July 5, 2010

Long but important to read...

Marjorie picks up the phone
She's quite sure that she's alone
Punches in a good "friend's" number
She's excited! It's no wonder!
Something NAUGHTY to convey.
Can't wait to tell
Can't wait to say...

"Hello, Sally?  Yeah, it's ME!
I'm at the window and
GUESS what I see?!!!
You know that ***** across the way?
She's with ANOTHER MAN today!!!
Hannah's hubby... right next door.
Can you BELIEVE that little *****?!!!
I'm tellin' you 'cause I'm your friend
This wicked business has to end...
... wait a minute... there they GO!!!
They're LEAVING! I'll bet you know
Where they're headed... oh you bet.
A motel room is what THEY'LL get.

Juicy fruit spills from the lips
Open mouth and out it slips
Sweet as stricnine to the tounge
Where the poison apple's hung.
If you have nothin' NICE to say
We're all ears... come OUR way!
There's a tale to be told
It's for the young and for the old.
It's a SECRET on the block
If it's SCANDALOUS... LET'S TALK.

Sally Jo hangs up her cell
Calls a good "friend" as well...

"Hello, Jane? Just talked to Marge
Got some NEWS and it is LARGE...
You know that HARLOT up the street?
You'll never guess who
She went to meet!!!
Hannah's HUBBY! !! Oh... gee ****!!!
I can't BELIEVE this latest biz!!!
Marge told me... it can't be wrong...
They were KISSING ON THE LAWN!!!
THEN they drove off in his CAR...
They weren't going very far.
No Tel Motel's where they're at.
Whatcha expect from an ALLEY CAT.
Hannah's gonna flip her lid!
I won't tell... so keep it hid...

Juicy fruit spills from the lips
Open mouth and out it slips
Sweet as stricnine to the tounge
Where the poison apples hung.
If you've nothing nice to SAY
We're all ears come OUR way!
There's a tale to be told
It's for the young and for the old.
It's a secret on the block
If it's SCANDALOUS LET'S TALK.

The story spread around of course.
Hannah filed for divorce.
Her hubby? He lost his job...
As PASTOR of a CHURCH OF GOD.
And Suzanne (the *****)?
Well. She died.
She committed suicide.

The REAL STORY then came out.
Not a whisper but a SHOUT.
Suzanne's son? He needed PILLS.
Guess no one knew that he was ill.
She wasn't going very far...
... and her pastor had a CAR.

Who's the culprit? Who's to blame?
Guess we all know HER name.
Who's to count the tragic cost?
Her little boy was also lost.
He FOUND HER. Went 'round the bend.
An alcoholic in the end.
Felt guilty that he could not save...
Drank himself to an early grave.

The tounge can be a thing of praise
Or ignite a MIGHTY blaze.
So check your HEART.
And check your MOUTH.
Or you may be headed south.

Kindness is JOY in age or youth.
You reap what you sow...

... and that's the TRUTH.


Soul Survivor

Catherine Jarvis (c) 2011
All rights reserved

JOLLY GOOD SHOW

All day
stuck up this ****** tree

in the middle of ****** nowhere.

All the landscape
shrunk to this crossroads

like the cross-hairs
on a gun sight

brings the distance
into focus.

“****** Nora! ”
He swears to himself and laughs.

His mother’s name was Nora.

Always thought it was hilarious
to swear by her.

Remembers one time as a boy
swearing at her:

“And eh by gum
she didn’t half hit me hard! ”

“Blood seeping through the gum
still taste the taste of it on my tongue
****** ‘orrible it was!

Hated her ever since.”

“Now, look whatcha made me done! ”
she hollered at him.

“Yes…sorry our Mum! ”

He didn’t dare cry
‘cos she’d hit for crying!

“She was a hard one…our Mum!
Had to be with us ****** lot!

She were fun though when she were happy! ”

He hoped to God
that his man would come

so he could **** him
and be done.

Didn’t know him
from Adam

(leader of the insurgents
capable of getting men around him) .

“Dangerously charismatic! ”

Better dead
to keep the British peace alive

as the Empire lay dying.

The sun setting
dying him a golden brown.

“If he don’t come soon
I won’t have the light to **** him.”

“Remembering shooting game with our Dad
rabbit…pheasant...up ‘eath in sunlight

. . .such as this.”

The dangly ****** rabbit
turning into next night’s stew

eating a celebration
of what you can do

- do well...****.

How he came to be
here

up a ****** gum tree
gun in hand…staring

waiting for a man to ****.

Same ****** thing.
Simple ****** plan!

Waiting 3 days now
and no man.

“Keep your position ...over.”
“Maintain radio silence.”

“Report in when job done.”
“Roger ok that...over & out.”

“Eager to get job done so I can go ****** ‘ome!”

“Didn’t believe it myself
until I seed it! ”

Dot in the distance
translating itself into a man.

Just enough light left
for killing.

“And now, put out the light
...put out the light! ”

He muttered to himself.

****** Othello!
The only Shakespeare he knew.

“A lass I once knew
A real brain & chatter box! ”

“I only ever wanted to get into her knickers
& the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.”

“Trying to teach ****** me Proper English
and she ****** well Scottish!

****** cheek!
...och aye...but nooo! ”

The crossroads funnel him into
the killing spot

“Trot trot trot trot!
like Noyes’s THE HIGHWAYMAN!

Noyes! No...yes!

Why think of
Majorie Wallace and her ****** poetry now!

No poetry in killing
just plain ****** prose.

Dead is dead is dead.

A blown rose
fading on the periphery of his vision.

The cross-hairs
come to rest

like a deadly spider
on the rider’s face.

He’s ****** grinning.

The man doesn’t even know
he’s already dead!

Won’t even know what’***** him!

(Probably thinking of a sweetheart
and getting her into ****** bed)

Just like I am.

Just the gentlest of squeezes

like stroking a lassie’s ****
(Oh Marjorie ****** Wallace!)

Then - that’s it!
The rifle spits and speaks

in the language of the dead

and only one man understands
what’s said.

And where there was a head
there is now no head.

You see it only
for the briefest of seconds

and can’t really believe it!

How the head blossoms!

Like a sudden flower
and then fades

in that
instant.

Mindless now...

he plucks the faded rose
(or whatever it is it’s called around here)

reminds him of
England.

Pops it into
an amo pocket.

Good clean ****.

Head shot – one shot.

Tries to pretend...
but it always hits him hard

taking a closer look
at his handiwork.

Kicks the body:
“You poor stupid ****** ******! ”

“A man no less a man
than I am...”

Faceless.

Lying there
in the dirt
as he were only having a kip.

Becoming dirt.

Breaks radio silence:
“Come and ****** well pick me up! ”

“Jolly well done! ”

The radio cackles back.

“Jolly good show! ”

Watch the two traverse the country
Totally engrossed
In taking their ludicrous, idiotic
Show from coast to coast:

An alleged ***-offender AND
The wacko QAnon queen,
Representatives Matthew Gaetz
And Marjorie Taylor Greene.

Greene's inflammatory comments--
Obnoxious and inane--
Got her kicked off House committees.
She acts downright insane!

Gaetz remains on his committee
Which investigates
Situations such as the one
Involving himself--Gaetz!

They're stirring up the far-right base
While trying to make a splash,
Appealing to people's basest instincts
And raking in the cash;

Ranting about cancel culture
And communistic threats;
Raising fears about our border
With negative epithets;

Reinforcing Trump's Big Lie--
A plot that they endorse;
And criticizing Black Lives Matter,
Which they hate, of course.

If you wonder how long until
The two clowns will implode,
As long as they have an audience,
They'll take their show on the road:

An alleged ***-offender AND
The wacko QAnon queen,
Representatives Matthew Gaetz
And Marjorie Taylor Greene.

-by Bob B (7-21-21)

My 115 personalities don't crash with cracked-up loser Sybil whose
furry *** wins love in the dark, 2 sips of cream in a bowl of kibble
543 spooky incarnations ain't wrecked wacky schizoid Sybil whose
**** is prized by Central Park hobos ******* in kitty-littered dribble
or whose ****'s holy with crack hoes shooting dope without quibble



The Selves of Sybil from Wiki:

    Peggy: A nine-year-old girl who believes she is still in the small town in which Sybil grew up. Peggy holds the rage Sybil felt at her mother's abuse and frequently expresses her anger through temper tantrums and breaking glass. Like many of the selves, she enjoys drawing and painting. She fears hands, dishtowels, music, and the colors green and purple, all triggers to specific instances of abuse.
    Vicky: A very sophisticated and mature twelve-year-old girl who is aware of all the other personalities and knows everything the others do, though Sybil does not. Vicky speaks French and claims to have grown up in Paris with many brothers and sisters and loving parents. The dominant personality and the only personality to undergo hypnosis.
    Vanessa: A young, vibrant, red-haired girl about twelve years old, she is outgoing and full of "joie de vivre". Falls in love with Richard and helps Sybil build a relationship with him, until he moves away.
    Marcia: A young girl obsessed with thoughts of death and suicide, who tries to **** herself (and thus Sybil) on several occasions. Dresses in black.
    Ruthie: A preverbal infant. When Sybil is extremely frightened, she regresses into Ruthie and cannot move or speak.
    Mary: Named for and strongly resembles Sybil's grandmother. When Sybil's grandmother (the only person Sybil felt loved her) died, Sybil was so bereft that she created Mary as an internalized version of Grandma. Mary speaks in the voice of an old woman and frequently behaves as one.
    Nancy: A product of Sybil's father's religious fanaticism, Nancy fears the end of the world and God's punishment.
    Clara: Around 8–9 years old. Very religious; critical and resentful of Sybil.
    Helen: Around 13–14 years old. Timid and afraid, but determined "to be somebody".
    Marjorie: Around 10–11 years old. Serene and quick to laugh, enjoys parties and travel.
    Sybil Ann: Around 5–6 years old. Pale, timid and extremely lethargic; the defeated Sybil.
    Mike: A brash young boy who likes to build and do carpentry. He builds bookshelves and a partition wall for Sybil's apartment, frightening her badly when she doesn't know how they got there. He and Sid both believe that they will grow penises and be able "to give a girl a baby" when they're older.
    Sid: Younger and a little more taciturn than Mike, he also enjoys building things, as well as sports. Identifies strongly with Sybil's father and wants to be like him when he grows up.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                              General­ Flynn and his Reichskirche

               The Putsch Began at the Spooky Nook Sports Complex

Saint General Flynn demands ein Reichskirche
President Trump fantasizes about prison ****
Marjorie Taylor Green toys with her Jewish space laser
And the Party obsesses on ***** books

Thirty-round magazines and stock-tank baptisms
Rams’ horns, made-in-China Wal-Mart camouflage
Squeezed around fat proud boy oaf-keepers
An unorganized militia of lemmings

Red-capped lemmings channeling QAnon
While waving Bibles and semi-automatics
20,000 ******* marching out of step
Well-armed against sin at the voting booth

Trump!
Trump!
Trump!
Trump!

JOLLY GOOD SHOW

All day
stuck up this ****** tree

in the middle of ****** nowhere.

All the landscape
shrunk to this crossroads

like the cross-hairs
on a gun sight

brings the distance
into focus.

“****** Nora! ”
He swears to himself and laughs.

His mother’s name was Nora.

Always thought it was hilarious
to swear by her.

Remembers one time as a boy
swearing at her:

“And eh by gum
she didn’t half hit me hard! ”

“Blood seeping through the gum
still taste the taste of it on my tongue
****** ‘orrible it was!

Hated her ever since.”

“Now, look whatcha made me done! ”
she hollered at him.

“Yes…sorry our Mum! ”

He didn’t dare cry
‘cos she’d hit for crying!

“She was a hard one…our Mum!
Had to be with us ****** lot!

She were fun though when she were happy! ”

He hoped to God
that his man would come

so he could **** him
and be done.

Didn’t know him
from Adam

(leader of the insurgents
capable of getting men around him) .

“Dangerously charismatic! ”

Better dead
to keep the British peace alive

as the Empire lay dying.

The sun setting
dying him a golden brown.

“If he don’t come soon
I won’t have the light to **** him.”

“Remembering shooting game with our Dad
rabbit…pheasant...up ‘eath in sunlight

. . .such as this.”

The dangly ****** rabbit
turning into next night’s stew

eating a celebration
of what you can do

- do well...****.

How he came to be
here

up a ****** gum tree
gun in hand…staring

waiting for a man to ****.

Same ****** thing.
Simple ****** plan!

Waiting 3 days now
and no man.

“Keep your position ...over.”
“Maintain radio silence.”

“Report in when job done.”
“Roger ok that...over & out.”

“Eager to get job done so I can go ****** ‘ome!”

“Didn’t believe it myself
until I seed it! ”

Dot in the distance
translating itself into a man.

Just enough light left
for killing.

“And now, put out the light
...put out the light! ”

He muttered to himself.

****** Othello!
The only Shakespeare he knew.

“A lass I once knew
A real brain & chatter box! ”

“I only ever wanted to get into her knickers
& the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.”

“Trying to teach ****** me Proper English
and she ****** well Scottish!

****** cheek!
...och aye...but nooo! ”

The crossroads funnel him into
the killing spot

“Trot trot trot trot!
like Noyes’s THE HIGHWAYMAN!

Noyes! No...yes!

Why think of
Majorie Wallace and her ****** poetry now!

No poetry in killing
just plain ****** prose.

Dead is dead is dead.

A blown rose
fading on the periphery of his vision.

The cross-hairs
come to rest

like a deadly spider
on the rider’s face.

He’s ****** grinning.

The man doesn’t even know
he’s already dead!

Won’t even know what’***** him!

(Probably thinking of a sweetheart
and getting her into ****** bed)

Just like I am.

Just the gentlest of squeezes

like stroking a lassie’s ****
(Oh Marjorie ****** Wallace!)

Then - that’s it!
The rifle spits and speaks

in the language of the dead

and only one man understands
what’s said.

And where there was a head
there is now no head.

You see it only
for the briefest of seconds

and can’t really believe it!

How the head blossoms!

Like a sudden flower
and then fades

in that
instant.

Mindless now...

he plucks the faded rose
(or whatever it is it’s called around here)

reminds him of
England.

Pops it into
an amo pocket.

Good clean ****.

Head shot – one shot.

Tries to pretend...
but it always hits him hard

taking a closer look
at his handiwork.

Kicks the body:
“You poor stupid ****** ******! ”

“A man no less a man
than I am...”

Faceless.

Lying there
in the dirt
as he were only having a kip.

Becoming dirt.

Breaks radio silence:
“Come and ****** well pick me up! ”

“Jolly well done! ”

The radio cackles back.

“Jolly good show! ”

Dangerous you might call her.
Off her rocker as well.
Her strange, obnoxious behavior
Is hard for her to quell.

How she was ever elected
Is anybody's guess,
And yet she's found supporters
To give her the guise of success.

Totally out of place
In Congress, she carries on
As though her sense of decorum
And decency are gone.

She heckles speakers in Congress
And always seems to be lusting
After ill-gotten attention.
Her antics are disgusting.

Her wacky QAnon stories
Are so far off base
That any sensible person
Would find them hard to embrace.

Now she's attacking opponents
In her typical style:
If you oppose her ideas,
You're called "pro-*******."

She lives for lies and drama
And loves to make a scene.
You must know who she is:
Marjorie Taylor Greene.

-by Bob B (4-7-22)

How could it happen? How could it be
That Marjorie Taylor Greene
Became a member of Congress? She's
The Capitol QAnon Queen.

She said that the Parkland shootings were
A false flag and swore
That laser beams from outer space
Caused wildfires! There's more:

She advocated that violent acts
Be directed toward
Members of Congress. Such offenses
Shouldn't be ignored.

Hilary murdered babies, she said.
How could anyone
Take Greene seriously after
All the tales she's spun?

When racists hear her rants, they all
Swarm around her like flies
Attracted to something I'd rather not
Have to verbalize.

Her anti-Muslim and anti-Semitic
Hate speech abounds.
One wonders how a person could be
As crazy as she sounds.

Greene has given support to the myth
That Trump really won the election.
Her vitriol also helped to incite
The Capitol insurrection.

Many Republicans in Congress
Bury their heads in the sand,
Ignoring the danger that she poses.
Things are way out of hand.

Strange ideas are out there, granted,
But what could be more obscene
Than to have as a member of Congress
A Capitol QAnon Queen?

-by Bob B (1-30-21)

the autumn chill that picks me up
you loved the amber skies so much
long limbs and frozen swims
you'd always go past where our feet could touch
and i'd complain the whole way there
the car ride back and up the stairs
i should have asked you questions
i should have asked you how to be
asked you to write it down for me
should've kept every grocery store receipt
cause every scrap of you would be taken from me
watched as you signed your name marjorie
all your closets of backlogged dreams
and how you left them all to me

1
Watch the Christian nationalists
Trudge across the land--
Quoting from their Bibles,
With the book in hand.
Poisoning the minds of
People as they go.
They won't stop until they make their
Rules the status quo.

Chorus:
Watch the Christian nationalists
Trudge across the land--
Quoting from their Bibles,
With the book in hand.

2
As they watch diversity
Spread in many ways,
They will push their dogma
With the funds they raise.
Say good-bye to equal rights
As they march along.
They think God's on THEIR side, so they
Can do nothing wrong.

Chorus

3
Scorning Jews and Muslims
Is their common thread.
They hope they will vanquish
Foes with lies they spread.
Look into their hearts and you’ll
See through their façade.
Blending church and state, they want
A country ruled by God.

Chorus

4
Folks like Mastriano°
And like M.T. Greene°°
Are among the wackiest
People we have seen.
As they speak their gibberish--
Each deceptive word--
They with their pretentiousness
Can't help being absurd.

Chorus

5
If perchance your lifestyle is
One that they condemn,
You deserve no freedoms if
You don't think like them.
They don't seem to care to
Love and to forgive.
They do not believe in concepts
Like live and let live.

Chorus:
Watch the Christian nationalists
Trudge across the land--
Quoting from their Bibles,
With the book in hand.

-by Bob B (7-26-22)

°Doug Mastriano - far-right gubernatorial nominee in Pennsylvania
°°Marjorie Taylor Greene - far-right conspiracy theorist and U.S. representative from Georgia

Gosar, Greene, Gaetz, and Boebert°
With their painted smiles and frowns,
Represent--along with some others--
Our present-day congressional clowns.

They have no interest in legislating.
Obstructionism is what they embrace.
They thrive on phony culture wars
To raise money and rile up their base.

To QAnon, M.T. Greene
Has apparently sworn an oath.
To believe that nonsense, one has to be
Stupid, not all there, or both.

Obstructionist par excellence,
Matthew Gaetz joins the whiners.
Yes, he's the one who's been
Accused of having *** with minors.

Anti-Muslim hatred is what
Lauren Boebert loves to spew.
She thinks carrying a weapon in Congress
Is the appropriate thing to do.

Paul Gosar, whose siblings can't
Even stand him, thinks it's cool
To spread Trump's big election lie.
It's hard to find a bigger fool.

And don't forget his violent posts.
He claims that they are merely jokes
And laughs them off, heedless of
The fires of violence that he stokes.

These four clowns, unfortunately,
Are dangerous and not at all funny.
It's difficult to understand
How anyone could give them money.

If there were a big top out there,
I would say, "Save a space for them."
Since they are not suited for Congress,
A circus would be a better place for them.

-by Bob B (12-8-21)

°Representatives Paul Gosar (AZ), Marjorie Taylor Greene (GA), Matt Gaetz (FL), Lauren Boebert (CO)