The Third of November

The Third of November

In a vigil to rival All Hallows’ Eve,
skulls of saints will scream in agony
at the slime pigments cast upon
election results by the fool
known as The Clown in Chief
as he casts his scepter as a crown.

The pellucid quest that follows
will underscore the truth
buried by the dim accuracy
of his claims of victory,
granting the solitudes wish
of the multitudes upon his soul.

This poem is my response to Poetics: The charms of Samuel Greenberg, the prompt from Laura at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to write a poem using five of these phrases
from Samuel Greenberg’s “The Pale Impromptu”:

Dim Accuracy ~ Candle salve ~ Consumed moon
Eyes jealousy ~ Fouls deviation ~ Grey life
Hearts brow ~ Lucid farrows ~ Nulling marrows
Painted mirth ~ Pale heat ~ Palmed rose
Pearls from tissue ~ Pellucid quest ~ Royal flesh
Skulls of saints ~ Slime pigments ~ Spiritual songs
Solitudes wish ~ Times chant ~ Yellow dreams

I have used dim accuracy, pellucid quest, skulls of saints,
slime pigments, and solitudes wish.

Image source: David Horsey / Seattle Times (edited here)

A Spoonful of Donald ~ with audio

A Spoonful of Donald
(Trumps the Virus Goin’ Round)

Coronavirus
Far from desirous
Worldwide, people fall like flies
Ignore fake news – Ignore those lies

It’s not too late
Promulgate
Be like me – I’m so great
Don’t let COVID dominate

Eradication
Medication
Big Pharma aiming for the moon
COVID cure can’t come too soon

Emphatic denials
Who needs drug trials
Presidential immunity
Be like me – I’ll set you free

Two words, “eradication” and “medication,” in a comment by Kim
on Ron Lavalette’s prosery (The Determining Factor) inspired this poem.

Shared with OpenLinkNight #276

Images
Top: Washington Post (© Steve Breen/San Diego Union Tribune)
Bottom: newsday.com (© Dave Granlund)

Larger-Than-Life, Smaller in Truth ~ prosery

Larger-Than-Life, Smaller in Truth

Pen poised above his notepad, the correspondent had stopped taking notes shortly after the president started speaking. He sat at the White House press briefing, confident that little more than inflated accomplishments and no real news would be heard as he thought back on the president’s briefings for the past four years. As he had always done, the president spoke as if campaigning for re-election, loudly proclaiming that nothing that comes from the media is anything more than “fake news,” while little truth could be found in anything that left his own lips.

As the president left the podium and his fellow reporters rose from their chairs, he thought, “From across the room, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time. With that telescope reversed, the future will recognize him for the small man that he truly is.”

This bit of flash fiction is my response to Prosery: Telescope of Time, presented by Kim at dVerse ~ Poets Pub. With Prosery, the challenge is to write a piece of flash fiction with a 144-word limit. Included in the bit of prose is to be a complete line from a poem. My flash fiction also meets the additional challenge of hitting the 144-word mark, exactly.
For this prompt, the line to be included is from “Humming Bird,” by D.H. Lawrence. (the complete poem can be found here)

“From across the room, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time”      – D.H. Lawrence

Image source: Politico / Getty
(edited here)

Who’s Sorry Now?

Who’s Sorry Now?

Oh Mighty Commander, Supreme Leader
of the Greatest Nation on Earth,
we thank you for all that you do for us
as you lead by example, holding yourself
to the highest standard you understand
by mocking a disabled reporter,
mocking reporters injured at protests,
mocking your opponent for the size of his mask
during the pandemic that is sweeping our land.

Hundreds of thousands may have passed, so far,
but your honesty and forthrightness are all
that has saved us from dying by the millions
from this dreaded Chinese plague. It is our hope
that you not be counted among the lost. Instead
we hope that a speedy recovery will return you
to your natural form, so that you may continue
to display the fine character for which you are known.

Image source: theweek.com
(© Tom Toles / Andrew McMeel Publishing)

No Clowning Around

No Clowning Around

Congratulations!
39 out of 67!
That’s pretty good, right?
Who wouldn’t want to be batting .582?

Wait. You mean 39 of you have COVID-19?
Oh, 36. Three have already died. Well, that’s different.
Hang in there. At least the other 28 are symptom-free.
For now. I’ll bet they’re glad to be in that nursing home with you.

I’m sure the 28 staff who tested positive will be back to work
in no time. After all everyone in town wears a mask. (Wink, Wink)
There’s still time to thank the clown who told you,
over and over, not to worry about this little virus.

Just remember to put an X next his name
when you mail in your ballot.

Breaking news: 29 staff members and 39 of 67 residents at a nursing home two blocks
from my home, in this state capital with no mask requirement, in a state with no mask requirement, have tested positive for COVID-19. Three of those residents have died.

I have nothing but respect for those who are suffering and those who have lost their lives.
I have absolutely no respect for the posse of clowns we refer to as our leaders, those who have failed (and continue to fail, more than six months into the pandemic) to take the appropriate
and timely measures needed to assure that events such as this do not occur.

This poem is my response to dVerse Poetics – Clowning Around, the prompt from Lisa
at dVerse~ Poets Pub, which is to write a poem using the word “clown.”

POTUS Ulcerous ~ video poem

POTUS Ulcerous

What is so appealing about this ulcer on the American soul,
this anathema to everything that is great about this country,
that anyone would be willing to encourage it to ooze and fester,
just to see it consume whatever flaws they perceive
to be plaguing our society, even as it sows anger and hatred?
Only when it is excoriated, stripped of all its power,
and removed completely, can there be healing.

Dear Don ~ prose poem

Dear Don,

I know you haven’t heard from me in a while, but I understand you’ve been busy with your daily media briefings, and, well, the less said about those, the better. Okay, just one thing. Congratulations on making them all about you. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that you’ve got those doctors there, backing you up all the way. The country needs to see you up there, being a true leader. Where else are we going to get the truth, if not from you? Whatever you do, keep Mike out of the limelight. You don’t need him taking any credit. With the election just a few months away, you need as much as you can get. Although, this whole pandemic scare is working out pretty well for you. You get the daily briefing exposure, and then there’s that whole stimulus angle. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve heard out in public saying, “Thank God for the Trump CARES Act,” or “Did you get your Trump money, yet?” If they only new, huh, Don? Maybe this will distract them so much they don’t think about the major corporations that made stock buybacks with their stimulus money. And then there’s the money made with the states starting to stockpile hydroxychloroquine. Wink. Wink. Anyway, I just want to let you know you can remove me from your mailing list. I’m already sold, so you should save the postage for some real campaign literature. I do have to hand it to you though, getting the IRS to send a letter on your letterhead reminding me that I received my Trump money.

All the best,

Ken

 

~ Day 26 ~

COVID-45 ~ video poem

COVID-45

It’s simple, really, your method of bending
the base instincts of the masses.
Convince them that yours is the one true reality.
Smother them with promises, but deliver the opposite.
No one in their right mind would replicate you,
yet the pool of hosts open to contamination
by your vile presence grows exponentially.
If only they would wash their hands of you.

Surrounded, as your are, by sycophants,
the only thing missing is a crown.

This is my response to Poetics: “Bartender, I’d like to close out my tab-oo,”
the prompt from Amaya at dVerse Poets Pub.