by Ed Bennett
SPEAKER JOHN BOEHNER: Well, Bob, we should not be judged on how many new laws we create. We ought to be judged on how many laws that we repeal.
And each broken bridge,
each rutted road paid for,
abandoned by our indolence,
these are the marks of progress.
Every hungry stomach rumble,
every second job to meet ends,
every idle worker without benefits,
these are the stories of self reliance
by those of us, four hundred fifty strong
(more or less)
who get full time pay
for part time legislation
(or none at all)
and nothing to show except
a blockade of obfuscation,
an obdurate session with
our greatest strength:
a calculated, orchestrated
shout of "NO!".
I am their leader,
the New Moses,
who would rather
sit in the desert heat
than move on to promises.
Let me lead you, brothers and sisters,
away from the evil of the Common Good;
kneel with me here in this desolate 'scape
to worship the imaginary calf
of a Laughing Baal.
Ed Bennett is a poet and reviewer living in Las Vegas, NV. His works have appeared in The Externalist, Touch: The Journal of Healing, The Lavender Review, Quill and Parchment and Lilipo. He is a staff editor for Quill and Parchment Magazine, the recipient of a Pushcart Nomination and the author of “A Transit of Venus”.
Tampilkan postingan dengan label Congress. Tampilkan semua postingan
Tampilkan postingan dengan label Congress. Tampilkan semua postingan
Jumat, 26 Juli 2013
Kamis, 02 Mei 2013
LITTLE THINGS AND BIG THINGS
by John Kotula
John Kotula is a writer and artist who lives in Peace Dale, Rhode Island.
A terrible, terribly damaged boy nearly bleeds to death in a boat, under a tarp, in somebody’s back yard. Yes, he has blood on his hands and worse. How have we let this happen to one of our boys? But no one will say they are broken hearted. They will only say they are strong. “You picked the wrong city this time,” they say. I just want to cry for a while and hold each other.
My granddaughter is fussing in her car seat. I corkscrew my arm back and grope around for her blinky. I help her get it to her mouth. My beautiful daughter smiles at her beautiful daughter in the rearview mirror. The baby grabs my index finger in her damp, four month old fist and goes back to sleep. Something to suck on, the purr of the motor, someone within reach who loves her, is all she needs for contentment.
Way up in the mountains of Honduras there are plans to build a dam that no one needs or wants. It will make rich Hondurans richer. They will siphon off their share. It will make rich Americans richer. They will sell unsustainable technology to the rich Honduras. Some how the Chinese are involved. Some rich Chinese will get richer, too. The thatched roof houses of the poor people who live along the river will be thirty feet under water.
There is a young man who trusts me to give him advice. His mother is suddenly in the intensive care unit at the hospital. He is ashamed that he doesn’t understand her condition and doesn’t know how to make things better for her. I take the young man to the hospital and help him talk to the social worker. I joke with his mother in my bad Spanish and make her laugh. He feels a little better. I would be proud to be this young man’s father.
Automatic weapon fire blows apart a whole school full of tiny, fragile bodies. Even with the knowledge that they will never hold their own children again, the parents go to Washington and say please don’t let this happen to some one else. But the Republicans have so blatantly sold their souls, you got to wonder why God doesn’t strike them down. Hey God, where is the fire? Where is the brimstone? Where are the frogs and boils?
I am three floors above sea level in an old, old building. Looking out through wavy glass I can see the beach curve away to the north. A poet is reading about her memories of living in Alaska. I know many people in the room. Some of them I’ve known for forty years. In that moment, The New York Times and National Public Radio are far away. I don’t think so much about the little things. The big things are more important.
My granddaughter is fussing in her car seat. I corkscrew my arm back and grope around for her blinky. I help her get it to her mouth. My beautiful daughter smiles at her beautiful daughter in the rearview mirror. The baby grabs my index finger in her damp, four month old fist and goes back to sleep. Something to suck on, the purr of the motor, someone within reach who loves her, is all she needs for contentment.
Way up in the mountains of Honduras there are plans to build a dam that no one needs or wants. It will make rich Hondurans richer. They will siphon off their share. It will make rich Americans richer. They will sell unsustainable technology to the rich Honduras. Some how the Chinese are involved. Some rich Chinese will get richer, too. The thatched roof houses of the poor people who live along the river will be thirty feet under water.
There is a young man who trusts me to give him advice. His mother is suddenly in the intensive care unit at the hospital. He is ashamed that he doesn’t understand her condition and doesn’t know how to make things better for her. I take the young man to the hospital and help him talk to the social worker. I joke with his mother in my bad Spanish and make her laugh. He feels a little better. I would be proud to be this young man’s father.
Automatic weapon fire blows apart a whole school full of tiny, fragile bodies. Even with the knowledge that they will never hold their own children again, the parents go to Washington and say please don’t let this happen to some one else. But the Republicans have so blatantly sold their souls, you got to wonder why God doesn’t strike them down. Hey God, where is the fire? Where is the brimstone? Where are the frogs and boils?
I am three floors above sea level in an old, old building. Looking out through wavy glass I can see the beach curve away to the north. A poet is reading about her memories of living in Alaska. I know many people in the room. Some of them I’ve known for forty years. In that moment, The New York Times and National Public Radio are far away. I don’t think so much about the little things. The big things are more important.
John Kotula is a writer and artist who lives in Peace Dale, Rhode Island.
Selasa, 30 April 2013
TOTAL INFORMATION AWARENESS
by Buff Whitman-Bradley
In order to save the National Security Agency
The trouble and expense
I am planning to spy on myself –
After all who is in a better position
To do so?
I will record and report
My every move
But even more than that
I will reveal my inner life
To the authorities
The shapes and colors and contents
Of my thoughts musings longings moods
Memories dreams reflections
In this way providing crucial data
For psychological profiling
That could lead to my arrest
And indefinite detention
Lest single-handedly
On some Tuesday afternoon
I overthrow the government.
I would proudly and humbly
Accept a medal from Congress
And the thanks of a grateful nation
For helping to avert anarchy in the streets
But whether or not I receive a hero’s acclaim
For my innovative and brilliant spooking
I will pass my days
In maximum security solitary confinement
Comforted by the knowledge
That I have rendered invaluable service in the struggle
To keep America free
Buff Whitman-Bradley is the author of four books of poetry, b. eagle, poet; The Honey Philosophies; Realpolitik; and When Compasses Grow Old; and the chapbook, Everything Wakes Up! His poetry has appeared in many print and online journals. He is also co-editor, with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley and Sarah Lazare, of the book About Face: Military Resisters Turn Against War. He has co-produced/directed two documentary films, the award-winning Outside In (with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley) and Por Que Venimos (with the MIRC Film Collective). He lives in northern California.
 |
| Surveillance Shoe | Legoland by Jill Magid |
In order to save the National Security Agency
The trouble and expense
I am planning to spy on myself –
After all who is in a better position
To do so?
I will record and report
My every move
But even more than that
I will reveal my inner life
To the authorities
The shapes and colors and contents
Of my thoughts musings longings moods
Memories dreams reflections
In this way providing crucial data
For psychological profiling
That could lead to my arrest
And indefinite detention
Lest single-handedly
On some Tuesday afternoon
I overthrow the government.
I would proudly and humbly
Accept a medal from Congress
And the thanks of a grateful nation
For helping to avert anarchy in the streets
But whether or not I receive a hero’s acclaim
For my innovative and brilliant spooking
I will pass my days
In maximum security solitary confinement
Comforted by the knowledge
That I have rendered invaluable service in the struggle
To keep America free
Buff Whitman-Bradley is the author of four books of poetry, b. eagle, poet; The Honey Philosophies; Realpolitik; and When Compasses Grow Old; and the chapbook, Everything Wakes Up! His poetry has appeared in many print and online journals. He is also co-editor, with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley and Sarah Lazare, of the book About Face: Military Resisters Turn Against War. He has co-produced/directed two documentary films, the award-winning Outside In (with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley) and Por Que Venimos (with the MIRC Film Collective). He lives in northern California.
Kamis, 25 April 2013
PREAMBLE
by Lucille Gang Shulklapper
Lucille Gang Shulklapper writes poetry and fiction. She has been published in many journals and anthologies, as well as in four poetry chapbooks.
We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, open our floodgates to end political confusion, we are neither props nor emotional blackmailers, we are citizen cops, and justice nailers, we are the ones who know, you can’t easily track bombs that blow, limbs and lives apart, without a heart, that the NRA has erased, by not allowing taggits in gunpowder to be traced, that one of us found the tarp bloodied, one of us found Congress studied a poll and a vote, not the body in a boat, who represents our collective desire to demand, in this our democratic hallowed land, our voice to be respected, from the officials we elected.
Lucille Gang Shulklapper writes poetry and fiction. She has been published in many journals and anthologies, as well as in four poetry chapbooks.
Selasa, 19 Maret 2013
SWINDLED
by George Held
The handsome President
Wears his black suit gracefully;
Articulate, suave but earnest,
He is the paragon of a graduate
Of the homeland’s finest schools.
The President promised to repel
The Mammon, the Bain brain who
Would lead Capital’s raid on “entitlements,”
To which we are entitled because
We paid for them every paycheck.
But now the President offers our
Social Security and Medicare
As bargaining chips
While the croupier with “GOP”
On his green visor methodically
Rakes in profits for the house,
Which never loses at gaming
The system and we, the losers,
Broke and broken, limp from the table
Dimly aware we’ve been swindled.
An occasional contributor to The New Verse News, George Held occasionally blogs at www.georgeheld.blogspot.com.
The handsome President
Wears his black suit gracefully;
Articulate, suave but earnest,
He is the paragon of a graduate
Of the homeland’s finest schools.
The President promised to repel
The Mammon, the Bain brain who
Would lead Capital’s raid on “entitlements,”
To which we are entitled because
We paid for them every paycheck.
But now the President offers our
Social Security and Medicare
As bargaining chips
While the croupier with “GOP”
On his green visor methodically
Rakes in profits for the house,
Which never loses at gaming
The system and we, the losers,
Broke and broken, limp from the table
Dimly aware we’ve been swindled.
An occasional contributor to The New Verse News, George Held occasionally blogs at www.georgeheld.blogspot.com.
Kamis, 14 Maret 2013
ON THEIR BLINDNESS
by Frederick L. Shiels
When I consider how my days are spent
In this marbled city full of plots
And my people’s legislation rots
As Republicans withhold consent.
To all my noble programs evident
To any voter with discerning eye
And reporter knowing all’s awry
Guns, wages, energy’s predicament
Cry for the modest changes that I seek,
More schools and medicine for ev’ry child
That this great nation might enlightened grow
And healthy like a mighty garden sleek
With water from my policies unique
If only Congress could that wisdom know.
Frederick L. Shiels, Ph.D., is Professor Emeritus, Political Science and History, at Mercy College in Dobbs Ferry, NY.
When I consider how my days are spent
In this marbled city full of plots
And my people’s legislation rots
As Republicans withhold consent.
To all my noble programs evident
To any voter with discerning eye
And reporter knowing all’s awry
Guns, wages, energy’s predicament
Cry for the modest changes that I seek,
More schools and medicine for ev’ry child
That this great nation might enlightened grow
And healthy like a mighty garden sleek
With water from my policies unique
If only Congress could that wisdom know.
Frederick L. Shiels, Ph.D., is Professor Emeritus, Political Science and History, at Mercy College in Dobbs Ferry, NY.
Senin, 18 Februari 2013
HENNY-PENNY AND HER SEQUESTER WALK
by Lucille Gang Shulklapper
Silver-brittle sky-house snaps
handcuffs on its prisoners
the urgency of fear
startles some lizards
who walk on water bodies upright
escaping locomotion no tracks
the fuchsia impatiens
spills her blossoms onto brick
the sky is falling cries Henny-penny
I must warn the people
a duck rides a decoy like a horse
veering nowhere on its back
a boy fastens a target to a tree
alien green parrots scream
the needle sinks into the flesh
the arrow flies into the black
hungry pythons swallow deer
a dog named Forrest drowns
a child draws her lost cat
pointed ears small paws rounded eyes
she tapes it to a tree until its face
fades from it penciled tail
in a coat of oil a bird grows cold
its blackened wing remains
Henny-penny trips and falls
foxes make a meal of her
leave her carcass
on their party's trail
 |
| Steve Sack, Cagle Cartoons, The Minneapolis Star Tribune |
Silver-brittle sky-house snaps
handcuffs on its prisoners
the urgency of fear
startles some lizards
who walk on water bodies upright
escaping locomotion no tracks
the fuchsia impatiens
spills her blossoms onto brick
the sky is falling cries Henny-penny
I must warn the people
a duck rides a decoy like a horse
veering nowhere on its back
a boy fastens a target to a tree
alien green parrots scream
the needle sinks into the flesh
the arrow flies into the black
hungry pythons swallow deer
a dog named Forrest drowns
a child draws her lost cat
pointed ears small paws rounded eyes
she tapes it to a tree until its face
fades from it penciled tail
in a coat of oil a bird grows cold
its blackened wing remains
Henny-penny trips and falls
foxes make a meal of her
leave her carcass
on their party's trail
Lucille Gang Shulklapper has published short stories as well as four chapbooks of poetry, most recently, In the Tunnel, (March Street Press, 2008). She has won awards and competitions from National League of Pen Women: Nob Hill Branch, Palm Beach Repertory Theater, the R. Rofihe Poetry Trophy, and others. Her work has been anthologized and appears in many publications, including: Jerry Jazz Musician; Poetic Voices Without Borders, Gulfstream and The Prose Poem Project. She has led workshops for The Florida Center for the Book, and workshops facilitated through The Palm Beach Poetry Festival. Her first picture book, Stuck in Bed, Fred, has been accepted for publication in 2013.
Senin, 21 Januari 2013
THE FOUR YEAR PRANK
by David Feela
It’s not so difficult to believe Manti Te'o.
For the last four years I thought Congress
might come to a meaningful bipartisan
decision, but I was duped. I trusted
the banks with my home, the stock market
with my retirement, the doctors and
insurance companies with my health,
but I presumed too much. I was so sure
that terrorists lived abroad, were denied
access to our theaters, malls, and schools.
Of course I’m gullible, but there’s so much
I want to believe, even if I can’t see it.
Talk to me with a tender voice, tell me
the next four years will be better.
David Feela writes a monthly column for The Four Corners Free Press and for The Durango Telegraph. A poetry chapbook, Thought Experiments, won the Southwest Poet Series. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas appeared in 2009. His new book of essays, How Delicate These Arches , released through Raven's Eye Press, has been chosen as a finalist for the Colorado Book Award.
 |
| Image source: campusghanta |
It’s not so difficult to believe Manti Te'o.
For the last four years I thought Congress
might come to a meaningful bipartisan
decision, but I was duped. I trusted
the banks with my home, the stock market
with my retirement, the doctors and
insurance companies with my health,
but I presumed too much. I was so sure
that terrorists lived abroad, were denied
access to our theaters, malls, and schools.
Of course I’m gullible, but there’s so much
I want to believe, even if I can’t see it.
Talk to me with a tender voice, tell me
the next four years will be better.
David Feela writes a monthly column for The Four Corners Free Press and for The Durango Telegraph. A poetry chapbook, Thought Experiments, won the Southwest Poet Series. His first full length poetry book, The Home Atlas appeared in 2009. His new book of essays, How Delicate These Arches , released through Raven's Eye Press, has been chosen as a finalist for the Colorado Book Award.
Rabu, 07 November 2012
SUPER TUESDAY
Poem by Charles Frederickson
Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote
$UPERCILIOU$
Oily gutter politricks sunken rainbows
Warped arc reflection scared straight
Contending with scorched soil tactics
Flying Saucer Tea Party crash-landing
$UPERPHONY
If Obama walked on water
Rancid Foxy creatures that inhabit
Polluted foggy bottomless DCeption
Would ask: “Can’t he swim?”
$UPERCHARLATAN
Barely afloat back from brink
Contrarian House craven maven power-mongers
Relentlessly diminishing disrespecting unwilling to
Act in common good-better-best faith
$UPEROPPORTUNI$T
Obstructionist Congress lobbying corporate sponsors
Casino crapshoot rolling loaded dice
Greedy unprincipled hypocrites institutionalizing avarice
Judeo-Christian-Zionist unholy crusader war
$UPER$CHMOOZER
Barack is who he is
Fundamentally principled reversing Bush catastrophes
Despite monumental Republican’t naysayers bucking
Broncobama No-OK Corral rodeo champ
$UPERPANDERER
Left is right bipolarized chill-out
As good as it’s gonna
Get for next four years
Probably better than we deserve
Oily gutter politricks sunken rainbows
Warped arc reflection scared straight
Contending with scorched soil tactics
Flying Saucer Tea Party crash-landing
$UPERPHONY
If Obama walked on water
Rancid Foxy creatures that inhabit
Polluted foggy bottomless DCeption
Would ask: “Can’t he swim?”
$UPERCHARLATAN
Barely afloat back from brink
Contrarian House craven maven power-mongers
Relentlessly diminishing disrespecting unwilling to
Act in common good-better-best faith
$UPEROPPORTUNI$T
Obstructionist Congress lobbying corporate sponsors
Casino crapshoot rolling loaded dice
Greedy unprincipled hypocrites institutionalizing avarice
Judeo-Christian-Zionist unholy crusader war
$UPER$CHMOOZER
Barack is who he is
Fundamentally principled reversing Bush catastrophes
Despite monumental Republican’t naysayers bucking
Broncobama No-OK Corral rodeo champ
$UPERPANDERER
Left is right bipolarized chill-out
As good as it’s gonna
Get for next four years
Probably better than we deserve
No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson and Mr. Saknarin Chinayote proudly present YouTube mini-movies @ YouTube – CharlesThai1 .
Langganan:
Postingan (Atom)