The following poem is a generalization, on that, we can likely agree,
but this is the way that most Trumpists appear, to many a person like me:
Dear Trumpists, I am here to say I think I understand
just what you're really all about across the troubled land.
It really bugs you, does it not, when walking in your town,
to see so many people with a skin of black or brown?
To hear a foreign language when the immigrants converse.
To see them in a headscarf or a turban makes you curse.
Their differences, their ways of life, you see as disrespect
and you hate being asked to be "politically correct".
Then one day came a savior shining brighter than the sun.
His name was Donald Trump and you knew he was the one.
You knew you must support him 'cause in every speech he'd give,
he'd validate your hate and he'd fit with your narrative.
"The Mexicans are rapists", "The Muslims seek to kill",
"Black lives don't matter quite so much". Such thoughts gave you a thrill.
Sometimes he was outrageous. You could not trust every word,
but vote for him you did because you felt you had been heard.
Well, now your man's in power and it's no longer fun,
with half his staff revolting (and that's in more ways than one).
He hasn't drained the swamp, it's just become further bogged down,
with all his slimy yes-men there to praise the orange clown.
He comes across as ignorant and looking like a fool.
He's subject to fact-checking and resulting ridicule.
The press, it has a field day and comedians rejoice.
His opponents have united and have found a common voice.
Dear Trumpists, I do understand that this has made you mad,
but sense and reason don't support the notions that you've had.
So you rant on social media with foul, insulting fits,
like a bunch of whining, shouting, howling, idiotic twits.
So Trumpists, don't you realize, your chance has passed you see?
Oppression has been in decline since the end of slavery.
So here's a new idea that I'd really like to share:
You might try something different by showing that you care.
Why don't you go extend a hand to those that you attack.
They might provide you insight that you desperately lack.
Just open up your heart and head and throw away the hate,
and America once more could be a nation that is great.
Link to video of this poem: https://youtu.be/-wpxNc-BtXE
Written February 18, 2017
There is in London town, a clown, who works at all the pubs
A frivolous demeanor, and usefulness with clubs
As a bouncer and a cad, he's known both far and wide
Mock not the clown, named Prancer, or you'll wish, that you had died
It's still the season!
Always has a joke or jest
he keeps them up his sleeve
Putting the teacher to the test
as she's asking him to leave
Never letting the mask slip
showing who he might be
Hiding the tears and rips
growing larger, by degree
The class clown, has no power
only quips and jabs, to entertain
His face, demeanor, dour
as his dreams, go down the drain
Trees like dark coal wimpering white ghostly
bare dull lifeless Life's cruel wicked costly
Chattered teeth hearing the sound's
He shifted so close desirable
( tasty mound's)
The stranger Billy dont B fool joker
Dark-love complicated Damn it Choke her
Deep-house music strangled rope seated,
Did someone touch a nerve dead-beat Harvest-hair
Trembling through your Rocking Chair
It's still rocking and speaking
Elevated you deadly crumb's of a row
Blood was dripping
Someone's eyes pop-out fixated
Dark brain felt poluted foggy white chalked
You were being watched EYE'S stalked
Rows and Rows Cosmic dark Gothic
Webs caught in webs black tears
Being followed drawn in face hallowed
Loud drips from the sink discolored
Wrinkled Hand's Slime Sticky
4 your long neck Nasty trick-y
Rocky-Road Ice, Emerald city eye's melt
into his poppy,
He's no lover of mine cheaply.
Sadness becomes the clown
for humor is a reflex
and denial is breathing
and ease is a smile when one's secretly seething
Sadness becomes the clown
for punchlines are hits
and fools are martyrs
and what are mocked pains but conversation starters
Sadness becomes the clown
for laughter is weighty
and jokes are suppression
and comedic timing is a guise for depression
Clowns give their all
day after day
while time is a pall of emotional decay
And they know it's inevitable
when the chips are down
that the clown becomes sadness
and sadness becomes the clown
If you walked a mile in my dressing gown
you'd be laughed out of town
a clown's smile turned upside down
a foundation covered frown
If you walked a mile in my night shirt
you'd be on red alert
for being so overt
in attempts to subvert
If you walked a mile in my underwear
you'd stop traffic, to be fair
as the public stopped to stare
and not at your footwear
If you walked a mile in my shoes
you'd have nothing to lose
there's little ego to bruise
but plenty of love to use
In my entourage
I got used to it.
In my center stage
I was the comedian
who never likes
In my closing remarks
I on the other hand
from my mistakes
turned to be pretty
never was that
i guess i got used to it, being laugh at. a job that im forever tainted
well its okay, im good, im still strong to pull through, soon I'll get
out of this....
thanks, for reading
sometimes we just
needed to let this out
of our system...
Clowning around, real near the woods
clowns on the prowl, in your neighborhood
Creepy and crazy, done up in their masks
sneaking around, clowny type tasks
Children avoid them, and do as I say
clowned princes of doom, will take you away
They don't want your presents, or birthday cake
roaming around, with mischief to make
Threats called into the local school board
film posted to YouTube, hits to be scored
Making the news, for being absurd
mental the problems, seen, and not heard
Alone again like up and down
pantomime expresses the highs and lows but still wears a crown
an invisible halo
when will he let go
of the rope he holds
collapsing the box breaking mirrors
sharing joys mimicking cheers
who puts on his face day to day
existing in such a silent grace
happy nor sad but madd madd madd
either young nor old
he shivers as whimper cold cold cold
living day to day as you but a lot like me
till the end of night as a stray a wander
stretching out as he roams
tightening the string to walk the line
with no mistakes
quietly creeping away
leaving the scene
moving in and out
weaving in between
gently gliding home
forever and ever
and forever more
now then smearing his face
to be placed in place
as what it is to only be