The poet feels more
of what he sees-
the ordinary person
sees but feels hardly-
that's the difference
between the banal
and that which is true beauty

Do not test
or measure me
I'm a nobody

thousands
out there
are more worthy

go after them
the cream and jewel
of society

do not target me
what you'll get
is but an unimpressive story

I got a chicken sandwich,
I was hungry as a witch,
But how I was disappointed,
It was so underdone I was plucking feathers out it!

When you play Magic; The Gathering,
You gotta understand what color you are inside,
That way you can play your color better.
You could be white like the plains,
Focused on order and loyalty,
Keeping a tight fist on your life.
You could be black like a swamp,
Willing to give anything,
To obtain everything.
You could be blue like an island,
Logical and cold,
Doing the hard job of saying no.
You could be red like a mountain,
Fiery and bold,
Ready to rage out on your enimies.
You could be green like a forest,
Big and boisterous,
Here for the friends and things.

The world has a problem,
Hope is running out,
And love is in short supply.

So lets start a charity,
Giving out free hope,
And all kinds of love.

It’s the billionaire’s coup–Trump, Putin and Musk.
They’re bleeding us out, from dawn until dusk.
Consumer protections, arts, farms, forestry–
the billionaires say they’re not necessary.
From the money they save, the tax cuts will come
to the billionaires, the millionaires, their daughters and sons.
Balance the budget, so they can all have some.

So many workers deemed useless and lazy,
such as nuclear engineers–whoops! Are they crazy?
Shredding all of Congress’s appropriations
and thumbing their noses at all other nations.
Except Putin’s, because, he’s one of them--
the billionaire’s club of rich white old men,
who share dreams of ransacking the whole world, entire,
until all of it ends in storms, floods and fire.
Then off via SpaceX past the Milky Way’s limits.
No, that’s not possible. But deep down they’re dimwits.
You can fool some of us, all of the time,
You can’t fool us all, and  I’ll end this rhyme:
We’ll protest, we’ll sue, we’ll go out on strikes.
And if the time comes–their heads stuck on pikes.

Scrapbook Poem #140