I'm totally baffled how anyone
Can be so heartless and inhumane
To make dehumanizing migrants
The focus of his election campaign.

But Donald Trump is doing that now.
With a complete lack of restraint
He spews his venom. He doesn't care
How many minds he's able to taint.

Insinuating that migrants come
From mental institutions and jails
And prisons and even "insane asylums,"
He's an obnoxious teller of tales.

Tying them to a cannibalistic
Killer named Hannibal Lecter? For shame!
And Trump's supporters who think it's funny
To vilify migrants share the blame.

According to Trump, the languages
That many migrants bring to this nation
Sound as though they come from Mars.
More attempts at stigmatization.

Trump also claims that migrants
Poison the blood of our country. Scary:
****** felt the very same way!
People everywhere ought to be wary.

-by Bob B (3-5-24)

Frankie, the devil-cat, was always
The infamous focus of blame.
Folks said Lucifer would have been
A more appropriate name.

Always in trouble he was! You couldn't
Find a more wicked cat.
If you can name one more evil than Frankie,
I will eat my hat.

Sometimes he would want your attention.
Bah! Attention indeed.
If you pet him, he'd bite your arm
And scratch it and make it bleed.

You couldn't walk across the floor
Barefoot, for if you tried,
Frankie would attack your foot
And bite it until you cried.

He had a strange design on his forehead
Which frightened the local priest.
"Beware!" the priest told Frankie's owners.
"The cat has the mark of the beast."

You might wake up from a peaceful sleep
In the darkness of the night.
Two yellow eyes would be staring at you,
And make you jump up in fright.

"****, **** cat!" you'd yell at Frankie,
And he would yowl and hiss.
When you got up in the morning, you'd sense
That something was amiss.

Your favorite knick-knack would be lying
In pieces on the floor,
And Frankie would stay hidden until
You were no longer sore.

When he was hungry, you wouldn't have
A single moment of peace
Until you filled his bowl with food.
THEN the racket would cease.

When Frankie's owners would leave the house,
It was as though he would boast
That now he could use their luxury couch
As his favorite scratching post.

They never caught him in the act.
A scary thing happened when
A guest who said Frankie should be declawed
Was never heard from again.

Frankie would sit by the window and wait
For other cats to come near,
Then he would scream so loudly that he
Would fill them all with fear.

One day out of meanness Frankie
Started to chew on a wire.
Zap! He was electrocuted.
What a way to expire!

The owners say he's in kitty heaven,
But people who knew him well
Roll their eyes and under their breath
Say, "More like kitty hell."

"Frankie, aka Lucifer:
The meanest cat around!"
Should be Frankie's epitaph
Now that he's underground.

-by Bob B (3-2-24)

Republicans, please stay out
Of women's uteruses, okay?
What EACH one does with her ******
Is something in which you have no say.

Another thing: While you're at it,
Please leave women's eggs alone.
Why turn people's bodies into
A stupid political combat zone?

Stay OUT of our bedrooms, and stop making
Our intimacy an issue for you.
It's as though you are unable
To find something better to do.

There are many important matters
That should be addressed. Oh, but no!
Instead, you are hung up on
What to do with an embryo.

Instead of obsessing about such things
As women's embryos and eggs,
Worry about yourselves and what
Happens between YOUR OWN legs!

-by Bob B (2-24-24)

Sam was known as the Buddha-cat,
Mainly because of the way that he sat.
His feline posture was fascinating:
He always appeared to be meditating.
Quiet and still, he'd sit there for hours
As though he possessed remarkable powers.
People would say that he gave the impression
Of being in the midst of a calm zazen session.
Never upset or angry or frightened,
He made all who knew him think he was enlightened.

"But tell us: why 'Sam'?" people would query
So often that both of Sam's owners grew weary.
"It's short for Samantabhadra," they'd say,
"Who's just like a Buddhist saint in a way."
"Yes," Sam would think, "That's who I am.
But, everyone, PLEASE, just call me 'Sam.'"
Then Sam would continue his deep meditation,
Sometimes counting each long exhalation.
And when he was finished, he'd patiently wait
To see if a treat might appear on his plate.

He'd stare through the window pane when it was raining.
To him it was one type of mindfulness training.
He never would chase after insects or mice,
And if one ran by, he wouldn't look twice.
He was content just to take life with ease.
One thing that he couldn't stand, though, was fleas!
But he wouldn't **** them, for his point of view
Was clearly: that's what his owners should do.
He knew that life had both good times and bad,
And since life was so, he didn't get mad.

Sam was not a strict vegetarian.
His rules for dining were more nonsectarian.
He'd chant when you gently would stroke his soft fur,
Though folks said it sounded more like a purr.
He was a true inspiration to many.
Did he have enemies? No, not any.
When visitors came, Sam wouldn't hide.
Of all cats, he was the most dignified.
Sam felt that egos were dangerous, so
Everyone has to learn how to let go.

As Sam grew older, he slept day and night,
And fur on his face began to turn white.
He ate much less food--not a whole plateful,
But he continued to always be grateful.
He still meditated, although bit by bit,
He felt it was better to lie than to sit.
One sad morning Sam's owners awoke
To find that old Sam had died of a stroke.
For Sam there would be no more mañana,
For he had entered parinirvana.

-by Bob B (2-21-24)

It's funny how the followers
Of one religion often find
The myths of their religion as real
And true and easy to get behind,

While the myths of other religions
To them are merely stories, fiction,
Implausible beliefs, and they
Express their feelings with great conviction.

Oftentimes the god or gods
Of someone else's religion become
Devils or evil forces to certain
Believers. A case of zero sum.

It's also odd how many believers
Profess that their beliefs are strong--
That followers of other religions
Are in the dark, deluded, wrong.

In other words, they insist
That their religious point of view
Tops all others, as though they're saying,
"What's good for ME is good for YOU."

I resent it when anyone
Tries to make it his or her goal
To tell me what I should believe
And then attempts to "save my soul."

I also resent it when legislators
Use the pulpit to make our laws
And very conveniently ignore
The fact that such a process has flaws.

"Be a light unto yourself."
Beware of any religion that smothers
The truth, deceitfully pressuring us
To blindly follow the path of others.

-by Bob B (2-20-24)

As the world mourns the death of Alexei Navalny,
The truth of how he died won't be disclosed--
At least while Putin maintains an iron grip on the country,
For we all know he hates being opposed.

Beware of mourning in public if you live in Russia
Or if you demand the truth of Navalny's death.
Beware of consequences when your country is run
By someone who's as cruel as Lady Macbeth.

Russian penal colonies are far from pleasant,
But no one expects them to be comfy resorts.
However, couldn’t conditions at least be more humane?
Inmates end up in a torture chamber of sorts.

"Sudden death syndrome" is how Navalny died.
That's what we're told. Sounds suspicious, no?
That could run the gamut from colds or flu to ******.
However he died, his death was a horrible blow.

Beware if you go to Russia while Putin is in control,
For speaking your mind might be something you rue.
As long as the tyrant continues to have unlimited powers,
"Sudden death syndrome" could happen to you.

-by Bob B (2-18-24)

Poor Donald. What took place?
You received the ruling of another case.
Consequences sometimes can be hard to face.
Poor Donald.

Poor Donald. What'll you do
Now that all your lies are catching up with you?
Accountability can be a dream come true.
But poor Donald.

Poor Donald. Don't say, "Pshaw!"
Conspiracy and fraud are both against the law.
The judge got fed up hearing all your blah, blah, blah.
So, poor Donald.

Poor Donald. Though you fight,
I guess that facts and truth can be your kryptonite.
The judge was baffled that you weren't at all contrite.
Yes, poor Donald.

Poor Donald. Do not pout.
Based on past experience there is no doubt
That donors and the RNC will bail you out.
Still, poor Donald.

Poor Donald. Hey, what now?
You'll be back in court, but it's amazing how
Folks can still consider you their sacred cow.
Yet, poor Donald.

-by Bob B (2-17-24)

(The format of this poem was inspired by a verse in Stephen Sondheim's song "Poor Baby.")