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 Jan 2017 Dave Hardin
Bob B
I dreamed there was an UN-inauguration.
Peeking through the clouds, the frowning sun
Cast its rays upon the crowds below,
Perplexing and confounding everyone.

Donald Trump walked onto the platform,
Adjusting with his hands his golden thatch.
In the bleachers sat his buddy Putin,
Wily smiling, the two a perfect match.

The National Mall was split right down the middle.
Less than half of the crowd was loudly cheering.
All the rest were unmistakably
More enthusiastic in their jeering.

All of a sudden, the dark clouds parted.
A pillar of light descended from above.
Everyone could see that spiraling downward
Was the image of an ivory dove.

The dove transformed into a real person.
There stood Hillary Clinton on the stage!
Trump, whose eyes were shooting darts of fire,
Flew into his usual Trumpish rage.

A thunderous voice shook the Capitol steps.
The startled people jumped when they heard "STOP!"
Everybody waited in suspense,
Wondering when the ball was going to drop.

“This nonsense can't go on!” thundered the voice.
“A slight change—call it a correction—
Must fix improprieties that hurt
The integrity of your last election.”

Angelic voices filled the wintry air
As shouts of anger turned to happy cheers.
Trump and friends sauntered off the platform.
Bitterly they wiped away their tears.

Kellyanne Conway, puffed up with hot air,
Swirled away like a deflating balloon.
General Flynn got down on all fours
And turned into a blabbering baboon.

Steve Bannon also underwent
A sudden transformation, quite befitting:
He turned into a snake and slithered away
Past the seat where Eric Trump was sitting.

Putin’s face showed great disappointment.
The crafty leader couldn't understand
How his plans had backfired. He joined Trump.
They walked off together, hand in hand.

A blissful light enveloped everybody.
That was when I woke up from my dream
And had to face what was going to be
A harsh reality: a Trump regime.

- by Bob B (1-18-17)
 Jan 2017 Dave Hardin
SE Reimer
(a tribute; if mere words could be enough)


the life of this River,
'tis an unending stream;
is an unpublished book,
its current fast at flood;
a flow that washes clean,
all the gathered debris;
its words like diamonds,
sparkling neath its lapping
waters at its river bank;
a sound refreshing,
hushes the rush in my mind,
calling to my soul.
where does the river go at night,
and whence flows its waters
when hidden, out of sight?
its flow is eternal to the sea;
a place of waters gathering,
of floods heaping,
of reflection's seeking,
where still waters lie,
where the hand of friendship
holds and lifts all who venture
to its depth where feet
can touch no longer
the point where most
would flounder
become a place of calm
of peaceable retreat without
and deep within
a flow of tears for thee!


post script.

a heart on sleeve composure,
for he who knows the River best!
who's breath is water deep,...
who's heart beat its very current!

added 12-13-16
my dearest HP friends, i want to thank you for this Daily and for your generous words, though i cannot truly claim this credit for my own.  those of you who have walked these halls with me for a few years will read between the lines and will know precisely for whom this tribute is written.  he is become to me one of a small handful of poetry mentors and it was a moment of great appreciation for his artistic talent that inspired these words... words that tumbled from this pen as a rush, and in mere minutes.  such is he, that he inspired this spill of words; a flood that i would not claim for my own.  to he who knows, thank you, my friend... this River... these and this belongs to you!!
 Dec 2016 Dave Hardin
On a black night
one cold November
the lost Buffalo Soldier
came back to his home
and found his family
dead and gone, white
people were living
in his house with chickens
even though his name
was still scratched on
the prow of the mailbox,
so he unbuttoned his shirt
and waited in the fields
until the moon came up
and shined in the shaving mirror
nailed to a post on the porch
while he smoked remembering
all you have to do is dream
the old king had told him.
Alt-right ain't alright.
 Dec 2016 Dave Hardin
Jeff Stier
A flight of three crows
added to
a dense grey day

Next add four
iconic conifers
as high as the sky
eternally ******* down

These things are
always in my sight
through my window
on this wet world

Multiply all of this
by a sweet daughter
who makes me proud
and raise the whole
to the power of a strong woman
who carries us all
on her back

The equation produces
a result that I am 95 percent certain
equals happiness
though the confidence interval
is wide

And this result
sweet as it is
and as uncertain as it is
will outlive me
leave a faint echo in time
an echo that will bounce off a star
and finally be found
gripped in my shriveled paw
long after the epiphany
nowhere near paradise
somewhere short of
the end of the line

This is a moment of happiness
stolen from time
hijacked by a fugitive
from civil society

I'll hold it close
until death pries it
without mercy
from my hand

Leaves it as a blessing
and a curse
for all who come after

Take the blessing.
Leave the curse.
That's the advice I give
with my dying breath.
And I leave this to you
from the generosity
of my heart.
With a nod to
the scant traces
of God's grace
that I find on these pathways
of travail.

Never lost.
Never found.
Always present
and generous
to all.

Be that.
I write from Western Oregon in a year that is wet even by Oregon standards.
Lizbeth, your mother calls
from downstairs, dinnertime.

You move off the bed where
you have been lying thinking
of Benny, of how to get him
away from the ****** girl at
school, and get him with you.

You sit on the side of your bed,
remember the time you got
him in this room while your
mother was out, but still he
wouldn't, despite the fact you
were semi undress, and then
your mother came back early,
and you had to pretend you
were just showing him your
record collection. Lizbeth,
your mother calls again, you
get off the bed, go to the tall
boy mirror and tidy your hair
and stand and stare. If only he
had, if you he had that time
on the pew in that church you
got him into, but he wouldn't,
said not in church. Lizbeth,
your mother calls you again.

You open your bedroom door
and go downstairs, COMING,
you call down, your voice loud,
your fingers on the lips drumming.
Naked as Spring
Several propositions,
Like life,
Offer themselves to you
And to the heart of you.
They make themselves available
As naked as the newborn Spring.

It's your choice.
Several propositions,
Like your life,
Become themselves of you
Or of the heart of you.
Some make themselves inevitable
And you believe it's your choice

And now a silence
A crushing roaring silence;
As those propositions,
Become fewer and fewer
And in the heart of you
Some things become inevitable
And this very loud silence

And now this silence,
This bruising numbing silence,
As these dispositions,
Become stiffer and stiffer
And in the head of you
These things that are inevitable
Are getting slower and slower

Those naked Springs ago,
All those propositions,
Your life
Fasten themselves to you
And to the heart of you
You're getting older and older
And you're as naked as a bone

                                 By Phil Roberts
Hooded in porcelain enamel,
she stands with palms out-turned
to passing traffic and livestock
grazing in fields across the road.

She stays bone dry in driving rain;
on sunny days, bathed in shadow.

She’s been planted in the yard
as long as anyone can remember.

The mangy Bluetick hound sleeps
at her feet, unleashed, ears cocked
to the roaring of an unsound world.
Suddenly  gone  very  quiet  here.
Main  tourists  now  long  gone.

Birds  and  animals  quiet  too.
No  morning  chorus.

Weather  stagnant, mainly  cloudy, no  wind.
And  surprisingly  no  sign  of  rain.

Trees  are  beautiful  though.
Leaves  of  rich  reds,  browns,  and  golds.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

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