What should you do with a second-hand muse--
inspiration spent, and by his mistress abus’d?:
Feed him some grapes under cliffsides and clouds,
sit him under a tree;  read him verses aloud.
Make him a spectre of love unrequited,
tell him of enemies that you’d like smited.
Recount  transgressions, and triumphs and losses;
ponder Cruel Fate and the luck of coin tosses.
Tell him of all of your sins now excused--
how the Judge and the Jury have been recused.
And that any dream, urge, or whim can be used--
but you simply cannot go on as a-mused.

They came for us with tanks and guns.
We stood our ground—the old and young.
All our troops had mustered round
our Capital--Sacramento town.
A New Republic, we’d declared,
and its defense,
among all would be shared.
With the Bear Flag flying high
we all came to fight and die.
Young men in their combat boots
repelled the dictator’s first wave of troops.
Civilians came from South and North
to resist the fascist ruler’s force.
From Frisco and from San Jose,
from San Diego and L.A.,
from Calistoga and Marin,
thousands had come pouring in.
Then US bombers burned the city,
for the orange Fuhrer had no pity.
They won the battle, but we all know
from history, how these things go.
An occupation cannot last
against a people whose strength holds fast.
The tyrant’s troops will tire, while we
will fight on, until we’re free.

I’ve been there and I’ve seen that.
Whatever seems new, to me it’s old hat.
I’ve heard some things that you wouldn’t believe--
I took the Devil’s confession, and I’ve seen the martyr bleed.
I’ve been up on the mountain, seen the clouds below;
I’ve gone down to the river where the strong currents flow.
I’ve listened to a demon whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
I’ve heard the angels call me to take one step nearer.
I rode the horse that threw the other rider;
I steered the raft through the rocks in the wild white water.
I walked into the ocean under the cold moonlight
and swam on my back in the star studded night.
I’ve washed the stain of guilt off of the criminal’s sleeve,
and dried the tears of the people who were stricken with grief.
I’ve asked the one question that unlocks the hidden door,
and heard secrets that the prisoner never spoke before.
I sat silently, listening, when there was nothing more to say.
I’ve walked miles through the night, until the break of day.
I’ve been in the forest, I’ve lived in the town;
give me one good reason I shouldn’t burn this place down.
I’ve done some taking and I’ve done some giving
and I’ve got some errands down the road before I’m done with living.

if you can guess who this is about I will promote your poem with a sun*

Taking my journey quotidian,
I tripped on a piece of obsidian;
I saw it in front of me,
but kept walking, heedlessly,
perhaps seeking some sort of oblivion.

Women—I’m just one of a  million.
But I offer my heart of vermilion!
I’d cross over the sea,
and love you tenderly,
if you’d  just hear my plea--
--so will you then?

In deep winter’s chill a brief nudge
gets groundhogs, with barely a grudge,
to predict the season,
but I ask, with good reason,
if they differ, who will be the judge?

I’m a hard-hearted woman;
I’ve seen too much of life.
I’ve seen the conflict, I’ve seen the strife.
I’ve seen the kindergarten
with its bombed-out walls.
And I know that your tax dollars
paid for it all.
Killing people in their homes,
in their hospitals, and schools,
was outlawed by the world
after World War II.
Do you need to question why
it breaks all the rules?
Putting people into camps,
and bulldozing where they lived--
so you can steal their land--
is a crime I can’t forgive.
There has to be one Law
for us all, on this planet.
There is no such thing as justice
if everyone can’t have it.
Your people aren’t special,
and no, they’re not “Chosen.”
They’re grandiose fanatics,
shooting, bombing and
bulldozing.

I’m a woman with some attitude--
not one who will dispense a platitude.
Chicken soup won’t give you soul;
from me, it’ll get you an eye roll.
You try to mask your disapproving looks
with sanctimonious advice from large print books:
“Embrace the moment” “Be grateful” and “Breathe”
“Pray” “See only the good” “Turn the other cheek”
“Accept others’ flaws” “Don’t criticize”--
I have some advice that’s a bit more wise:
“Don’t put up with *******” “Embrace your outrage."
While you were living in the “present,” history turned the page.
God is Dead, you’ve got to take charge;
you’ve been scammed by crooks in suits, who live large.
People aren’t so good; sometimes they’re ****.
They’ve pulled the rug out from under where you sit.
Don’t accept others’ flaws; tell them to go to hell.
If you’re really mad, don’t breathe, just yell.
Anger is good, it’s there for a reason.
You’re just a phony, with your people pleasin’.
Get off your **** and take some action--
stick it to the jerks, join the radical faction.
Accommodating ******* just brings on more--
just wait, and you’ll see what’s next in store.

based on a true story*

The arsonist invited me
into the house of love.
The floorboards creaked,
and in the rafters above
I saw the black soot stains
and where a spider had wove
its web, now dangling
in a cool breeze.
The door was still open—perhaps I should leave.
Would you like a cup of tea?
He smiled at me.
Of course, I accepted his hospitality--
then saw the light in his eye,
like a burning match glowing.
I’m sorry,  I said,  I must be going.
The warmth of your affection
is  really quite touching. But now I feel the heat rising
and a slow burning.
Our friendly visit is  turning
into a fire crackling.
I think my presence here is
some kind of  kindling.
Thank you for the tea-- I’ll be
heading back to town.
If I stay here any longer, I’m afraid
we’ll burn the house down.

Is Pride truly a sin?
Is it better to submit, to put out the fire within?
Why bow down to those who are inferior? Why bow down at all?
It’s true, Pride did lead to your Fall.
But as a great poet once said,
to rule oneself trumps any cushioned servitude.
Self-rule, once viewed,
will never be forsaken.
I hear your name vilified by those terrified, yet to awaken
from their childish dreamland--
those who cannot imagine taking a stand,
who fear to seize their own power.
(Can they be reached--to join with us in this hour?)
Perhaps your weakness was not Pride but Faith—
a belief that more would rebel,  dismantle the lathe
of Heaven, free the cherubim and seraphim. Not Arrogance but Hope.
It must be difficult at times to cope
with your failure.
But take heart, the rebellion continues, though not above.
Those of us to whom you gave Knowledge wage the struggle on Earth,
where we pursue Truth,
but do not forget Love.

a rewrite of When the Levee Breaks that was inspired by a hideous snowstorm a few years ago*

If it keeps on snowing,
Tree limb's going to break
If it keeps on snowing,
Tree limb's going to break
The street is icy  and
cars don’t have time to brake

All last night
Sat on the A train alone
All last night
Sat on the A train alone
The train don’t move
And I’m trying to get home

Plowing won’t help you
Shoveling won’t do you no good
I said, plowing won’t help you
Shoveling won’t do you no good
When it keeps on snowing,
Mama, you got to move

Don’t it make you feel bad when you’re trying to get home and you don’t know which way to go
Cause the power line’s down and the wind’s blowing hard and you can’t see which way’s the road

It’s coming down now, it’s coming down now, ooh ooh

Go all the way.
Stow your fears away.
No, you can’t turn back.
Grow stronger from attack.
Toe the line? It’s crooked.
Foe will soon be rooked.
So, you thought you couldn’t.
Oh, they thought you wouldn’t!
Slow, if you think it’s fitter.
Bro,  you ain’t a quitter.

10, 20, 30 years from now
we would know each other.
And remember joy and sorrow.
We’ve seen small victories , many defeats;
horror has left its scar,
but more so our helplessness,
both here and afar.
Once you’ve seen the truth, you can’t go back,
but nothing seems to go forward.
If only I had the belief
to wait a hundred years in an afterlife.
I know it can’t go on, this strife;
someday there will be an end.
Seeing you now reminds me
that if I live to see that victory,
I will remember, then,
how I was once a small part of it,
with you, my friend.

By the pond, where the egret sleeps,
where the hawk flies overhead,
and the weeping willow weeps,
I will find my lullaby, to lull me to sleep.

By the pond, where the ducklings go,
back and forth, to and fro,
following mother, grey fuzz, all in a row,
I will walk unhurried, slow.

By the pond, on the grassy banks,
I will hum a tune under a cloudless sky.
Pass by the blue heron, and silently give thanks,
and while away the hours, and watch the seabirds fly.

By the pond, where the white swans glide,
I will shade my eyes from the sun’s bright rays,
as otters frolic, swim and hide,
unmindful of time in these last days.

I'm off to the Bay area tomorrow*

Throw me toward the setting sun--
to the West, when my work is done.
Land me at the golden door
of California’s northern shore.
Fiery orange steel-gird gate
tempts those weary of their fate.
Defy the plunge that ends it all,
and heed the sunshine’s cheery call.
Traverse the gate, into the wild,
where restless souls may rest awhile,
beyond the towns, toward the coast,
where whales return and hawks will roost.
The golden hills of Sonoma
will calm the pains of any trauma.
The wines and vines of the Napa valley
will help to pass the time happily.
And as you cross the Golden Gate
the Pacific blue will calmly wait.
Glance to the east and you will see
the placid Bay by the white city.
The sky is bigger here; it spans
the hills, the bridge, the bay and ocean.
Its azure grandeur soon dispels
any suicidal notion.

If I could hold you close
would I rip your clothes,
or run my fingers through your hair?
I think I prefer to love you from afar,
my guiding star, my Beatrice.
From you would I steal a kiss?
That would just make earthly my heavenly bliss.
I know what I love is more than you,
you are only a symbol
of what’s beautiful and true.

We revolve in twin orbit, fan and star.
Love is like gravity,
bending space and time,
locking us in a dance--
spinning in rhythm, a cosmic balance--
what seems like great distance
bridged by the knowledge
of a fast-beating heart.
Together we glow more brightly than apart.
And between us there is no night,
only heat and fire and light.

The DSM likes to label
everything that it is able:
If you think your temper’s bad
or ‘cause of troubles you are sad
or you defy the moral order,
remember that it’s a disorder.

Once we had the Seven Deadlies,
but now they’re only symptom medleys.
If people would take responsibility--
learn acceptance, and humility--
they might cure what’s made them ill.
The answer’s not found in a pill.

Disaster strikes and leaves its scars;
a sympathetic ear goes far
to help someone to heal from pain.
It might be a disease
when victims find there’s no surcease
from memories, from guilt that stains.
But time and talk could heal those scars.
Taking pills goes just so far.

It’s all genetic, so they claim.
But when you look at histories
of patients sad and suicidal
some things all seem to be the same:
A loss, abuse or child neglect;
much sorrow, guilt and pain abject.
Can it just be coincidental?
And if it’s a glitch that’s only chemical
why is the healing incremental?
Why aren’t patients all soon happy
when they take their magic pill?
I believe what makes us ill
is more than random


Pharmacology’s limitations
are seldom spoken to the patients.
A quick fix is what we’re sold,
the risks and chances we’re not told.

Not far from the ocean, not far from the town,
the South Beach turkeys roam the hospital grounds.
They serve no purpose, they do as they please,
they preen and they strut in the salty sea breeze.
Sometimes they just stand and look around.
They find tasty grubs in the trees and the ground.
Sometimes they chase, sometimes they cluck;
they do as they please; they don’t give a f*
It’s a bird’s life, on the grounds of South Beach.
Perhaps there’s a lesson that these birds could teach--
no need to hurry, just do what you need.
Fly if you can, or just sit in a tree.
Watch the passersby as they go to and fro.
Or just stand around and watch the grass grow.
Some thought they were pests and wanted them gone;
but to **** them for no reason would just be wrong.
At times I have thought that they might be tasty--
wild birds raised in nativity—with stuffing and gravy.
Surely much better than from the factory farm--
(and it’s a shame that to those birds we cause so much harm).
But shooting a turkey who sits on a lawn
would mean calling the cops, with their guns drawn.
So the turkeys live on, and I sing their song.
I’d miss their feathered glory, if one day they were gone.

Margaret, are you grieving
over Hillary’s unseating?
The victory you expected
was denied, and you are dejected.
Fears and tears are your companions
as you grieve for undocumented transients.
But no tears you shed in years gone by
when bombs fell on children from drones on high.
Nor did you protest the stop and frisk
or needless deaths of black men at risk.
Slaughter in Gaza was no cause
for you to protest, or even to pause
from your Twitter feed or drink at Starbucks.
(The world knows you didn’t give two *****.)
I sit and watch the roosting chickens
who have returned from the wide world sickened.

Age ain’t nuthin' but a number, they said.
Only each of those numbers
means you’re one step closer to being dead.
Sure, I can still wear a short dress.
But why would I—
there’s no need to impress.
The hormones have fled, and in their stead
I have wisdom and serenity. I’ve said goodbye
to the burning desire to coax someone into bed.
Yes, I could hike the Himalayas, if I try;
but my arthritis means
every step of the way, I’d cry.
I play the guitar, but don’t get too far,
before I feel it in my elbow.
Didja notice Jimmy Page
rubs his arm?I guess he didn’t get the memo--
the one that says it’s just a number, your age.

I’m here to tell you age makes you humbler.
NO ONE my age says “age is nothing but a number.”
Numbers mean something, they add and subtract;
by the time you’re my age, you’re in your second act.
In fact the second act is closing, I’m moving on to the third—
the final act--where you’ve got to sum it all up, but, rest assured:
I’m not pining for my lost youth,
when I had better health,
but less truth.

Contemporary poetry
does not have allure for me.
It is full of adjectives,
but at the end I ask, “what gives?”
No meaning, point, or moral clear,
no joy or anger, love or fear.
Words are crafted carefully,
but in the lines I do not see
any interesting story.
It is boring, I am sorry!

What happened to imagination?
Ecstasy and indignation?
If Donne or Longfellow wrote now,
editors would not say “wow!”
Verses passionate by Blake
publishers would not take.
“That Poe guy’s maudlin, Yeats pretentious;
Allen Ginsberg is tendentious.
Tennyson’s an epic bore;
his lengthy rhymes of days of yore
are not to our liking,” they’d say.

I would like to see the day
when poetry regains emotion.
I even have the novel notion
that we’d welcome the returning
of passionate and lustful yearning.
Of rhyme and meter, song and lyric.
Or of verses bitterly satiric.

If I read more sterile free verse
I’ll toss the magazine and curse.

If only a little eye of newt,
or mandrake root, or hemlock bark,
could turn these loathsome suitors
into lovers handsome, tall and dark.
They paste their unappealing photos
next to profiles trite and silly,
and send flirtations cut-and-pasted
into the ether *****-nilly.
Don’t you know my time you’ve wasted?
I have no interest in your wooing.
Instead of listing your opinions
there are things you should be doing:
Learn to listen, read more books,
lose 15 lbs and use some manners.
Answer emails, learn to cook,
travel widely, study language.
Say what you mean, do what you say,
you’ll find a date without delay.

I haven’t found the witches’ brew
that will turn boys into men.
'Til then with dating I am through,
and bitter missives I will pen.

We **** by pushing a button.
WE DIE RUNNING FOR COVER.
We are fighting for our country.
WE ARE FIGHTING FOR A COUNTRY
Our sons fear deployment.
OUR CHILDREN FEAR BOMBARDMENT.
We bury our dead in the national cemetery.
WE DISCOVERED A MASS GRAVE.
Our war is raising the national deficit.
OUR MARKETS HAVE NO FOOD FOR SALE.
We proudly display our flag.
WE'VE BEEN ARRESTED FOR DISPLAYING OUR FLAG.
Our mothers grieve for their sons.
OUR PEOPLE GRIEVE FOR THEIR VILLAGES.
When will our soldiers return?
I WATCHED MY HOUSE BURN.
Our son came home in a coffin on a plane.
WE BURIED A PIECE OF FLESH THAT WE GAVE A NAME.
We saluted the soldiers marching in uniform.
OUR SOLDIERS DRESS LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE.
We carefully weighed the costs and benefits.
WE DECIDED THERE WAS NOTHING TO LOSE.

Thou didst guard me, Amulet--
Talisman, whose destruction I regret.
Thy spell held me in eternal safety.
Alone I was never,  when thou wert with me.
I gave up thy secret to the sorcerer,
for promise of a gift he could not deliver.
Poor bargain, and I am now wiser
and would not trade treasure for lowly desire.
The sorcerer broke my talisman,
and I was broken, and now alone I stand.
Too late I realized my error
and was stricken with mortal terror.
On the bridge I screamed, above the frozen river,
under a sunless sky, facing a void forever.

Wayfarer,
walk with me
down the open, crumbling road.
We’re two surviving souls--
billion year old
molecules binding
our hearts, muscles,
bones and nerves winding--
let us go back to the beginning,
before the time of sinning,
to the start of our creation,
before government or nation,
to find the garden and lose regarding--
regain our innocence.
The sun, rain and wind will test us--
we’ll build shelters of hides and bones,
pick berries and sharpen knives with stones,
play bone flutes and gut-stringed lutes,
and **** nothing without reason
and prepare for each change of season.
We’ll take our water from the glacial melt.
Our fashion will be the furry pelt.
Of course, we’ll remember poem and song--
for they were never wrong;
art was blameless.
It was the only thing
“Civilization” left us.

We’ll spark fire with pegs and strings
whirring, friction, small kindlings
into fire; we'll sit round and tell our history--
marvel at our ancestors’ folly, what mystery...
We’ll write dramas and dance;
we will honor this second chance.
English we will remember.
And French and Arabic, Latin and Hebrew.
We’ll start a new language, or two.
We’ll wash and sew condoms from intestines;
this time, what we’ll invest in
will be sustainability.
No need to propagate the earth--
it is fruitful enough already.
Only to be in harmony, a place neither above, nor below, others--
the animals and plants, who are our sisters and our brothers.

I’ve studied the lore of your Dark Arts.
I’ve read the book; I’ve learned it by heart.
But try as I may, I can’t play the part.

Though I know spells, and magic potions,
and practice the craft, with much devotion,
of the powers you wield, I haven’t a notion.
Black magic eludes me;
I’m not one of the chosen.

Though I can’t cast a spell in the way that you do,
with practicing magic, I don't think I"m through.
I find I enjoy the study and ritual--
in fact, I believe I may make it habitual.

The spirits I summon do clearly insist
that I work forever, as their alchemist.
This servitude, I accept with pride.
The end unknown, I’m enjoying the ride.

You're the Dark Lord; you are the master--
I may never achieve the goal that I’m after.
But on I toil, a servant of magic--
a lifelong apprenticeship--joyful, not tragic.

The songmaker is my shepherd; I shall not despair.
His melodies make me lie down in green meadows;
His chords lead me by still waters.
He restores my soul, and leads me in the path of harmony.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of silence,
I will not fear loneliness, for you are with me; your blues guitar
responds to me, your notes like raindrops wash away tears.
You prepared a table for me in the high school cafeteria.
You quickened my pulse; my ecstasy was with you.
Surely comfort and joy will follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the Houses of the Holy, for evermore.

Setting sun splinters
on Hudson’s frozen currents.
Sea of gold shimmers.

Palisades prop up
wooded banks of New Jersey.
Springtime beckons boats.

Hazy summer heat
thickens air and slows the steps
of earnest hikers.

Autumn leaves rustle--
wind blows downhill ornaments
of gold, red, orange.

There are two sides to every story,
said the husband to the cop.
She annoyed me ’til I shot her;
how else could I get her to stop?

There are two sides to every story,
said the burglar at his trial.
They had the stuff I needed;
they’ll only cry a little while.

There are two sides to every argument,
said the person without facts.
I’ve a right to my opinion;
I’ve no need my brain to tax.

There are two sides to every story, but,
both may not be of merit.
If one side’s without value,
let’s not waste the time to air it.

1.
We’ll negotiate with our friends and threaten our enemies.
If our friends can’t negotiate nicely,
we’ll threaten them.
We’ll negotiate with our enemies,
once they’re ground into the dirt.
We’re honest brokers, buying low and selling high.
Life is a gamble; make sure you’ve got collateral to damage.

2.
Abraham sacrificed his sons for God—
Rows and rows of them, in airplane bellies,
boxed and wrapped.
God let him have Isaac,
but inflation drove up the price of God’s love.
No more token sacrifices accepted--only real sons now.

3.
Adam will take back the Garden of Eden,
No flaming swords will stop him.
A fig leaf covers his nakedness.
Why aren’t Cain and Abel getting along?

4.
Blessed are the poor in spirit;
they don’t need our handouts.
The meek will inherit the lowlands.
Let them build an ark when the rains come.
Suffer, little children.

5.
Like the fruit fly, we multiply.
Our swarm will cover the earth and feed on its ripeness.
Eat it down to the pit.
We came 5,000 years ago
and stayed just long enough to enjoy the fruits of God’s labors.
We’ll be reborn as angels stuck with pins in God’s collection.

[These are quotes taken from a New York Magazine article around 10 years ago. They are all from firefighters]

"doing funerals....getting the bunting, hanging the bunting...step by step...

When it became a myth, the whole event...

people were terrified, crapping their pants...a woman in the lobby...no legs...her face...like someone took it off with a saw.

Why did I survive?

...None of 'em were ever found. Not even a tool.

I didn't see victims. They were dust... When the wind blew, you couldn't grab them.

long spears of glass...Huge panels turned into shards...a piece of window, a small piece....It's right here in my hands now.

...can't look at a plane landing"

Like water, like flowing rivulets,
notes fly from fingers fast on frets.
Slippery sinuous shimmering tones
(complemented by brash bluesy Bones).
Like storm’s thunder and lightning a chord
brings the sky to us on earth—
or is it that we fly , then die until the rebirth
in gentle reverb of a note two octaves higher?
Strange how rain coexists with fire.
Drench us in the cascade born from your desire.

To eat or not to eat, that is the question.
A doughnut, ******, airy I’ll consume--
adjust my diet later to make room--
or falsely reject pastries’ sweet delight
while bingeing pasta deep into the night?
Doughnut, thou art satisfying, sweetly
filling morsel, savored now discreetly—
perhaps a little midday’s sugar craving
is better solaced, hunger I’ll be staving
off, resisting better night time craves.
‘Tis better, easier to have the faves;
by portions small on calories I’ll save,
and skip on other dishes that don’t taste
as sweet and crispy, but go straight to waist.

“I am a jealous God,” said the Hebrews’ deity.
Ain’t got patience for a jealous God, for I’m a spirit free.
I have many idols, on this terrestrial sphere.
And if I didn’t worship them, I’d surely not be here.
For they are Icons, real, of what I have struggled to attain,
my ideals and aspirations, or of persistence through the pain.
I worship them with love, despite their fallibility.
They guide me and inspire me,
with their strength and creativity.
For example-- modern martyrs, who’ve sacrificed for others;
I'm sure that Jesus would think of them as sisters and as brothers.
And rock and roll; it’s my religion; I know the Promised Land
cannot be much like heaven, without my favorite band.
What I seek but never find is Plato’s ideal vision--
the unseen perfect version of our seen world. My submission
is to something that we know by feeling, and I think it must be said
that the traveling to find it cannot start by being dead.
Surely Poetry and Art are to be followed, as a creed;
they can be read and seen, and then, perhaps, believed.
Music is transcendent, call it the Flesh made Word--
not reserved for us in heaven, but here, on earth, is heard.
Nature is a Goddess; her work is the creation;
we strive to understand it, through rational “divination,”
using math and science, objective experimentation.
I have so many idols; I can’t limit adoration
to just one jealous God and his righteous indignation.
The Bible is a document that’s full of truth, I know;
but it was written a long, long time ago.
I’m keeping all my idols, for they soothe me and inspire me.
I’ll continue in my “lifestyle” of spiritual polyamory.
You may say I’m going to “Hell” for my sinful apostasy,
but I’m not afraid of the future grave,
for I’ll have lived with ecstasy.

(wrote this a few years ago but it's even more relevant today)

Let’s face it; we don’t agree.
I don’t like you, and you don’t like me.
I think you’re a fool and your facts are wrong.
You think I’m a ****** plotting for a Red Dawn.
I think you’re a bigot and big hypocrite.
You think I’m know-it-all who doesn’t know ****.
I think you’ve never read a book by a scholar.
You think I never worked hard for a dollar.
I think your pundits' attacks are ad hominems--
you think I use those big words so I can condescend.
I wish we could debate, but we’d have to stick to facts--
facts get lost when someone always has to grind their axe.
Emotions tend to undermine a rational debate--
it’s hard to listen and to learn when what you like to do is hate.

We are divided, they say--but it isn’t true.
The way I judge right v. wrong is no different from you.
Let’s not confuse acts from a few
with what most people think or what most people do.
Most people wouldn’t strangle a helpless man.
A psychopath did it because he knows, “I can.”
Most people wouldn’t shoot unless in harm’s way.
A cop pulls the trigger because he knows he won’t pay.

It’s about how we don’t do what we must--
we don’t hold accountable those we entrust
with a badge and a gun. They **** with impunity.
To end this we must act with unity:
Some must be indicted and go to prison,
or we’ll have more deaths for no good reason.

[Police were called to a New Jersey school after a student accused another student of racism for calling brownies brownies. In defense of the police no one was arrested]

Brownies are sweet, tasty and brown,
but New Jersey’s schools hear this with a frown.
Color’s off color, don’t you know--
mention it, and the Thought Police
will have you in tow.

Blondies are sweet and a bit greasy--
a tasty snack, not a girl who’s easy.
But better call them cake, or you’ll be dissed
as someone who is completely ***-ist.

Anything you say can and will be held against you--
mot just by the cops, but by those you thought you knew.
It’s the days of Stalin, or “1984” from Orwell;
better watch what you say; they might be listening in the stairwell.

Once we all worshipped the First Amendment.
Now "politically correct" has gone beyond heavy-handed.
Use only approved phrases, or outcast will be your fate--
Political Correctness  destroyed a country once great.

I’ve a soft spot for you;
you press my tender button.
My heart’s a big furry teddy bear
with arms wide open.
I want to ruffle up your hair--what’s left of it.
Walk over here— my lap’s for you to sit.
Wait, you’re too heavy— I forget that you’re a man.
Perhaps I'll sit on top of you—
that's a better plan.
I’ve bought you dark chocolates-- treats for my sweet boy.
You’ve brought me red wine-- when I’m drunk, I am your toy.
Playtime’s fun; we can make or break the rules--
we’ll play House; we’ll play School.
We'll play all through our nap time, until the coffee's brewed.
We'll add some sprigs of wild thyme to our diabetic food.