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when presidents blow a gasket
the world goes to **** in a basket
As fridge
disquiet Midge
with her
cross for
trouble she
sings inquire
her mezzo
soprano mustn't
bleed boz
with laughs
here that
Adam design
her shawl
so her
looks very
cool this
Mother's Day
On Sunday, May 13,  2018
although the election results,
(and his imprimatur dissolving, fading, receding,
et cetera now ranks as old news,
i still feel that adulation beckons cheers

defying odds to win the hearts and minds
aside from this one voter who cast his vote
for a (as he calls himself "mutt" of mongrel -
with no insinuation for denigration)

toward a biracial mortal male who epitomizes
that je nais sais quois ambition du jour
to tackle the multitude of local
and/or global challenges
with his prized defensive team.

no doubt he probably already composed
some rough draft per his inaugural address
(or yours - eminent president elect
if ye happen to be perusing the contents
of this email) will address the outstanding crisis

that confront the home turf
and international world stage
populated with tough rooted quandaries,
which hardly allows, enables
and provides for mushroom to err.

rather than fritter critical and valuable time
to blame or fear for the prior
republican administration
that could be held accountable
for the current morass, i reckon

that tis prudent to expend
the precious sands of time to ameliorate
those most serious issues without resorting
to fear, which machiavellian technique
this admirer begs to differ.

aside from begging to differ
with your philosophy to affect guilt
in other (as like an invisible ****),
the paradigm presented promulgated
(in prestigious media resources)

pleases this papa of deux daughters,
which principles of the first
african american occupant of the white house
brings solace within this spirit.

no matter mind boggling and overwhelming lesions
seem to witness this two hundred quarter
plus democratic experiment to hemorrhage
and require emergency action,

i feel reassured that resuscitation
of this body politick will recover
and become restored to vibrant health
thru the confident intervention thru diligence,

intelligence, ordinance, et cetera of (emma)
eminence filled pride without prejudice,
sense and sensibility to become like
some wunderkind in the oval office.

even now (about one month or less)
when that oath taken to heart to uphold
the covenant of life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness

(as attempted to be codified by founding fathers
of this country - i.e. these united states of america)
stunned disbelief still abounds
within my liberal filled conscience,

yet excited at the prospect
one young(ish) noble representative
of **** sapiens exhibits
much esteemed aura, charisma, dogma,

and persona so pertinent at this juncture
in the history of fifty states who weathered
(yet survived) dramas that nearly rent asunder
the very fabric of this amazing society.

unbeknownst to anyone such as dumbledorf,
estimable magicians with awesome powers
of prestidigitation, j.k. rowling, santa claus,
seers, soothsayers, the wizard of oz, tooth fairy),

la de da to forecast if thine indomitable agility,
civility, electricity, gentility, integrity,
et cetera will be effective to deliver
superhuman feats of accomplishments.

this audacity of hope (telepathically communicated
from dreams of my widower father and late mother)
blessedly delivered some capacity of genuine faith
that seems hinged on the evident decency enunciated

(time and again - ever since ye took
to the campaign trail and now amazingly finds
one gracious honoree to guide the populace at large)
to offer deliverance and salvation.

AMERICA IN DIRE NEED OF A STATESMAN
WITH HIS CALIBER, FIRE RE: ELOQUENCE, AND HUMILITY!
Chris Neilson Feb 2017
I was a home delivery driver
of groceries and frozen food
working with many a skiver
some lazy and many lewd

Eggs in cardboard boxes
were the driver's chagrin
in this job of paradoxes
rarely did I win

Stuck in traffic one day
late for a rural drop
to an aged woman in grey
known to get in a strop

Unlikely to escape her ire
and no time to waste
unchecked eggs would backfire
loaded earlier in haste

Overshooting the time slot
grey lady waited outside
she quickly lost the plot
nowhere to hide

She grabbed the egg carton
opened it in a hurry
3 eggs were broken
now was the time to worry

She had invited many guests
to her cottage for dinner
on deaf ears landed my protests
I was not on a winner

Another 30 mile round trip
now on my to do list
for 3 eggs for her ladyship
the rural raging tempest

I suggested it unwise
putting all her eggs in one basket
piercing me with her eyes
she wanted me in a casket
A true story from when I was a slip of a lad
It's a bomb on your doorstep.
Wrapped up in a pastel pink and white blanket.
Swaddled in a babys basket
You don't even hear the ticking over all the babble
You just assumed it was designed to protect.
You never asked anyone
Or questioned where the basket came from.
Where it got this baby.
Why it is concealing it's wicker with this blanket.
You bring it inside.

tickTick tickTick
tickTick tickTick
tickTick tickTick

Wake up tossing and turning
hear a ticking downstairs
In your kitchen.
On the island.
"You're hearing things"
close your eyes.
It's too loud.
Walk down to see just a basket
A blanket
The baby is tucked in tight
You were hearing things
"Go back to bed sweety."
But the basket keeps ticking.
"Baskets are supposed to tick"
you never question it again.

tickTick tickTick
tickTick tickTick
tickTick tickTick

You never see it explode.
Just find and count the pieces
Wicker shrapnel where there should have been guidance.
Viscera where there should have been eyes.
Eleanor Rigby Jul 2015
I want to shrink
And throw myself
In the waste-paper basket.

That's how ******
I am feeling.


F.Z.**N
MultiBami-mix Jun 2015
Behind the screen,
I see you in my fantasy,
Dribble drible, dribble dribble,
with your ghostly blue hair,
and your rough red haired partner,
you want me to make some good story ****,
the bond and love between you two,
makes me want to see more,
until the match ends,
dribble dribble, dribble dribble
My second poem. I made this for a friend who likes ****, was just joking around!
K F Feb 2015
All eggs were in one basket,
so no wonder you're reserved ever since they broke.
Shells are messy and hard to work with.
She gave you eggs the last time. But I'm not her.
Let's not give each other eggs.

Let's give ourselves bread instead.
Because all your bread in a basket sounds warm,
picnics in parks on sunny days warm.

Or fresh out the oven still steaming hot.
Frosted and sweet, or sourdough. All your bread in one basket,
there's so much to work with.
Even cold bread, and stale bread.
Because at least when molding bread falls out
of your metaphorical basket you can pick it up
in one piece and put it back.
Or make more. You can fix it.

Eggs aren't that easy. They shatter. They're messy.
So my dear let's not be eggs. Let's be bread.
Putting all your eggs in one basket with a relationship. Doesn't that sound so scary? Why do we have to make metaphors so serious.
Daylight 4U2C May 2014
I remember as a child-
peeking over the window,
to a ticking sound,
from a pitch black cloak,
hiding a creature on the ground.
A shadow of a haunting sparrow,
with a knife atop a pole.
I simply stared and giggled,
as I felt the lifeless soul.
Unsure of what to think,
I believe I heard a voice.
Said it, "I weaved a basket."
Then left he, a silent noise.
Baffled!
The atmosphere was like scent so taint.
"The basket soon has become a case."
The words were wispy and growing faint,
like the words were sent away.
I was hesitant to follow it,
and I don't recall why I didn't.
I found myself the sturdy floor,
and my friend,
'the cloaked one' was now no more.
I'm not really friends with Grimm Reaper. That'd be scary.
Martin Narrod May 2014
while I may do you perfectly. the snow angels on gasoline st., did you
see them? All of the houses were dripping wet too, one girl with gold laces on her leopard shoes wore red plastic pants; totally soaked to the bone.

to train ourselves to brave the heat of each others' bodies as we awaken in  one small bed, one small blanket. the both of us yawn. it's so fun to make waffles but neither of us like to eat preference. I love you to death but prefer to brush my teeth alone- one tooth at a time.

embrace your new t-shirt, even though not everyone enjoys a good show of a flock of crows. hand drawn indie wicker-hipster prints. coffee by the pint. you ***** me up like vitrifying glass sheens of the individual bubbles in a bubble bath or the ******, glazed eyes of the monsters' eye while a shark attacks.

creaky sounds of bodies mapped by fingers, tickled tummies rippled by listening to witch house singers. you ***** me up, count chocula. It's Saturday, I love to laugh while laying down. everybody's funnier when they're laying on the ground. we toast to ghosts.

luminous lengths of birthday candles

lickedidddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd­ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd­dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd                                                            d 0  y0urself as best you can
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