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Alan S Bailey Aug 2022
Verse 1:
When Trump got in the white house-he was just a town mouse-promised a devotion to
Help people out, then why the people have'to start protests on and on.
Trumpy got an angry plan to fulfill-the thing to do-with all the hater walls to build-no matter what "I'm not listening to you..."

Chorus A:
But in another life, you and I would hate, ruin it for the immigrants-send all of em' away,
In another life, we'd take over the world, rule it with an iron fist our flag of doom unfurled,
Flag of doom unfurled...

Chorus B: But in another life, you and I would hate, hell with all the peoples dreams-be us against the gays.
In another life, we'd take over the world, rule it with an iron fist our flag of doom unfurled,
Flag of doom unfurled...

Verse 2:
A group of people who feared sometimes Trump might lose, couldn't put the Trust in voters right to choose, if anything should happen poor Trump'will be singin' the blues. (boohoo)
Then the demonstraters started cursing his ways, Trumpy was trying to educate-that anyway
For "so-called safety" had to keep certain travelers away.

Verse 3:
So Trumpy noticed some football stars-at the national anthem-didn't have hand on their heart, and he said "these guys have got to go...(WOAH)
Then later when that didn't work out, Trump decided to make a statement-without a doubt,
It's fine what they think (a players devotion wouldn't be part of the show...)

Trumpy didn't fix the economy-NO
Trumpy wouldn't free us from strict conformity-NO
Trumpy can't get away with anything-NO
But then I PAY THE PRICE...
Frump got his political **** kicked by this song alone!

Sang to the tune of:
A remake of Katy Perry's "In Another Life (The one that got away)"
Simon Piesse Oct 2021
Open and Shut
Open and Shut


Binary yesterday



The network is pregnant again

Open and Shut
Open and Shut

This is an ode to hope, to travel and to poetry on National Poetry Day 2021!
Davina E Solomon Apr 2021
And the knowledge of the hedgerow plant, I found embedded in leaf veins ... like in mine, etched along blue lines of a notebook. In the ripples on the remnants of water that pooled, before the mudflats claimed them are the striations of  ol'butot near  Naivasha. His stories tell of caves, a gleaming obsidian of a pre historic introspection. Do forty day fasts suffice to exorcise the springs of sulphur or the forced baptism of a flash flood washing six souls to Hades ? The sun glinted at me through a narrowness of fate, a gorge of interminable seconds and I marvelled at the strata of time in a warp, for it blurted out a moan.

Love spoke in nuanced layers of molten flow that crawled to stillness. Can I not say that stone speaks? A couple of hundred years back in time, self titled discoverers  had seen land that had not been unseen by the thousands who lived for thousands until then. So yes, the strata spoke to me, like the striations in the leaves and the lines that were everywhere telling stories of interminable seconds. Time grooves like a death valley in an engraving, etched like a memory of that which has never been, ripples on sand, circles on water,
Anything can trigger a poem, this one dominoed into Hell’s Gate Park in Kenya. Down below, a random photo I took inside, a few years earlier. It was strange, there was hardly anyone there that day, except the hot sun and a tiny array of grassland herbivores.

“A sparse region of natural beauty, Hell’s Gate runs west of the ancient lava flows of Mount Longonot, a 9,111-foot-high extinct volcano dominating Lake Naivasha and the Rift Valley. Combined with Longonot and Naivasha, the region forms a unique sanctuary for bird and animal life. It has been a longtime favorite of hikers, rock climbers, and nature lovers” [Ref~]
flamingogirl Oct 2020
We were laying in bed
and I was drowning in your gaze.
You wrapped your arms around
me and slowly whispered in my ear
that I was a national treasure to you.
You told me my essence,
my power, and my presence
overwhelmed you and that
I was your Niagara Falls.
William Marr May 2020
everything seems so natural
so straightforward
as if there were no oppression
bending or twisting
in this world

innocent hands
all joyously stretching
to reach the sky
Sasha Ranganath Apr 2020
there are only two genders
trans is not real
are you a boy now?
i would be open to experiment, though
you need to have your brain checked
what are you?

i am unsolved.

an unsolved puzzle,
rubik's cube,
the horizon.

everything you can't figure out at first glance,
something you have to squint at to understand.

but i don't need solving,
i don't need understanding,
i don't need to keep explaining.

i am me,
i am unsolved,
and i am happy.
national poetry writing month day 4 - unsolved
b for short Apr 2020
Assume the employee smiles as you
wait in line for a sanitized shopping cart.
Assume she has slight imperfections
in her front teeth as you do.
Tiny chips from hard candy mishaps
back in the early 2000s
that you choose to notice while
you examine your mouth in the mirror.
Assume that they're eyes are telling the truth--
they didn't wake up with a fever this morning,
and neither did the lady or her four kids behind you.
Assume by their relaxed body language
that we're all still safe from something we can't see.
Assume that since your own smile is naked,
somehow, you'll get out of this public place untouched.
It feels like you do. You hope, anyway.
Assume that the governor knows what's best when he says
"It is suggested that all citizens wear facemasks,
regardless if they're showing symptoms."
You put the peanut butter in the cupboard
and the paper plates on the counter.
You wash your hands for twenty seconds,
singing "Happy Birthday" twice, just like they said.
You touch your face because you assume you're clean.
Assuming your own risk, you pick up your phone and
in a rigid, robotic fashion, your search begins.
Assume you will see "out of stock" and "due to high demand,"
and assume that you will come up empty-handed, again.
You find her though,
a young girl who has made hundreds face masks to sell
on her online shop.
She asks you to select your pattern,
and as I scan my choices,
I imagine what would accompany my feverish face the best.
"Cats," I say to her through a series of clicks.
"Cats, and I think, I'll take the one with roses too."
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2020
Sasha Ranganath Apr 2020
i don't remember the name of your city anymore.
just that it's 4,483 miles away and i sent you my
sweater in the post four... five years ago.

for seven months we were each others' shoulder to lean on, had each others' arms to fall into,
eyes to get lost inside.

i still remember the way you'd hide your face in your hands every time i looked at you for a second too long
through the blurry webcam.

i still hear your giggle and the way you'd ask why i look at you like that, and the way i'd say it's because
i was in love with you.

the way you'd say 'i love you' and i'd say it back.

it's been years since i wrote about you.
the last time i did, i wondered if either of us fell off
the face of the earth, would we ever know?

and tonight, i write this with a smile,
a little bit of pain and regret,
and my mind going what if, what if, what if.

you showed me what love means even across continents,
even though we knew we'd never really
be able to hold each other,
even though we knew it would end.

it's what brought us together,
what set us apart,
and what finally broke our hearts.
national poetry writing month day 3: distance
Sasha Ranganath Apr 2020
you are electric blue,
charged up,
wreaking havoc like there's no tomorrow.

you are fiery red,
up in flames,
resisting change,
can't keep a straight face.

you are blood orange,
smiling through the pain,
a cheshire cat stare.

and you are sunset yellow,
soft and kind - the warm embrace of a lover.

you are a stroke of violet,
taking life as it comes,
slow, unwavering.

you are the pink of cheeks that blush,
a slow dance in the kitchen at midnight.

you are starry night black,
flawed and beautiful and eternal.

you are green swiveled into white,
serene, calm, still.

you are the full spectrum.

so do your dance and paint every empty canvas with your palette a different pattern every time -
this is why you are alive.
national poetry writing month day 2: personified colours
b for short Apr 2020
Six-feet between me and
forty-six vignettes of adventurous times.
The slick, shiny gloss used to put a sheen
on moments made for smiling.
Now, ancient beaches and haunting deserts,
where my footprints are planted,
are a dream I fight to remember
after the alarm sounds.
Aches for lost chances of overpriced
airport snacks
and shared glances with strangers
seem to slowly construct "fun's" obituary
on the bored corners of my mind.
But I wait, six-feet away,
to relive it all anyway.
Six-feet between me and some one-hour photos.
Six-feet between me and a graveyard of freedoms.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2020
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