The following poem is a generalization, on that, we can likely agree,
but this is the way that most Trumpists appear, to many a person like me:*


Dear Trumpists, I am here to say I think I understand
just what you're really all about across the troubled land.
It really bugs you, does it not, when walking in your town,
to see so many people with a skin of black or brown?

To hear a foreign language when the immigrants converse.
To see them in a headscarf or a turban makes you curse.
Their differences, their ways of life, you see as disrespect
and you hate being asked to be "politically correct".

Then one day came a savior shining brighter than the sun.
His name was Donald Trump and you knew he was the one.
You knew you must support him 'cause in every speech he'd give,
he'd validate your hate and he'd fit with your narrative.

"The Mexicans are rapists", "The Muslims seek to ****",
"Black lives don't matter quite so much". Such thoughts gave you a thrill.
Sometimes he was outrageous. You could not trust every word,
but vote for him you did because you felt you had been heard.

Well, now your man's in power and it's no longer fun,
with half his staff revolting (and that's in more ways than one).
He hasn't drained the swamp, it's just become further bogged down,
with all his slimy yes-men there to praise the orange clown.

He comes across as ignorant and looking like a fool.
He's subject to fact-checking and resulting ridicule.
The press, it has a field day and comedians rejoice.
His opponents have united and have found a common voice.

Dear Trumpists, I do understand that this has made you mad,
but sense and reason don't support the notions that you've had.
So you rant on social media with foul, insulting fits,
like a bunch of whining, shouting, howling, idiotic twits.

So Trumpists, don't you realize, your chance has passed you see?
Oppression has been in decline since the end of slavery.
So here's a new idea that I'd really like to share:
You might try something different by showing that you care.

Why don't you go extend a hand to those that you attack.
They might provide you insight that you desperately lack.
Just open up your heart and head and throw away the hate,
and America once more could be a nation that is great.

Grandiose curiosum
Tittle-tattle tralala
Association after association
What has been and could have been
And would have been and isn’t
The fourth rack wrecks
With rumours and whispers
And dishonest lies
But sell your soul for some sales
And you’ll end up in an endless devaluation
Of the moral
And the valuable
And decency and fact
Between a cold Sun and a dead Star
There is nothing worthy to Express

I heard a spool of yarn only yesterday yearn
whence from atop a hill subsistent with lore
her newspaper turned blogger here
why her demon cut loose
when she haled tomfoolery her ally cat
from outback went to purr upon her shoulder
as it ran; out from under her carpet that flesh
lingered trough the night but in her bed side table drew a pen
then paper from her shelf below
for we slept together with her stiletto yet lingerie forevermore.

Flowers bloom, the Winter thaw,
Outside the songbirds sing.
With the arrival of the bluebirds,
I know that it is Spring.

But listening to the bird’s songs,
And watching the flowers bloom.
I can’t but help myself,
For feeling a certain gloom.

For I find myself a bit jealous,
As the flowers start anew,
So often I wish I could do the same,
If I just knew what to do.

02-22-16.

Waiting my turn to pay
For the items we need today;
The beans and the chili
And some picklelilli
And costly imported pate.

A headline that says glaringly
What some starlet does daringly.
What I see before my eyes
A big edition full of lies
They put here to tempt me daringly.

Where childbirth oddities
Are viewed as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.

We all know these stories
Are anecdotal glories
Made up by the magazines;
The tawdriest ever seen
And they don’t mind getting gory.
It’s yellow journalism
A sort of print format ****
Intended for the kind of fool
Who never finished school
And falls for jingoism.

Where childbirth oddities
Are views as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.

Brent Kincaid
4/18/2015

We cuddle naked
On a lonely island, in the sea,

Where our bodies press each other
On the sand, under the tree.

With sound of splashing waves,
Your arms tangle me, legs ready to heave.

Where we make love to each other,
My body under yours, we are so free.