with all these Black Sheep
    from the bottom end
    of the top 1 percent
in the new government
spewing lies without shame
we will have to rename
the White House

Raise your words
Not your voice
It's the rain
That grows flowers
Not thunder

Mentally beginning anew,
Shower and storms scramble,
A mind, a mess, stuck in the cold of blue,
Writhing in pain without preamble.

A season after the cries of winter,
The tears of petals shed,
Flows hope once more enter
Where a broken heart bleed.

Relief of breath ooze,
As fragile blooms of forgiveness peek,
Through darken days of self abuse,
To nurture the delicate emotional physique,

Healing in time blind,
Pure instinct survives,
An emotional breakdown of the mind.
Until finally, awaken spring arrives.

small hands
like small minds
can never grasp great things

when in the world’s leading democracy
a new president starts his office with

     making life more expensive for average home owners
     signing orders threatening the health of millions
     restricting the publications of researchers
     denying global warming
     encouraging coal and oil companies
     forbidding federal employees to talk to the media
     going on fantasy trips about “alternative facts
          to justify his ridiculous lies
     ordering to build walls to keep out all those aliens,
          like the old Chinese did, to little avail
     issueing poorly formulated presidential orders
          causing confusion and harm and even deaths
     banning even green card holders from entering the country
     filling his cabinet with all the alligators from the swamps
          he promised to clean during his campaign
          people who know how to avoid paying taxes and beating the system
          but have no clue how to govern now that they ARE the system
          and think they can run the govnerment of the USA
          with its 350 million citizens
          as Trump&Cronies; USA, Inc.,
          like their private family husiness for profit

it is high time to seriously ask
what concept
    if any
of democracy he has in mind

In spite of all the learn'd have said;
I still my old opinion keep,
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands --
The Indian, when from life releas'd
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares gain the joyous feast.

His imag'd birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way.
No fraud upon the dead commit --
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace,
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a older race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far -- projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires
The children of the forest play'd!

There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase array'd,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.