Right-Wing Laureate

I’ll never be chosen as Laureate

Or handpicked by my own generation,

To be a name the world should not forget,

Or voice of my home state, or nation.

Even though I pen what is real, and true,

They belittle me to the last letter

Because they cannot stand my point of view,

And I know things won't be getting better.

It is the Poet’s burden, I confess

To write knowing you’ll be called a failure.

But those who pluck Right Wing verse from their chest

Don’t get called “Poet”: they get called “Monster”..

I write what I know, and try to reveal

Our own point of view to give it some light,

But the snob elite don’t care how we feel

For the Right is wrong and the Left is right

But I write on, so my children can see

That I cannot be laughed into silence, 

Nor is there a chance that I'll ever be

Made to apologize, or do penance. 

So, read all my work, and say what you will!

Say it is soulless, and without merit!

Inform all your sheep that I have no skill!

Say what you will, I will grin and bear it…

I’ll be voice to the traditional ways,

And shall humbly serve as their outlet,

And in the end, when I run out of days,

I will remain my Family’s Poet.

Ode to Taco Bell

I thought it air, 
I gave a push
and molten shart
shot from my tush
I clenched my cheeks,
Alas! Too late…
The dam, once burst,
I could not abate!
Like a duck I waddled
to the closest loo
The shat then spread 
as liquid shats do.
I waddled quick,
but the shat ran down
My pants, white khaki
Now streaked with brown.
A line of shat
left a telling trail
in my wake
to tell the tale:
One of misplaced faith,
a poor fool’s blunder-
How I ruined my day
and blew my skivvies usunder.

When is the last time I cried?

When was the last time I cried?

It wasn’t when I was in sixth grade,
and I ripped the flesh from my knees
when I crashed my bike going downhill
on broken asphalt.
I cried after that.

It wasn’t junior year of high school
when I thought I knew heartbreak
long before I ever truly understood
what actual love was.
I didn’t think it possible, but I cried after that.

It wasn’t the day I was married,
nor the birth of my children
though I was moved to tears of joy,
and I thought nothing could make me cry again.
Like a bad habit I couldn’t kick,
I would cry after that.

Nor when I fell on a catwalk
and injured my back at a merciless company,
Who fired me to be rid
Of an injured man,
While the pain and degradation was unbearable…
No, I cried after this.

When Was the last time I cried?

It was today.

Today was the last time that I have cried,
when I was told my son’s highest potential
would be a Walmart greeter, or cart gatherer.
That he would be lucky to have a job
that almost everyone else is overqualified for.

Today, I wept.

In the quiet of my office,
in the darkest corner I could find,
I wept until my eyes were dry and burning,
my throat was hoarse from sobbing,
and my lungs felt like they were on fire.
Today, a father wept like a child,
and I do not think I will ever cry again…

Until tomorrow…

…and the days after…
when I wake up,
when I go about my day,
and when I drift off to sleep…
           …thinking only of today.

SAR

Here is my first attempt at a Double Etheree...post apocalyptic and all!

What do you think?

Death
abounds
and surrounds
as we push forth
looking for supplies,
hoping for survivors.
Our silence is our respect…
The whole world has gone respectful,
the silence worse than the screams before.
Both have shaken us to our very souls.
Sorting through the fire, smoke and debris,
through ruins of cities laid to waste,
we take whatever goods we find
and try to ration them out.
We savor what we can,
for it won’t be long
that they’ll run out,
and like us,
will be
gone.

Wilders Haiku

I watched the debate.

Wilders trounced his opponent.

Spring comes to the West!