The Poet Community

Carousel of Lies | A Poem by Ken Allan Dronsfield

Round and round the liar goes
of dust to dawn and back again
crowns of briers, throne of nails
tell us a tale of the orange whale.

King of lies, speak in fiery breath
one more story of the raw untruth
cast away all cares, until icy death
contempt follows from early youth.

Burn in hell, you savor the flavor
flames lick cheeks, burning tongue
carry a dare into the devil’s favor
Carousel of lies you dance upon.

Trump | A Poem by Marcus Severns

He was a brilliant man
With an IQ of 94.

He had lost most of his money
In poor business.

His college failed,
His casino failed,
His past two marriages failed,
But he was a winner.

It was in his blood to succeed.

He knew how to make America “great again.”

It wasn’t so much different than
Any other plan
Any leader had.

Only, it didn’t favor the corporations
Who were too big for America alone.

It favored his own businesses.

If he bombed China, and made the factories
Based in America, then the money would stay
On the continent.

If he threatened to bomb Mexico
If they didn’t build a great wall
For tourists
Then he would make money from
His hotels and gift shops on the border.

If he threatened South Korea
To move their manufacturing plants
To the US, then they would have to do that
At a loss.

World war three is no consequence
When failure is not an option.

After all
He is a winner.

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Above Bob Gordon’s Bog | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

The bog above Bob Gordon’s bog
is where they found the body of
an older man floating like a canoe
among the lily pads. He was
covered with crustaceans.

Folks from town and towns
around came to see if he might be
one of theirs, perhaps someone
liquored up who went astray
and fell in the bog while traipsing.

But no one knew the victim so
undertaker Flynn had to bury him
behind Bob Gordon’s bog among
the other strangers buried there
holding up blank tombstones.

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Hoods of the Spineless Drivel | A Poem by Ken Allan Dronsfield

Whips of black spatter dark skin in blood
time moves on like a drunk garden slug
terror in the night, nooses swing on oak
burnt crosses hot as white hoods dance.

Land meant to grow, plant dead in rows
hallowed minds are shallow in icy piety
given no reverence or primal empathy
graceless matter to a mindless patter.

Cotton, melon and okra now planted
above the graves of the persecuted
murder at night, forgiven on Sunday
regrets be that of the spineless drivel.

A Haircut for the Yard | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Herb’s wife says the grass
needs cutting and Herb agrees.
She says the neighbors are
upset he hasn’t cut it
for the last five weeks.
Property values are at stake,
she reminds him softly.

Herb’s wife is usually right.
But the temperature this week
is near 105 and the sun would
torch anyone behind a mower.

Herb tells his wife let’s not
worry about the grass until
they look out the window
and the grass is so high
they can’t see the sky.
When that happens

Herb says he’ll go out
and swing his sickle
and decapitate the grass.
Buncombe like this
Herb’s wife has heard
so many times before
her response is one more
Holland Tunnel sigh.

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