Who the Hell Cares, and What is Wrong With You

The dinner’s front and center, second day.
I do confess, it’s really hard to care
That any in the news are unaware
Of any decent reason to delay
A headline that is shocked about a joke
The president had made within a speech
To entertain reporters, when in reach
Are stories that within us would invoke
An earnest worry, anger, or a fear
That something must be done about a thing
We find within the headlines.  There’s Beijing,
Sarkozy, Putin, Clinton, but it’s clear
We’d rather be irrelevant, without
A lighter side, to throw Barack in doubt.

Comedians are Funny. Make a Note.

The Correspondent’s Dinner was a hoot.
And that is all the news.  I still await
The verdict on the Chinaman, the fate
Of any terse relations, or the boot
That any new cooperation gets
When future talks are marred by Mr. Chen,
His reacquired voice, or many men
Crusading his release.  If any bets
Are off concerning harmony between
Beijing and shaky Washington, the man
May well have picked the future when he ran.
Or maybe I’m unfairly being keen
On finding future doom; you never know.
The dinner jokes were quite amusing, though. 

A Much More Interesting Day

We’re growing very slowly.  “Hip hooray,”
Or “harbinger of woe” are both declared,
Depending on the speaker, unimpaired
By any other context.  Yesterday
Was not a day containing weighty news.
Today is very different.  Chen is blind,
Abused and beaten, guarded, and confined
Within his home for holding many views
That many find offensive in Beijing.
They’d rather not he freely talk about
The government’s abuses.  He is out,
And from the US embassy is bring-/ing
To the fore his long and weary fight.
I’m checking on the news again tonight. 

You're Not Gonna Reach My Telephone

It’s better, and by far, to make the news;
Reporting is a sucker’s errand.  This,
The culture Rupert Murdoch would dismiss
As libelous, contrary to the views
Of all of his reporters, now, alas,
Is something he confesses was around
When hacking ran his paper to the ground.
I doubt that it would ever come to pass
That any leading man would be aware
Of any of the excesses he brings
When pushing for results, and better things,
Until it’s far too late.  Excessive care
Ensuring people stay within the lines
Avoids an audience, as well the fines.

(We do, then, what morality declines.)

Unofficially Official

It’s pretty much official; Mitt is it.
The delegates have given him a lead
Too very big to challenge, or concede
Without conceding victory; the quit
In candidates remaining is assumed;
The president is fighting him alone;
And all complaining pundits who had thrown
Their Romney worries ‘round have had ‘em groomed,
And altered all the terms – “Barack” for “Mitt,”
“Econony” for “Romneycare,” and on
And on, until momentum hasn’t gone
In racing for a bigger prize, to wit,
The very biggest power in the land.
It’s quite enough to loyalty demand.

Resistance is Futile

The  government is spying, or the cops,
Or maybe universities.  Alas,
The theories have already come to pass
Of dark conspiracy or evil ops
Within the comments here.  I do not know
If some malevolence is being done
By men behind a drone, if anyone
Is wrongly being followed, any blow
Upon our Constitution being dealt,
But I suspect the purposes are mixed,
The drones of universities affixed
With scientific tools, to measure melt-/ing
Poles or moving plates.  And per the rest,
I think, perhaps, avoiding them is best. 

Le Vote

Sarkozy, is it not?  It’s maybe not.
The French have voted once, and once again
Is necessary when the mass of men
And women, undecided, haven’t bought
Entirely the message given out
By any running candidate.  Alas,
Sarkozy didn’t woo the working class,
And surely isn’t betting on the clout
He hasn’t gotten with the unemployed.
Hollande is better poised to gather in
The citizens who voted for Le Pen
(The ballots for her cast are null and void,
And all must vote again).  The second round
May run the man Sarkozy to the ground.

Sunshine on My Shoulders

On vacation. I missed the ocean.

Upon the morning Zimmerman was out,
And Chavez hasn't spoken in a week -
The proletariat are feeling bleak
In fading Venezuela. Any doubt
I had about the worthiness today
Of poetry, to sum the main events
And render them in meter, hadn't sense
To render me distracted, kept away
From any way to read the recent news.
I read a bit, and quickly didn't care
That I was far away, and unaware
Of any budding details, or the views
Of commentators, eagerly beseech-/ing
Me to pay no notice of the beach.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

Yesterday I spent the majority of my waking hours in studying, rather than poem composition. But I do applaud Drudge for posting the pics of the Colombian woman denied compensation for her...er, "secret service." Although her protest was itself priceless - "I'm not a hooker. I'm much more expensive than that."

I studied for a test, and didn’t write
A sonnet yesterday.  But, here behold,
The story is the same – the growing cold
For Nicolas Sarkozy in a fight
For France’s ruling office is a race
Too very close to call.  The voters, all
A bit aghast Sarkozy took the call
For issues on the right, beheld the grace
Of Socialist Hollande.  Alas, the pain
Of massive unemployment is the cause
Of so much disappointment, the applause
For newcomer Hollande for the gain
He promises in jobs.  Await the vote,
For Sunday is in France a day of note.

(I’d make a note as well of any pics
Of Cartagena call-girls.  Any tricks
That turned upon a summit are, indeed,
Much costlier than any had agreed.)

That's a Helluva Lot of Money

It’s quite a lot of money. Holy crap,
It’s quite a lot of money. Nevermind
Indefinite detention, misaligned
Predictions of recovery, a cap
In trading that’s assigned to either side
(The Left, or Right) depending on the view
Of many in the audience. This, too,
Is worthy of a protest. Any slide
In auditing that doubles debt is cause
For firing accountants. Here, alas,
We’re far too deep in battle to amass
The clear and honest heads to give us pause,
And cry for change, and all the other stuff
Ignoring; for this issue is enough.

Brobdingnagian

The IRS is knocking. Cue the queue
Of sweat and cold anxiety, the fear
An unexpected audit may appear
Embedded very deeply. Any who
Are living well abroad are giving in,
And giving up their birthright (make a note,
Because it’s harder now to stay afloat,
Ahead of regulations, here akin
To Gulliver and giants in their size,
And in complexity). It’s very sad;
They’re not renouncing us because we’re bad,
But simply too expensive. Any guise
Of being best at everything is shot
When money makes you lose the men you’ve got.

You Don't Have to Like Barack Obama to Dislike Cheney

Perhaps, just so we're clear on the matter, the nation should engage in a spirited game of "count the years of war began with Cheney" before giving the man the front-page spot in the headlines.

I know that Richard Cheney isn’t news,
Or news that’s very worthy to compare
With Talibani movement, or the flair
With which the Secret Service sings the blues.
And yet he’s front and center, to declaim
The utter and unmitigated wreck
That is Obama’s tenure. If a speck
Within the eye of any who’d defame
Another with a timber is a sign
That he should not be speaking, Cheney, cease.
We’re still awaiting freedom and release
From warring in Afghanistan. Align
Your party to the fighting with a cheer,
But I do wish you both would disappear.

Payment for Secret Services Rendered

The phrase “the secret service” is a pun
Now better suited for an older trade.
The story couldn’t better be, if made
By any seasoned author. All the fun
The men in service to the USA
Were having was discovered in arrears
(Don’t ever hope a hooker disappears
Without a prior bargain, or her pay).
So Secret Servicemen were getting laid
While waiting for the president. Alas,
It’s dangerous, if only for the pass
It well may give assassins, unafraid
To masquerade as hookers. What a shame
That such hilarity should mar our name.

The Missile-Maker Mustn't Misalign

Korea had a rocket launch. It fell
Much earlier than any could forsee
(Excepting those outside Korea). We
Were worried more that we would have to quell
Antagonisms rising from a crash
Of broken rocket part upon a ship
Or plane, and thus our fear appeared to skip
The stage wherein we worry that a clash
Of nations might occur if any threat
Of hitting the United States arose.
And therein lies the pity. So it goes:
We fear a fight Korea would beget
By accident far more than by design.
The missile-maker mustn’t misalign.

A Very Dramatic Tale

Behold, I apprehend the coming storm.
I read the piece; ‘twas gripping, and the end
Could hardly be predicted, couldn’t bend
To any tired literary form,
But easily remained a masterpiece
Of tense and telling banter. All in all,
A woman spoke of Ann, and there the brawl
Went on ‘till Ann had vented the release
Of all her disagreement. Other men
Would later vent their disagreement, too,
And that on his behalf, Obama, who
Regretted having hurt her. So, again,
A pundit in the press was almost mean
(Sufficient, though, for Matt’s dramatic scene).

(Do note that I upon sarcasm lean.)

Santorum's Out, and Here the Race Begins

Santorum’s out, and here the race begins
With all the subtlety of any man
Proposing in a hockey rink. The plan
Is simple for the president, who wins
By highlighting the harsher times ahead
For all the middle class. For Romney, true,
The plan is also simple – bring to view
In front of all America the dead
Economy for all the middle class.
Santorum, I should note, an error made
In saying his farewell, for when he bade
Goodbye to all supporters, he, alas,
Said not a word of Mitt. A bitter tune;
I hope his daughter’s feeling better soon.

Kim Il Sung Begins the Great Game

A lot of planes are going different ways
To thus avoid a broken piece, or shell,
Or stage of falling rocket, if it fell.
And though I may the very chance appraise
To be a very slim one, I confess
I find it very wise to here avoid
A nasty confrontation, for destroyed
Or wounded property is better less
And fewer if between dictatorships
And nations that prefer to have a head
Of state that isn’t nuts, and hasn’t lead
As if a bout of anger may eclipse
The very hope of peace. Avoid a fray,
And move your citizens out of the way.

So Holder Could Have Voted Here for Mitt

So Holder could have voted here for Mitt.
The current law requires nothing more
Than honesty when tallying the score
Of politicians running. I’ve a bit
Of hesitance in trusting to a race
The honor of a scruple, or to count
Correctly, or to honor the amount
Collected, when contestants keep apace
With one another. Simply to requi-/re
All the elements that I would need
To get a drink, an office to accede,
Or purchase elements for making fire,
Or buy an antihistamine, alas,
Is far too hard when voters come en masse.

The Quarterback's a Preacher for a Day

The quarterback’s a preacher for a day.
And that, I understand, is, all in all,
The story in its fullness. I recall
I’ve wished for simple stories, or a way
To summarize a movement in a line
That fit within a sonnet. This, alas,
Is far too short a tale to give it pass
As poetry. The tale itself is fine –
“The quarterback’s a preacher for a day” –
But there is nothing else of great import.
No scandal, turn of phrase I could distort
To keep the news exciting, or to prey
Upon a reputation yet to fall.
Tim Tebow is a preacher. That is all.

Apple's Worm

The company that’s richer than, combined,
The GDP of several Mideast na-/tions
Has, at root of its success, founda-/tions
In a policy that’s undermined
(But only briefly) part of its appeal.
The users of the world have used PCs,
And this accounts for all the lack of ease
With which a hacker may attempt to steal
The contents of a drive. The more they grow,
The more the opportunity to take,
And it’s becoming common here to make
A virus for a Mac. A bitter blow,
But insignificant when you address
It’s failure as a product of success.

(thanks to thingsappleisworthmorethan.tumblr.com)

Barack Obama and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I was very ill today. Late poem.

I guess a lot occurred the other day.
Obama and the Brotherhood began
To talk of a relationship. The man
Was heavily accosted in a fray
That simmered in the comments of the piece
Announcing what, as far as I could see,
Was basic US foreign policy
(Befriend away, but never give release
To harm our interests). A moment more,
And rockets from the Sinai came to rest
In Israel, while the Right has thought it best
To call Barack on speeches given for
To call the Court on verdicts. It is grim,
Today, and how unlucky to be him.

Rick Ruettiger

At first I ran because I wanted to change the world. Now I run because I don't want the world to change me.

Santorum isn’t winning. Mitt is it,
Unless a miracle is in the cards
(Though Rick believes in miracles); regards
Have all but been received. He cannot quit,
However, given that he’s put a fight
In everything he’s done. It’s very hard
To quit a race you’ve run, when every yard
Is covered in your toil. Were it right
To vote for “greatest effort,” I’d concede
He might well be the winner, but I know
That effort, though impressive, is for show,
And though his running surely makes him bleed,
He cannot quit, though winning’s out of range,
To prove that losing wouldn’t make him change.

Tornadoes in Dallas

Summary: Dallas had a few tornadoes. Of all the days to be away from a computer, this wasn't the one. Thanks to the Dallas Morning News for this fantastic image.

And now, the poem:

Tornadoes hit in Dallas. I was out
Returning merchandise when they appeared,
Was looking at my phone, and quickly feared
My spouse’s family had been about
In public, or the open, when it came.
And, fearing for her worry, I began
To call repeatedly the very man
Receiving other queries, much the same
As mine – “please answer, sir, if you’re OK.”
Alas, I couldn’t reach him, for his cell
Had far too many calls to do it well,
And sent me to a message. Worry lay
Within my spouse’s message; he was fine –
Just well annoyed he couldn’t get a line.

Khairat El-Shater

So Egypt’s got a candidate, and we
Have very little clue to lead us on
To what he, and his country, have anon
In store for these United States. If he
Secures a loan with IMF, success
May girdle their economy. Alas,
He still is but a candidate, amass-/ing
Popularity among a mess
Of generals, too eager to remain
In power as a ruling party. Still,
I fear a fearful standoff o’er the hill
If, once elected, he were to refrain
From ruling as his predecessor did,
A member of a party he’d forbid.

My Old Kentucky Home

The Wildcats are winners, and the street
Is lit with burning couches. Any fan
Who’s able, unarrested, if he can,
To celebrate a win that’s very sweet,
Is urgently requested to a crowd
Surrounding many fires. Riot, all,
And here amidst the shouting, please recall
That rioting for sport, though not allowed
In strictly legal senses, is a thing
We don’t consider dangerous, or bad.
It’s only when the rioting is clad
In changing politics, or for to bring
Injustice to the mat that we declare
That we were caught by evil unaware.

(And British soccer riots, to be fair.)