Sweet Lord in Heaven

Dear Joe – I know I truly wouldn’t mind
If you’d refrain from saying any word
That might suggest a mental lapse, or turd.
It’s truly unbecoming.  Any bind
You’ve put the party in has gotten worse
Whenever you begin to say a phrase
That brings to mind a sickness or malaise
That’s not a pretty sight, or any terse
Expression that’s a euphemism for
A necessary private human act.
It’s gotten so that any missing fact
In any speech you’re giving isn’t more
Condemning than the way you dress it down,
A heaping pile in a summer gown.

Fire, Water, Burn

There’s quite a bitter calm within the street.
The water settles down to find a rest
Some several feet above the very best
The city had to offer, ere complete
With fire and with flooding.  What a shame.
We’ll look upon the pictures, heave a sigh,
Or gasp, and as the weary hours fly,
We’ll focus our attention on the blame
The candidates are giving, or the news
That’s not about the wreckage, or the work
That any in the city mustn’t shirk
To resurrect New York, and to defuse
The fear that’s slowly seeping over there.
You make it here, you make it anywhere.

The Wind and the Waves

The beaches all have disappeared, the bay
Is slowly getting bigger, and the wind
Is keeping all New Yorkers wholly pinned
To ever wetter hearth, before the fray
Is finished, having taken all the light,
The heating, and ability to hear
Whatever’s going on to any near
Unless they’re well within the very sight
Of any other suffering the storm.
It would appear the people are alone,
But universal vigil can atone
For isolation, which, to misinform
The citizens, now sitting in the dark,
Is telling them from hope to disembark.
(They doubtless felt the same aboard the Ark.)

Sandy

The hurricane is ready to attack.
The people aren’t ready to respond.
The hope is that the people move beyond
The boundaries of areas in black,
For readying themselves to sit it out.
It’s never very wise to sit a storm,
Especially one threatening to form
The coast within its image, with a clout
That’s well beyond the average hurricane.
I’m hoping that Katrina isn’t now
Attending as advisor, given how
The storm is giving hint of giving wane
And then returning further, for to stay
Upon the east, while ripping up the bay.

The Brief Peace

The damage is accumulating here
Within the path of wind, and heavy rain
Whenever Mother Nature makes it plain
That she is still a deity.  The fear
That anyone remaining mightn’t live
Or anything, remaining as it was
Before the wind destroys it, as it does,
Will topple, isn’t something we forgive,
Or pardon.  We accept it; that is all.
The biggest acts of violence around
That run us to the church and in the ground
Are still enough, that when they may befall
Us, in our very helplessness, alas,
We run, and hide, and wait for her to pass.

The Devil is in the Details

Alas, a bit of lying doesn't need
Momentum any more than what its got
To slowly flatten every truth alotted
For the greater lying. Any bleeding
Libya has given to the states
Is worse if deeply hidden for a fear
The people find the guilty party near.
The vetting's very picky when the gates
Of coming reelection are among
The items being bet. The men, alas,
Were given little more than any pass
Available to heroes, being sung
As accidental deaths.  The very shame
Is politics in practice, and in name.

Pot, Kettle. Kettle, Pot.

A politician is a shifty one.
And so is his opponent, in a case
In which a cry of “liar” in a race
Is said by politicians.  All the fun
Is had in watching all creative ways
For one to call a lie what’s half a truth,
To hope that all the eager, voting youth
Will finally believe it, or amaze
Their elders by assuming it’s a lie.
It’s only half and half, but any note
That truth is complicated doesn’t vote
Or bring ‘em in for voting.  Never try
To speak with subtlety when out campaigning.
But cry for Noah’s Ark whene’er it’s raining.

The Antisocial Networks

At the risk of being too skeptical, I'm not certain that I'd place blame wholly on the president for knowing the Benghazi attack was planned because of an e-mail announcing a Twitter feed and Facebook post. That hardly seems conclusive, although it certainly warrants further investigation.

I’ve never been a fan of our Barack,
For many potent reasons, but the blame
For knowing that Benghazi was an aim
Of terrorist attackers, adding hoc
To winning his election, ere the shame
Of knowing that our enemies attacked
Our honorable messengers – a fact
So very unacceptable, inflaming
All the opposition to oppose
Remaining claims of innocence – had ended
All remaining hope of having mended
Doubt of any power to depose
A terrorist attack, is not at all
Determined, when a twitter feed’s the call.

Miracles are Cheap

Obama needs a miracle; the polls
Have indicated so, the very space
Between Barack and Romney in the race
For presidential office, and the souls
Of all the true Americans, is all
But finished and decided.  There’s a gap
That’s five and some-odd polling points, a wrap
If any has existed.  Any small
But still existing lead is quite enough
To call it for the lead, assuming he
Is member of the party we would be
Too happy in promoting, ere the rough
And tumble of reality attacks,
Reminding us we’d better watch our backs.

Partisan

The Drudge Report is quite a subtle site.
Obama’s bows are treason; his debate
On policy is tantamount to hate
Of all within our nation that is right.
I’ve never been impressed with any view
That argues that his policies have failed,
Or says that Mideast riots are entailed
If he appears the weaker of the two
Prime ministers in any photo-op.
We put aside oppression, meager pay,
The thought they’d be sequestered any day
Without a single warning, but atop
The reasons they revolted are the bow.
(But Libya’s a different story now.)

Putin vs. Re-election

We human beings are very much the same.
We willingly elect our leading men
And women on the basis that if, when
We need to feel we’re powerful, the blame
For any old humiliation we
Have felt will sit affixed to others, all
The blame for any mishaps ere the fall
Of rule we had before will quickly be
Attributed to how we thought it best
To compromise, and all of our success
Will be affixed to us before the mess
Of someone else’s rise.  At the behest
Of basic human nature, Putin here
Has given show of strength, but never fear,
He knows that none of us will disappear.

The Old Man and the News

God bless old guys. Especially those that do the job of much younger men, and still do it better. No matter how much I may dislike Ailes' opinions, I've still got to tip my hat to him.

I do confess I never was a fan
Of Fox, or Rupert Murdoch, or the way
That Beck, or Sean, or Bill O’Reilley may
Infuriate my thinking.  But the man
Responsible is yet another tale,
And this, because he’s quite advanced in years,
And still attacking, kicking, where the fears
Of lesser men would grow beyond the pale
And strangle their ambition.  He is old,
And beating out the young within the game
They claim to battle better.  Any fame
Or accolades he’s winning haven’t told
The best of Roger Ailes.  And to him, cheers,
For beating youth within his later years.

Politicking, II

I’m waiting on a verdict for the men
Who perished in Benghazi.  Here, instead,
I’m reading what the president has said,
And how the Right has taken it, again,
And used it as a weapon in a race
To put in charge a man who very well
Might miss a beat, or fail to hear a bell,
And how the Left is covering the trace
Of failure at the top, and middle.  Cheers.
And while you’re fighting for the very right
To criticize the rest with greater might,
The men interred are payment in arrears
For all the ways you weaponize a mess
To fight in politics, and with the press.

Bigger Things, Bigger Issues

Obama’s getting better at debate.
The country is again awash awhile
Within interpretation of a mile
-Long accommodation of a baiting,
Switching state of mind about a fact
That’s, in the end, unprovable.  He won,
Or lost, or pulled it even, if it’s done
The way that rationality would act
According to the speaker, Left, or Right.
Debate it all you want; I do not care.
The world is bigger, and the stories there,
The modern magazine – perhaps the blight
Upon the written word is here, a bit
Uncertain, like Barack debating Mitt.

She's Awfully Partial to the Periwinkle Blue

I’ve got a better way to get results.
The candidates will stand within a ring,
Be given each a weapon, for to bring
A bruise to each, consenting as adults
To give a greater whipping, so the show
Attracts the kind of brazen, shameless love
That gives the viewers what they’re thinking of:
Opponents, bruised and buried ere they know
That logic that has hit ‘em.  Beat it out
Of one another, gentlemen, to please
The watching world, and any who’d appease
Desire for a circus, and the clout
Of the United States will still appear
As freedon’s great oasis.  Never fear;
We never tire of shame and drama here.

Lysistrata

The women are determining the race.
It always is the women, in the end,
Determining the men, to make 'em bend
Or hold a weary course, to keep apace
With other weary men in weary races.
Hell, I could have told you this a while
Back, before the issue brought a smile
To the many tired, eager faces
Of the volunteers for Mitt and Paul.
The women are in charge, and know it well.
In prior races, too, where there befell
Disfavor from the women, such a fall
As never was expected came about.
Ignore them at your peril, and a rout.

No Candy for You

So Crowley’s being told to settle down.
A pity that the moderator might
Be given an instruction for a fight
To settle an infraction that’d drown
In all the many bigger ones the men
Debating one another toss about.
We fear releasing here the bias out
That’s present here in Candy, while, again,
The president, and Mitt, and all the rest
Advising them are getting up to speed
With misinterpretations that are needed
For to grow a base that’s very best
For winning an election in a land
Where bias is our greatest reprimand
For making an opponent fold his hand.

No Stratosfear

If Felix isn’t falling, he is sad.
It’s comforting to know there’s still a man
Who’ll brave a danger, just because he can,
When all the world is fearing he is mad.
But better still the world react in awe
And jealousy.  There’s very precious few
And far between components for to hew
Away a world’s division, when a draw
Is keeping all the sides within a fight:
There’s always common enemies, and this –
Invention, and in facing the abyss
Of undiscovered country, ere the light
That soon familiarity will bring.
But in the making, it’ll make us sing.

Round II, Part II

The sonnets I am writing are alike
As much today as any one, before
The race had gotten narrower, the corps
Of candidates, paraded on a pike
As if defeated Gallic lords, their Roman
Rulers leading on through bitter streets,
Ejected, that I’ve written.  Meter, beats,
The sentences more fitting for a tome,
Are all the very same that I have done.
The race is still the focus.  Pity, Drudge;
I’d often method, rhyme and choice begrudge,
But he and his endeavor haven’t won
If people think their politics a bore.
But I just cannot bear it anymore.

Ryan, Biden, Bam

I’m better at debating than the most
Accomplished politician, or a host
Of daytime television, or the most
Accomplished law professor who can boast
Of arguing before the final court,
Provided all conditions here are met:
I’m not allowed to interrupt, or fret
That any petty insults aren’t tort,
Or smirk, or burst in laughing at a time
When I should be more serious, or frown,
Or let a terse discussion take me down,
And also, not be charged with any crime
If, after my opponent does the same,
I punch the bastard back to where he came.

Silly Old Biden

I’m well-inclined to give the man a pass
On playing such a fool, because he’s old.
And any still competing, whether bold
Or out-and-out insane deserve a glass
Arisen in a toast.  They’re quite a few,
And all across the spectrum of belief:
The right has those who give Obama grief,
One Roger Ailes, and Eastwood, or the due
That’s owed to Betty White, or Jagger.  Joe,
However, may be pushing it a bit.
It’s better if your antics in a fit
Are clearly seen as acting, and the man
Has clearly never given up the part,
The method being more buffoon than art.

Josh Makes Good

The moderator’s in it for the man,
Or so the lede implies.  I’m well-inclined
To disregard the partial, misaligned
And very awful tone the woman can
Provide the new debate.  I’ve seen him, Mitt,
Debate his very heart out, as it were,
And crushing his opponent.  I’d prefer
An even moderator, but it’s fitting
That the moderation is aligned
So weakly here for Biden, who is not
As strong as all the reasons he has got
For hoping Martha Raddatz has a mind
To dulling Ryan’s edge to run him through.
As Paul is likely well-enough to do.

1600 Sesame Street

When scolded by a puppet, make a note:
Your argument is sour.  Being in
The middle isn’t fun, and any win
That’s made without the middle, or its vote, 
Is very much resented when around
However long the term is.  This is news
That’s fitting for Republicans, and whose
Agenda lies in beating to the ground
Barack Hussein Obama.  Any day
That’s not this very day, I would object
That this is hardly major news, electing
For to read the headlines on the fray
Of some-odd foreign conflict, but, alas,
E’en I can’t give the Street’s abuse a pass.

We're Just Not Good at This

Now Romney’s made a very cogent point,
That hope is not a strategy.  If all
The elements for serfdom would befall
Those few without a hope, we’d disappoint
So precious few with all of our attempts
To spread democracy.  But, if I may,
Mitt Romney’s not much better on a stage
Where, for replacing hope, he’s given pages
From an older book, so to allay
The fact that he has nothing more than hope
To offer for a policy his own
(Or else he’d have specifics).  We’d have known
If either one could get us up a slope
If they could show they knew how to belay.
“Don’t fall” is like the phrase “avoid the fray.”
It’s true, but shows a novice in his May.

Mejor que no lo haga eso usted

So Hugo’s beaten cancer, and a vote
Is threatening to take away his reign
As head of opposition to the pain
Imperials are causing.  When afloat,
His presidency feeds the very poor,
And busily has locked away the men
Who told the Venezuelans how, again,
Their leader was corrupted.  All the more
That anyone in power shouldn’t hold
His very hold in office to the fore
Of all of his priorities, the core
Of any large corruption being bold
In thinking better reasons for to stay
In power will the bitter ones allay.

Rorschach, IV. Or V. I Can't Recall.

Hooray, the polls are up, and Mitt is up
A bit since the debating and the polls
That put them neck and neck, ere the controls
For undecided voters, incorruptible
Except in any given way
That politicians use.  I’m not a fan
Of polling, or of numbers, when it can
Corrupt the very judgment, if I may,
Of anyone who reads them.  Mitt and Paul
Are even, dead, with Biden and Barack.
A margin very tiny cannot block
The chance that any reader might, at all,
Assume a pattern from a set of points
That carry but an inkblot in their joints.

Rorschach, again

I think that I have written this before.
A single point of data, given weight
That’s well beyond its usage, to abate
The critics who would even out the score
In saying that the data point is wrong,
Misunderstood, -construed, or what you will,
Is so abused it makes me very ill.
Conclusions need a very heavy throng
Of numbers, and comparisons, the lot
Of which requires days of heavy thought.
It’s easy, though, to help the fight along
By claiming you’ve a gust, when but a frail
And tattered sheet is all you have to sail.

Ouch

Obama wasn’t quite what I expected,
Being quite accustomed to his speech,
Its mastery of topic, and its reach,
Addressing any issue, when erected
Prior to addressing all the world,
Or all of us Americans - the point
Is clear enough: Obama is anointed,
Heavy, with charisma.  When it’s hurled
Around a set of speakers and a stage,
It’s rare enough he looks too unaware
Of what is going on, and so it’s fair
To speculate that any honest gauge
Of recent efforts spent debating Mitt
Have ruined all his talent and his wit.

Anticipation

We’re hoping there are fighting words, a phrase
Or two to turn a table in the fight
To either keep or bring the country right
In all its many foolish, varied ways
To what it should or what it used to be.
Debating’s only fun if there is blood,
If interrupting, dragging through the mud,
Or jeering brings the possibility
Of utter and calamitous defeat.
We’re racing for not only to redeem
The remnant of the nation, or the gleam
Of hope that we’re achieving, but to beat
The living, breathing snot out of the one
Who’s standing twixt the target and the gun.

Superbowl 2012

The quarterback has given out his vote,
And John is voting Romney.  That’s the news.
Conservatives are rising in their pews,
Applauding Colorado.  Make a note –
I’m quite a fan of Denver, and its team.
But I am not assured that this is all
That’s worth a major headline, ere the pall
Is set upon the Euro, or the seam
In voting Venezuela’s torn apart,
Or Holder’s given leave – whatever more
Is of a greater interest than the side
That John is taking, taking it in stride
That Drudge is taking, still, the Famer’s score,
And tallying the points for such a race
That John had quit attempts to keep apace.

Get Out the Vote

The station Rupert Murdoch led is up
In minor arms o’er ballots overseas
To servicemen and –women, where the ease
Of heading to the polls, when an eruption
In the local politics allows
A gang or two of bad militiamen
To fire in the streets before, again,
They’re beaten by our soldiers ere espousing
Loyalty to some disturbed regime,
Is less than it would be if back at home,
Where voting hasn’t more than any tome
Requires – lots of study, so to deem
Me qualified to judge, and not, as well,
Evading men who’d send me into hell.