Well, despite the best efforts of a clown car of cartoon contestants and the ridicule heaped on him by John Oliver, Trevor Noah, Bill Maher, Samantha Bee and all those late night satirists,  Donald Trump is about to win the Republican Party nomination; he is about to become the winner he has always claimed to be. Time to review this blog’s vain efforts to stop this behemoth. Here they are in order of appearance, as they move from ridicule to outrage to reflection to fear and finally an appeal to a higher power.

Donald Trump (a slimverse)

Donald T

court jester

hair today

tomorrow?

 

The Level of Discourse

I want to say a few words

About the level of discourse

How low can it go?

How low can it go

When a candidate for the presidency

Of the United States

Gets up on television

And mocks, mimics, ridicules

A disabled man

And the media endlessly debate

Whether he intended to or not

When he plainly did

And the members of his party

Refuse to criticize him

Refuse to say that

This is beneath our dignity,

Perhaps dignity

Has left the room

Has left the United States of America,

And these same party members

Pride themselves

On their rugged individualism

Their boots on the ground machismo

And oh how they love their Hitler analogies

But when a trumped up

Pumped up tin pot bully

Emerges from their own ranks

They are too chickenshit to say anything

How low can it go?

The level of discourse

How low can it go?

 

Trumped

I get it now

Donald T

Is a performance artist

Like that guy in Beijing

Sucking dust out of the air

With a vacuum cleaner

Or maybe he’s one of those mirrors

In a fairy tale

Reflecting only

The worst in ourselves.

 

The above poem also appeared on https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2016/01/20/trumped-by-jim-feeney/

 

Watching the Republican Debates

potus

poultice

poultry

poetry

podcast

pomegranate

pornography

porridge

pork

only

one

of

the

above

is

a

lethal

weapon

when

given

to

a

fool

 

Super Saturday

There’s a dog wearing a tartan skirt

outside the window of Starbuck’s;

a tartan skirt, a belt, and a knitted white sweater.

Its little dog legs are moving furiously

on the wet pavement,

across the slick road

and the sodden green park

the ocean sits

like a slab of lead

having clearly decided

to take some time off,

no crashing on the shore today.

South of the border

A bigoted bully with a head

like a bloated turnip

is moving towards

the presidency of the United States,

and God, once again,

is moving in mysterious ways

but I, for one, wish he would knock it off,

enough already with the mystery

for once in your eternal life,

clarify something,

I mean, for Chrissakes,

there’s a dog wearing a tartan skirt

outside the window of Starbuck’s.

 

There you go, the poetry’s a bit rough and ready but that goes with the territory. That’s probably enough about Donald for a while. It’s hard to argue logically against statements that have no logic to begin, against policy that doesn’t exist except as cynical manipulation but most of all I can’t get interested. He’s had his twenty minutes. I’m bored. I’m bored with Donald. I’m bored with the people who believe what he says.  Little Marco is gone, lyin’ Ted is gone and we are left with boring Donald (#boringdonald). Until I get irritated again………