Is there some omen

in that murder of corvids

swarming about the flagpole?

~

How does that saying

go – ” run it up the flagpole

and see who salutes”?

Even birds know when

to tweet and when not to – a

feat beyond our president.

~

Foolish sparrows tweet

when the hawks are circling,

thinking they’re invincible.

A day without news

even sponsored by illness

has been a welcome respite.

~

Sometimes we just need

a newsless break to gather

will and wit to compensate.

If our leaders were

mentally healthy we’d have

rational gun control laws.

~

Fear and self loathing

weigh heavily on the mind

even of powerful souls.

When the foggy dawn

is the perfect metaphor

for my sinuses, what then?

~

Your body of work

will consist of fog and phlegm,

but not a cold heart.

Lately I’ve wondered,

on these dial-your-weather

days, which dark souls select bleak.

~

The bleakest weather

selected by darkest souls

cannot dampen joyful hearts.

Spare the platitudes,

hollow, empty “thoughts and prayers”;

while you bank on inaction.

~

 One survivor said, ” You

shrug off dead kids but freak out

over rainbow wedding cakes.”

In addition to

offering thoughts and prayers,

what if we took some action?

~

If we took action

we would be obligated

to own the consequences.

Undying passion,

on this day of Valentines,

does this thing really exist?

~

Love and affection

really do exist, The world

has never needed them more.

Whereabouts art thou,

my fine fellow poet? I’m

longing to pen a response.

~

A day spent swimming

in the depths of mania

leaves little space for writing.

At the Olympics,

our own vice president – just

how low can he go?

~

Not as high by half

as a youthful medalist

expressing jubilation!

Guess acerbic wit

is probably genetic;

watch for unintended bites.

~

From generation

to generation, wit with

a bit of a bite doth flow.

Asked for parenting

advice by some newlyweds;

said, “Always use a condom”.

~

 If that fails, take heart,

you can write bad poetry

like some sons and mothers do.

The American 

dream…has it become a game 

of Russian roulette?

~

Has it not always

been thus? Some capricious game;

an evil three-card monte?

Flying cars in space,

filled with science fiction tropes;

whatever’s that all about?

~

Technology we

have, but wisdom we lack – the

plight of modern man.

A military

parade to honor a man

who never served?  Trumpets blow!

~

Don’t we have two days

already dedicated

to those who serve our nation?

The hours fly by,

ever faster and shorter,

as we hasten to our doom.

~

Such a grim note must

come from a poet who has

been watching only Fox News.

When times are tense, we

must find a way to act with

compassionate clarity.

~

With clear compassion

and action from a pure heart

we transcend every tension.

Even my dogs know

they must be vigilant if

peace is bought with a snarl.

~

It takes no genius

to distinguish a smile

from a predator’s growling.

Winter, in vengeance,

returns with freezing fury

just in time for Groundhog Day.

~

 The ever-changing

weather is nature’s answer

to climate change deniers.

Bookending our days

with poetry provides us

with fruitful measure.

~

At least a measure

of meter and maybe a

bit of rhyme to pass the time

Inconsistency,

though expected with weather,

is poor leadership style.

~

True, but if style

without substance is what folk

want, he models that in spades.

As we listen to

the State of Disunion Speech

how can we not come unglued?

~

Remember the Moon:

Just like it, we can be too;

full, super, bloody, and blue

This conversation,

with five parties, near and far,

will surely tax all patience!

~

When too many folks

 join in, nothing can be heard

except the deafening din.

When the student is

ready, the practice will come.

Have patience, my son.

~

Patience; a virtue

parents rarely have in spades.

The realm of the grandparent.

Dining out again,

happily with family, friends,

enjoying conversation.

~

Good talk and good eats –

a treat for the body, balm

for the weary soul.

Without getting stuck,

 how many congressmen can

dance on Trump’s pin head?

~

One hundred ninety,

at the very least, if we

exempt all the Tuesday Group.

What can we expect

if we put a fox in charge

of Congress’s chicken coop?

~

Surely less chickens

would peck in those hallowed halls,

but would that be a bad thing?

A crisp spring evening

nestled deep in the bosom

of winter… what’s up with that?

~

You Know Who says this

proves the climate change folks have

infiltrated the weather.