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Book Blurb For Poetry Book Not Written

ceiling-light-4

Poetry From The Light Fixture is an illuminating book of verse from an electrifying author.

The poet in question is a questioning poet, quarrying for answers in the rich loam of Earth’s mysteries.

The instinct of a pollen-laden honeybee,

Coupled with the dynamic curiosity of a fluffy kitten,

Allow this poet to plumb the depths of inarticulate sensitivity,

And grant to us,

Grateful readers everywhere,

Proof positive that,

Yes,

Ideed,

Here is a mind that actually thinks.

(image) https://technical.sabhlokcity.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/ceiling-light-4.jpg

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Trump And A Nazi Walk Into A Bar

virginia-torch-protest-salute

~ Willkommen, Mein Führer.

~ Now cut that out.

~ But we are at your service.

~ You good old boys are giving me a bad name.

~ We support you in your Holy Crusade.

~ To make America great again?

~ If those are the code words you want to use.

~ The words are broad … and vague.

~ You should be more exact.

~ Like ‘living space’?

~ The Volk liked that phrase – they understood we needed land.

~  Old times. Today they understand ‘the wall’. Believe me.

~  We’ll help you build your wall.

~  By driving cars into people?

~  There’ll always be the crazies.

~ Don’t I know it.

~ We can’t keep tabs on everyone.

~ Don’t I know it.

~ We’ll sacrifice the schmuck.

~ Yeh – but. Tell me this one thing.

~ What?

~ Torches?

~ What?

~ Did you morons really have to use torches?

DE

(image)https://static.independent.co.uk/s3fs-public/styles/article_small/public/thumbnails/image/2017/08/12/09/virginia-torch-protest-salute.jpg

Trump And A Boy Scout Walk Into A Bar

Trump

 

~ Pardon me, Mr. President.

~ Sure, kid, I’ll pardon you. What have you done?

~ No, I don’t mean that. I mean, beg my pardon.

~ Polite boy. Delightful. Love that. What?

~ I’m not old enough to be in a bar.

~ That’s OK – I don’t even drink.

~ Then why …

~ Anyway – I can still pardon you, if you need it.

~ … are we …

~ It’s good to be the king.

~ Were you ever a Boy Scout, Mr. President?

~ Boy, Boy Scouts are great. They’re boys and they’re great.

~ But were you –

~ Boys make up Boy Scouts – all boys.

~ That’s why they’re called Boy Scouts, Mr. President.

~ Never too young to get those badges. Tie those knots.

~ We have to work to get –

~ I like tying people up in knots.

~ It takes us hours of –

~ I mean with words – tie them up. No real knots. Lot’s of words. Lots.

~ It takes many hours of work.

~ Though you can tie people up with rope. Many reasons.

~ Mr. President?

~ Yup, Scout boy. Nice uniform.

~ If I do get a drink, will you still pardon me?

~ One billion percent. I will. Maybe more. Trust me.

DE

(image)https://content.assets.pressassociation.io/2017/07/25115234/PA-321782861.jpg

#Trump And #Merkel Walk Into A Bar In Hamburg

trump-merkel

~ You are not quite the tuff bad boy I expected, Herr Donald.

~  Maybe not – but your stiff starchiness is evident, Frau Reich Chancellor.

~ One must keep you and the Tzar of all the Russias in their place.

~ Nothing is going to keep Vlad in his corner of his empire.

~ True.

~ Unless . . .

~ Speak it up, Herr Donald.

~ I dunno – you never know who is listening these days.

~ I think we’re safe – the Tzar is on his way home.

~ But “home” is the operative word, Angie.

~ Then you had best whisper into my shell-like ear.

~ All we’d need is a Twitter GIF of that!

~ Not to worry – I’ll just roll my eyes.

~ Well – Frau Angie – why don’t we form an Anchluss?

~ I think you mean an alliance, Herr Donald.

~ I’ll leave the technicalities to you.

~ And we’d already have an alliance, Der Donald, if you behaved yourself.

~ Did you just say “dear”?

~ Not in this lifetime.

~ Just checking, Angie.

~ Nor the one after.

~ The ladies like a bit of power – if you get my drift.

~ Hell would first freeze over.

~ I’m thinking you might accomplish that, Frau Reich Chancellor.

DE

(image)s.newsweek.com/sites/www.newsweek.com/files/styles/embed-lg/public/2017/07/07/trump-merkel.JPG

Trump And #Covfefe Walk Into A Bar

covfefe_tweet_e7606ca3feccb5943b69b8dd8c93a84f-nbcnews-ux-2880-1000
~ Well, I dunno, TheDonald.

~ What?

~ You’ve kinda started rodeo-riding the shark.

~ “Ye-Haw”

~ This might be the effin’ #covfefe end.

~ Or maybe the beginning – believe me!

~ How do you figure that, U li’l #covfefe lover, you?

~ You know the little man behind the curtain?

~ From the #covfefe Wizard of Oz?

~ Marvellous movie. Fantastic movie.

~ Yes

~ Love those red shoes.

~ But what –

~ Click them together.

~ What does that –

~ Goes with the tie.

~ What has that got to do with #covfefe?

~ “Somewhere, Over The Rainbow” I sing along.

~ #covfefe FOCUS POTUS #covfefe

~ What do you do with the man behind the curtain?

~ Pay no attention to him.

~ But everybody does.

~ Yeh

~ They all look at him.

~ Yeh

~ Gawk gawk gawk

~ #covfefe right

~ So you don’t really look behind him.

~ No.

~ Not supposed to.

~ No.

~ I’m behind the curtain behind him.

DE

Trump And The Pope Walk Into A Bar

donald-trump-pope-810x610

~ What’s your poison, your Holiness?

~ Always a little wine.

~ Do you think I could get a title like that?

~ Pardon?

~ “Your Holiness”.

~ I have my doubts.

~ I could really go for that – believe me.

~ You’d have to change your faith, my Son.

~ That could work.

~ It’s not as easy as you might think.

~ Gotta go into the mumbo jumbo, would I?

~ There are things to learn – yes.

~ And my Latin probably sucks.

~ You could avoid that.

~ E Pluribus Unum

~ Well, that’s a start.

~ I got lots of them, believe me.

~ It’s more than just money, my Son.

~ I’ve got billions of them.

~ So I’ve heard.

~ Billions and billionser. Feels good.

~It’s easier, my Son, for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.

~ Could choke a camel with them. Wad them down its throat.

~ That wouldn’t really solve the problem.
 

~ “In God We Trust” – that’s what it means.

~ Pardon?

~ E Pluribus Unum.   It means “In God We Trust”. Religious as hell.

DE

(image)https://media.toofab.com/2017/05/24/donald-trump-pope-810×610.jpg

Trump And Nixon Walk Into A Bar

~ Mr. President.

~ President Tricky.

~ You’re trying to replace me.

~ What?

~ In the affections of the American people.

~ Have you been drinking?

~ Fucking A about that. You are ruining my reputation.

~ I don’t even think about your reputation – believe me.

~ But you’re pulling a Nixon.

~ Not even close, Dick. May I call you Dick?

~ Sure, Donny. Is it true you don’t drink?

~ Not a drop.

~ Jesus – you do this stuff sober?

~ I’ve got the Will of the People and the Blessing of God.

~ God doesn’t give a shit.

~ I know that. And neither do the People.

~ They’ll take you down, Donny.

~ That was a big part of your problem, Dick.

~ What?

~ You cared what people thought of you.

~ They brought me down – the bastards.

~ Yeh – but you lived out your life OK.

~ Heh! I became an Elder Statesman.

~ And kept out of prison.

~ If I had sung, I would have brought down the whole corrupt Elite with me.

~ If I drank, I’d drink to that, Dick.

~ So, Donny, do you plan sticking around?

~ While I’m having fun – yeh.

DE
(image)i2.cdn.cnn.com/cnnnext/dam/assets/130109124807-21-nixon-horizontal-large-gallery.jpg

Trump And Twitter Walk Into A Bar

twitter-company-statistics
~ 100 days @realDonaldTrump. Congratulations! What can I get you?

~ There’s nothing like a shot of tequila – believe me.

~ No sooner said than done.

~ Have them leave the bottle. We’ll be here awhile.

~ We will?

~ Yes. I do like Twitter.

~ It’s appreciated.

~ Short and sweet. If you can’t say it in a few words …

~ It isn’t worth saying?

~ You GOT it. I knew I liked this place.

~ The fewer the better.

~ I’ll tell you something about politicians.

~ Yes?

~ They love using a lot of words.

~ I know it.

~ They use words to hide things, not to tell things.

~ If you can’t say it in three sentences …

~Then why use four.

~ Politicians use a swamp of words.

~ And I’m draining the SWAMP.

~ Well, maybe not quite yet.

~ Trust me – I never knew there would be so much of it.

~ There’s no way of bombing it?

~ Not when I’m living there. AND I’m STILL living there.

~ Yes, indeed.

~There was talk of IMPEACHING my ass.

~ Wasn’t that the fake news?

~ And the real NEWS, too. SOBs

~ Guess you fooled them.

~ Part of the job of doing business.

~ So maybe we’ll drink about the next 100 days.

~ Hell if I know what’s going to happen.

The Emperor Has Too Many Clothes

colq1

 

Brigadier O’Donald decided that it would be a grand day to become Admiral of the Fleet – Lord High Admiral if he chose the hat with cockade and plume.

Nodding jauntily in the air, the plume put on an impressive display, as he either agreed, or disapproved, with a toss, or a shake, of his head. The dancing ostrich feathers would add a dashing air as he boarded his flagship and, with just the right mixture of stringent authority and well- tempered geniality, moved in imperious sweeps among the ranks of ratings on the aft deck.

He would, of course, be extra careful about the pitfalls awaiting a man with ornate dress sword and scabbard, among the steep steps and narrow companionways.

******

Wednesday was khaki day for Brigadier O’Donald.

It was the day set aside to remind him of the loyalty he must always retain from his men, for what was a leader without his troops? And as a treat – for really, the dull brown did not make for a very striking appearance – the would chose the tank commander’s uniform.

With its wide web belt and shiny black holster on the hip, flap unsnapped to reveal the butt of a wicked forty-five. And of course the black leather gloves, as befits a man at the controls of so much power, and the steel helmet polished to a mirror-shine.

The riding crop? Ah, the riding crop was debatable.

******

Today would have a parade. Massed men at attention with stiffly held rifles and fixed bayonets.

Brigadier O’Donald would have to chose carefully to represent his awesome power and responsibility. Cavalry boots are a must, raising half-way up the calf and resounding with silver spurs, steel-tipped toes and heels.

Then would come crisp black trousers, billowing majestically around the thighs, and kept up with a wide leather belt. He took care that each red stripe reaching the length of each leg was as straight as an arrow.

His blue tunic, he decided, would have only muted decorations and the minimum of gold braid entwined about his shoulders. He was – after all – a fighting general.

******

A civic reception is the time when Brigadier O’Donald will be on close display.
He believes he is at his most effective  when draped completely in white, save – of course – for his highly polished black dress shoes (and, in truth, he favoured white even here, but feared such footwear was a trifle effeminate). White is striking by itself, but well he knew it made the perfect background for his medals and decorations.

He has trouble deciding upon which colour sash to wear across his chest, but finally chooses the emerald green – the reception is in the public gardens. He dons his silver-visored cap, and graces his bosom with the blue Clustered Palm of Valour; the diamond centered Star of Courage; the gold Pyramid of the Oaken Grove; and seven rows of bars and campaign medals.
There are no visiting Heads of State, so he need not be too brilliant.

DE

(image)http://images.csmonitor.com/csmarchives/2011/02/COLQ1.jpg?alias=standard_600x400

 

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