Tangerine tan man masterplan such chumps
Plumps to rain down bombs on Iranian clumps
Logic stumps as facts and pacts again dumps
Throat lumps as fossil fool fuel prices jumps
Getting trumped and thumped at the pumps
Oil barons gloat gazumps.. economy slumps
No cargo due to embargo everything flumps
Even a MAGA fan is now down in the dumps
Grumps got the hump with Mar a Lago frumps
Thicker than Forrest Gump deadlier than mumps
"Genocided genociders"
Look, the victims of holocaust
committing genocide
They bomb indiscriminately
the so-called open prison
With the embargo they imposed
they let civilians starving
There's no humanity in them
thus, i dub them subhumans *1
They have lost count on the dead
more than some sixty thousands
The former genocided ones
became genociders
Semites massacring semites
almost a fratricide
Behold the majestic zionism
in all of its greatest glory
The jews are now philistines
auschwitz is now gaza
Hitler is netanyahu
and nazis are now zionists
Americans, heroes of world war
are now israel's lackeys
A whole superpower
can't look them in the eye
SHAME on most evangelicals
they're anything but christians
But, this somehow has to end
one day they'll have to pay
It's not an "if", it is a "when"
have courage palestine.
(This poem is not a recent one)
I speak now, not with breath,
But through the bones of history,
Through palms that never bore fruit
Because your embargo starved the soil.
You feared not our weapons—
We had none to match your bombs.
You feared our ideas,
Because they burned too brightly in the dark.
Sixty-two winters and summers,
My people have walked in chains—
Not of iron,
But of isolation, hunger, and propaganda.
Is it a crime to dream in red?
Is dignity a sin,
When worn by brown hands
On a small island that refused to kneel?
You said it was freedom—
Yet you crushed us under boots
Stamped democracy,
Laced with hypocrisy.
Your friends—your “allies”—watched.
Some nodded.
Some traded,
And many sold their silence for your gold.
Fidel is gone,
But the embargo remains—
Like a ghost that haunts both jailer and prisoner,
A curse passed down by cold-hearted kings.
America, when the axis shifts,
And the sun of the global south rises—
What will your monuments say then?
What flag will you wave when truth takes the throne?
History is a patient god.
It watches.
It remembers.
And when it judges—
It does not ask permission.
It was Santa’s busiest night
And nothing was going quite right.
The sleigh, well past it’s best,
Had just failed its flight test
And Rudolph’s red nose had turned white.
Global warming had melted the snow;
A hurricane started to blow.
Santa’s throat was red raw
And felt terribly sore.
He could barely whisper “Ho ho”
He declared a gift embargo;
The elves unloaded his cargo.
Then, on-line from his bed,
He sent vouchers instead,
All delivered by Wells Fargo
In the valley of death where I have plenty of friends
Where your debts are paid and you don't have to pretend
Where if you want to stand alone you can confess your sins
Where there's no embargo on pain and the fun never ends
Where you regret all that you've ever done wrong
And you try to stay in tune while singing lifes song
And may have to limp after kicking against the prongs
Because some think life is short while others think it's to long.
If a poet who hails from Chicago
Booked his poems on a trip with Trivago
Would his wit and his charm
Cause the site fatal harm
Get the soup placed under embargo
John G. Lawless
©2/17/2023
UNWRITTEN
I almost put pen to paper and thought again
This was just catharsis by yet another name
Words were stacked like circling jumbo jets
Anxious to land and divulge for processing
Would my attempt at verse be challenged
No passport to allow such freedom to be
Once written, the cat was out of the bag
Fear of an official embargo on my words
They must break free and loudly protest
Even if merely spoken and not recorded
But mere breath in the air doesn’t survive
So for posterity it’s damn the torpedoes
My pen’s ready and waiting for the sword
As the words now spill out to fill the page
When we first saw Columbus;
his sea-bowed legs were struggling ashore;
us natives looked upon that unhealthy guy,
that marinated mariner who brought
news of garlic and olive oil to the unsuspecting,
both of which we natives had no use for.
Then it was that we envisioned as if in a dream
that natives should never, could never
forgive him for the insidious spread of Italian broccoli.
Thus we made war upon the brownish white men,
endeavoring earnestly to place an embargo
on any more useless imports.
No use!
Salesmen traveled all over our hunting grounds
offering yet more pizza ingredients.
The Spanish (long before Columbus Day),
had left pigs and horses for us Indians
for which we were most grateful,
and so we forgave
the genocidal aspirations of the conquistadors,
but broccoli was the absolute last straw,
and so we reigned terror
upon many a city statue of his likeness
and his pervasive, belligerent
garlic-breath.
“What is this strange place we find ourselves in,
Trapped in the open, we are free within”
Like Walter Mitty I would rather be
Inside my head, adventurous and free.
Safe sanctuary, thought-provoking kit,
Equipped with high caliber tool, called wit.
There’s no embargo and there’s no restrain
On a free current of wondering brain.
No franchise on uniquely designed mind -
Cerebral wheel of fortune of mankind.
When trapped in the open, against my will,
From within I am, liberated still.
March 19, 2022
Contest: Matrix
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Pushing cascades crest bastion, stomach lost
Largesse spread wafts orange blossom bridal
Bestows clouds let go to marshmallow moss
Fearless flight crinoline crash vertical
In gospel gothic deep chasm, drunk mink swims
Stirring fate, bleeding tea leaves bewilder
Leather gil quiver, loaded to the brim
Goddess mink Milda, silk coat cylinder
Poison spore auburn myrrh lassoo arrows
Immune audine preened, unwitting Otto
Seduced by sadist, dart sought embargo
Incapacitated poderoso
Discharged firearm, struck futile, fratenised
Love liege embalms gun powder, satisfied
Ninth February
Hijacked by
Milda Audine
She slithered from the jungle in a Vera Wang sarong
Like some wicked juju temptress with no sense of right or wrong.
I remember how it thrilled me,
Oh yeah, when she shimmied in the buff;
And that first time she let loose, I thought I’d never get enough.
She hid a wealth of smuggled goods among her cargo.
I was cornered and defenseless; she was turning on the tease.
Then she wrapped her legs around me in an anaconda squeeze.
She had something sweet to teach me,
Oh yeah, more than modesty allowed.
So I poured a gin and tonic and I let myself get plowed.
She dealt in contraband delights with no embargo.
She was primitive and deadly. I was curious and young,
Groping hesitant, yet eager, heart to heart and tongue to tongue.
I plunged headlong with abandon,
Oh yeah, off those reckless, dizzy heights,
Spinning through a swirl of colors, shooting toward a burst of lights.
I came down withered, drained, and blank like no tomorrow.
You can run a little faster, beat the bullet from the gun.
You can run a little farther, almost halfway to the sun.
But when you run from Tondelayo,
Oh yeah, Christ, her cargo weighs a ton.
patience is not an embargo;
eerie enmity oozing flows
gaunt gores, perforated pores pruned
fostering felon feasts - foiled fluid
neither is patience hoisted hay;
nocturnal nature chopping day,
smothered smithereens callous clips,
dark dribbles, moist mood, drizzles drip
patience is all but wanky wait;
taciturn haste fuming torn trait,
etched emotions lagging, joy foiled,
confetti of wishes - wit's spoil
patience's an ocean draped'n torrents,
amateurs savor waves' torments.
'20:06:27:12:20
Note: of pored patience.
Listen here: https://soundcloud.com/zuxian/reserata-carcerem-xxvii
Infiltrating Trump's embargo
An Imam reached Mar-a-Lago
But his Call to Prayer
Just floated on air
The Trumps worship at Wells Fargo
I spent my adolescence writing lots of teenage angst
through poetry, and stuck with it, despite it being pants.
I’ve been to Open Mic nights, and risen through the ranks.
I don’t get heckled quite so much, and even get some thanks.
I’ve had some poems published, and felt my work improve.
It’s given me some confidence when I’m not in the groove.
I watch a brand-new poet. The first time that they’ve tried.
I clap, although I’m jealous, and thinking deep inside -
Oh crikey, not another better poet on the scene.
How come even novices are better than I’ve been.
I don’t want competition from someone just seventeen.
Oh crikey, not another better poet on the scene.
Everyone’s much cleverer, and wittier than me -
I’m slipping down the rankings. I’m in the bottom three.
I wish there was a talent freeze and some kind of embargo.
I wish I had a better rhyme than using Avocado!
Oh crikey, not another novice poet doing well.
It must be genes or talent. It’s such a living hell!
Poets used to start quite poor, get better bit by bit.
I hate all bleeding poets now. I wish they were more sh..
The Mushroom Party
Placed an embargo
On Chinese goods
To Mar-a-Largo
It seems that some urns
Were not stuffed with money
Did Kim Jong Un
Pull something funny?
The Donald, of course,
Was not not amused
A star of TV
Should not be abused!
So Rocket Man
Fired off a tweet
"Meat me for lunch"
Which Donald thought, "Sweet"
They both shared a tart
At Great Ego Hall
Then zip-lined to Stormy's
To watch curtains fall
Ivanka's urns
Are now filled with Won
So North Korea
Can blast off at dawn
Two heads together
With la-di-da spiel
Keep our world spinning
When Trump's the Big Wheel
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