God Speaks
But Few Are Heeding His Voice
Written: by Tom Wright
2/25/2016
God communicates in ways that not all understand,
Many brush off his message while neglecting his command.
From the pulpit we covet substance to tickle our ears,
While remaining as mute sheep, bound for the shears;
Presently, I sense a partitioning in society taking place,
As an influx of foreign born, illegally, invade our space;
Were separated by both tenets and tinge of our skin,
Without appropriate thought, of God being our linchpin;
From planted seeds, we water, and see so little response,
While God sees our insincerity, and our nonchalance.
So as pampered generations, turn deaf ears to Gods call,
I sense it’s time for God’s rising, to announce, that’s all.
Hillary and Her Kitchen
What if you were to show me some sign
That what you now had never was mine
Next thing you knew you were creator
Of a program called, "The Hillianator."
An alligator up desires likes to gobble
So never again will we have .to hobble
Along but be free and become active
Member of America where we all live.
We may have started out foreign-born
In America will never receive any scorn
Even when youth may have been a scout
And always enjoy helping others out.
Had others in mind and their each need
Helping out as well as wanting to feed
Them many subjects and food for everyone
And of their handicaps do not make fun.
So by now what you have started to see
Is not again will there ever be a Hillary
And at distillery after named a great drink
Dirty Dishes are not in my kitchen sink.
Hillary's kitchen is always completely clean
Thanks to the creation of a Clinton Machine
With it nothing has been know to dissolve
With machine all problems are able to solve.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Mop Woman
Near dwarf this woman.
Foreign born. Minsk,
perhaps. Nose
a fist. Hair
a whisk broom
only black. Her back
an Orthodox cupola,
her arms braids of gym rope
lowered to the floor.
Orangutans could climb
those ropes, hand
over hand, no rose
no purple
doughnuts
on their hinds.
Near dwarf this woman.
Foreign born. Minsk,
perhaps.
Her hands, all gristle,
hang an inch, no more,
above her shining floor.
Donal Mahoney
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