If California may hear
In between eyes clerical
and Justices Repeal
Both names
Have been titled
Titled as an altered code
and violation of building standard
Becomes currency
Contempt of Congressional Ledger
Perhaps suffices
3650 characters left
These messages are being captured and archived in compliance with the Presidential Records Act or the Federal Records Act
Thank you for your message. It has been sent. ( Congress )
This is a law
Poverty law
Poverty of dwelling on a matter
A matter of worth
Creating a slaves hide
Your message has been received
Thank you for contacting the Moore-Miller Administration. We have successfully received your inquiry. You will receive a system-generated confirmation email shortly
Wes Moore
Bernie Sanders
Elizabeth Warren
Included in the update sir
As written to Tim Kaine of Virginia
Message Sent!
Thank you for verifying your email address. The message has now been sent to the appropriate person. Should we need to contact you, we will do so at the eMail address you provided
Email verification of transmission between The Supreme Court
And myself
Georgia peach dusk
beyond blue and cloudy skies
a bodacious kiss
won with a Southern accent
a drawl that draws one's eyes up
Rain falls soft on Georgia,
up north there's falling snow;
Gazing out the window
I've got nowhere to go.
Been lost in the desert,
been carried by the wind;
Dreamt about yesterdays
I'd not relive again.
I've watched the trains roll by,
saw hobos on the run;
Thought of time and distance
since their travels begun.
Wonder where I'll be
when one tomorrow comes,
Will I be marching true
to the eternal drums?
Futures remain hidden
far from the naked eye,
They grow stronger in truth
as the years pass us by.
One step, then another,
would take me down the road,
Yet there's no direction
in the stories left untold.
Rains drift over Georgia,
up north the snows still fall;
Outside this old window
a myst'ry seems to call.
Yesterdays fade from view
like rivers 'round the bend,
I think I will move on
when, at last, this day ends.
second Winter
without snowflakes
just peachy
The sensitive strokes of Georgia O'Keeffe's brush
have aroused in sweet pea petals, a tender pink blush
In these ruffled labian folds, painted as a fragile flower
buds beget blooms in their feminine garden bower
scant moon -
lullaby’s a whisper.
sleeps soon,
after mother’s kissed her.
moon high,
over dusk-hue passion.
I sigh
with twilight’s compassion.
peeking
between the pines, her eyes
streaking.
winsome drive - crescent dives.
descent,
of what’s left, of the moon.
advent
of season, coming soon.
Christmas,
aft will bring a moon, black.
snow sass
in cul de sac.
It’s summer in Georgia, yeah, it’s warm.
In high school, they said Shakespeare
once called Georgia, "sulfurous and hot."
He wasn’t wrong.
The careless sky is letting in all of the heat.
We saw a TV news crew chasing a lone cloud.
The humidity is so thick, that the air is too dense for lungs,
but we bought a tool at Home Depot that cuts it into usable pieces.
Today’s ‘Webster word of the day’ is “glade,” which is funny, because
if you see an animal in a glade, it’s probably dead from the heat.
I saw a bird in flight burst into flames when it drifted from the safe shadows.
If you want me, I’ll be in the pool - or a friend’s pool. I taught Lisa
an old southern saying, “Lawdy Miss Scarlet, it’s hot out HE-ya.”
I love summer’s honest freedom.
My motto for the next two weeks is:
“Don’t give up on your dreams - keep sleeping.”
.
.
A song for this:
Don’t forget the sun by the explorers club
Don’t worry baby by Carrie Elkin
Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene
would love to rip out your spleen
if Trump’s not the center of your world.
Her radical convictions she has loudly unfurled.
That she’s antisemitic is true
and, it seems, white supremacist too.
She has praises for Putin.
For some murders, she’s rootin’.
Certain Democrats make up this queue.
She speaks of family values and her Christianity,
then spews out venom. That hate is wrong, she cannot see.
Here’s one conspiracy theory that thrives in Greene’s head:
JFK Jr’s death was a Hillary “Clinton murder”~~that’s what she said!
the roaring sound rejuvenates my heart
wind whips,
bells tinkle,
flag flaps
thought i
needed to change
into shorts
but my
just bare feet,
thin sweater blue jeans
perfect
for this early Spring blustering
lilliputian tweets and vroom beats
such temperate tempest jubilation
lifts my spirits
if
the sea were involved
with
its swanky salt I’m seconds away
from
the pearly gates
Marietta Georgia the beginning
and the end of poetry soup as we
knew it today we are swamped by ads
investors buying web domains inventing
shenanigans amidst their very own
motives creating fake accounts all
under the same foundations gathering poets
to allow poems to be featured in anthologies
now is the time for all great poets to come
to the aid of their country to write or
not to write that is the question
Heap
of leaves,
fluttering.
There is no rain
to restrain their act.
Blustery winds
animate;
backyard
drift.
Georgia’s on my mind
Remembering her kitchen
Always smelled like onions
Chores her kids were ditch’n
She was hard working
While they were out twerking
Georgia’s on my mind
Truly one-of-a-kind
I’d like to meet that devil down in Georgia
‘cause I met one from California
and we sure as hell don’t talk anymore
He had eyes as dark as sin
and the most contagious little grin
but I bet his mama don’t know where he’s been
So I’ll be the one to say
run, boy, run
and don’t you dare come back again
No, child, no
That’s devil’s got a hold
and you deserve a house where the sun don’t set
‘cause the devil down in georgia might hold on a little longer
and not lie about who is in his bed
He’ll play his fiddle
and we’ll laugh and sing a little
about how he’s the best that’s ever been
Nothing rivaled the lemonade in Georgia.
Now, you could also find some damn good lemonade in the neighboring state of South Carolina. Virginians liked to think they too made fine lemonade, and it was better than anything north of the Potomac.
But the best was in Georgia.
And people in the good old days really did drink their lemonade on a lazy, late summer afternoon on the front porch of their wooden house as their kindly old dog, usually a Labrador or a golden retriever, lay down by their feet.
It happened exactly like that.
Just the way you’ve always pictured it.
You can lie in Wyoming,
they don’t care in Arizona,
you can mislead them in Mississippi
but don’t mess with Georgia.
You thought us “hicks from the sticks”
but we were wise to your tricks,
we just recorded your words,
now you’ll get what you deserve.
Your threats and fraudulent incitements,
have earned you several indictments.
You came down with your whole freak show,
so they charged you under RICO.
Come back to Georgia, Mr. Trump,
it turns out you were the chump.
Because we’ve got lots of new prisons
and DAs with surly dispositions.
In Georgia we don’t mind high flyers
but man, we hate traitors and seditious liars.
While many, it seems, fell for your blusterous aura,
you screwed yourself good by messing with Georgia.
Related Poems