The new congress trial
jaw-dropping inquisition~
American style
if wise men contendeth with
foolish men there'd be unrest
Meathead Senator
apology's in your court~
Missouri's finest
we need not argue with fools
shuddering souls of your sort
In the land of hope
proud stead diligent resolve~
it's times like these that
our trust in tranquility
brings closer to his dissolve
The doors are closing
human being members only~
with soul and a heart
unbequeathed of bad deeds.
Evil's grip on its way out
Tribute gone viral
troubadour cradles guitar~
its times like these that
give power to the people
you're my Hero David Grohl
Power to the People Festival is a one-day music and activism event 10/3/ 2026
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ unwilling step ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
Shuddering to the mirror.
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
This morning she is thirty.
Shining ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ star,
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ twilight shining,
Haunted ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Miranda is a-pining.
Silly ¦¦¦¦¦ silver girl,
Draw ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ toward you;
Time ¦¦¦ makes the years to whirl
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ he adored you.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ timelessness for you;
Calendars ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?
¦¦¦ Night will not see thirty again,
¦¦¦ soft ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ Miranda;
Pick up your glass ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
How old is Spring, Miranda?
(Blackout of A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty by Ogden Nash)
Holding Holden’s shoulders,
Until he gets scolded,
Shuddering,
Folded,
Rolling messed up boulders,
So, we can be told what is bold,
Rolling them uphill again-
My friend,
Kin...
I would lend a hand again & again,
Until then,
It is an amends I need to make,
Take a break,
For Heaven or Hades’ sake,
Wait!!!
It is MUCH past 2 late,
I still do NOT hate.
Fate!!!
The Call of the Sea
The ship breathes lightly,
pushing with a sway,
away from the dock
to glide towards the call
of the seas and a watery ease.
The ship slips across a
shimmering polished body,
waiting to be clutched by
wind, wave and welcome
folding into a blue, muscular rhythm
surging, urging towards distant lands, distant sands.
The sea patterns and pulses,
whispering secrets from its depths,
“What you can’t see is what you don’t know!”
Then for hours, the ship is gritted with determination
shuddering, stretching, straining its low bow
in search of a hidden horizon
but, instead, uncovering a punch of a storm.
In time, night follows surreptitiously
in the vessel’s wandering wake
painting a thin, watery darkness
while the storm’s aggressive beauty…. drifts,
leaving lightning behind to scratch the heavens;
offering a brief pathway of light.
The ship, with a sense of swagger,
a lilt of shashay….rhythms onwards.
Ian Souter
Jealousy never did aid me in any accomplishments
Under the horror of too many emotions, I get flustered
Given problems to solve, I am stifled and stilted
A quintessential blubbering shuddering mess of myself
All the resources in the world could not free me up
Did you take the last candle? I thought it might solve this puzzle.
Sisters seated by glows
Of white glistens of light
A spirit floated down
Painting the sky golden
They knew she'd never desert them
Gentle hands of ribbon
And once the ring was over
It burned through their retinas
Sober from countless memories
They let candle wax melt their epidermis
Only a picture nestled in draws
Yet flooded with reminders
The fingerprints and dusty cries
Spelt out the name of a mystery woman
Birthing two daughters, then fading
Into plains of trees which bear olives
Mists of the Adriatic Sea
Embracing her shuddering coffin
For she is but a young mother
Selling what she could for glory
To feast with lords of lustfulness
On fish from Portuguese waters
But even she was never saved
From wraths of bacterium
Tuberculosis stole her vitality
And reunited her with her offspring~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They rise on thermals we cannot feel,
these white-winged wrappers of the air~
shuddering their thin, translucent skin
against the fist of every March wind.
No nest to claim them, no song to sing,
just the hollow rattle of their flight,
the way they cling to chain-link bones
like ghosts who forgot how to fall.
Sometimes, in the slant of dying light,
they almost fool you~
drifting lazy as herons,
dipping like terns over parking lot waves.
But watch one snag on barbed wire,
watch it thrash and twist,
and you'll know:
this is a bird that cannot die,
only tear itself smaller and smaller
until even the wind says goodbye.
This casket's tight, I can hardly scream
But clearly that's not how it looks
All I can hear are cries and my tight breaths
Shuddering as I begin to be lowered
My limbs are darkening
All of my flesh is fetid and slimy
Melting with the hope I'll make it
God, I can't feel my head now
I gasp for air like I'm drowning
And my loved ones are holding my head underwater
My head rolls back against the wood
Like dice thrown onto a table
My eyes, they can't shut
It's my brain's last resort
I feel rocks and earth covering me
Shouldn't I be gone by now?
Instead, I'm just dizzy, head filled with helium
I let out the gasp a mortician never did
I hear the children singing out:
"Goodbye love, we hold you dear"
"But our voice you will not hear"
"So take these flowers as a gift"
"As your soul begins to sift."
my nerves shuddering
hands gripped tightly on wheel
wishing I was home
The man in the elevator, who I shall name as Paul
Was standing there rigid with his back to the wall.
As the lift started moving, I heard his loud gulp
When the lift started shuddering as it slowly moved up.
The groaning and creaking seemed to make Paul's eyelashes curl
He suddenly screamed and started to swish, swoon and swirl.
The lift quickly dropped-stopped, and restarted again
It felt like we were two yo-yos inside a tumble dryer machine.
His bald head sprouted hair, his face a green tinge, his lips ruby red
Paul's man boobs were now perk, I felt jealous and a tad bit upset.
The lift soon settled and that's when I again looked at Paul
He was more like a Pauline and not the same Paul by that wall.
I hold the blade In my hand
I’m better than this
I’ll follow the plan
The cool metal against my fingers
I shouldn’t do this
Yet the temptation lingers
But how else does the aching go away?
I have to do this
I know ill pay
I pick a place for a new scar
I want to do this
I didn’t get far
A deep red river flows from my thigh
I’m doing this
I try not to cry
I soak up the blood with a shuddering breath
I did this
The next step is death
something small almost imperceptible is crawling across the porch
I have to get closer to see it; it is a tiny bug, so small it has no color
I wonder if my dogs have noticed; but they are asleep, not caring
leaves of my lilac tree capture my attention next; they seem to shimmer.
a different color on the back, kind of a silver sheen.
a tiny wren or sparrow flies downward; this interests me.
Birds usually fly up, unless there is rain water to dabble in.
This one landed on the edge of the cat door and promptly went inside.
Does she have a nest in my garage? This was curious.
She went in that flap as if it was her flap.
there is a whoo whoo whoo sound now
an owl in the afternoon? My ears struggle to hear.
Yes, it is an owl. In the day time? They are nocturnal!
Whoo Whoo Whoo; a third call.
This was remarkable.
A large shadow of a raptor brings my eyes skyward.
It is huge, black, a turkey buzzard?
Now there are two, now three, my final count is six.
They are circling above the marsh. Is there something dead?
I shudder.
One of my dogs is having a daymare. He is shuddering.
I lean down and pat him a bit, to reassure him.
—Blackout.
\ rewind \\
9pm,
my messy curls sizzled
as chemicals
flow down the drain—
raven,
to matte purple.
Each strand a minute
I forced
straight
with smoldering iron.
>> glitch
1am,
Hair unraveled
against the shuddering wall
The taste of heated whiskey
falt
er ing
from our lips
Rusty red smudged
on neon-lit chins—
He muttered, “Your hair looks better at night.”
I replied—
—Blackout,
(sigh)
\ rewind ?
Roll back the tides of time, and tell,
Of ancient books of myths, of hell,
Of temperance, nuns succumbed to gloom,
Entombed within their living tombs,
Of monks, and saints, and gospel song,
Born gently by the breeze, along,
Of deep toned organs' peeling swells,
Of virgins, Mary, and funeral knells,
Of dim-lit cells and penance loaned,
Which can for one's darkest deeds, atone,
Look back and lift the veil of night,
And view the man, the anchorite,
There he sits, so sad, so pale,
Shuddering at superstition's tale,
Crossing his chest with meager hand,
While saints and priests, a motley band,
Array before him to urge their claim,
To heal, in the Redeemer's name,
To climb the heavenly ladder, made,
By every patron, of every grade,
From wealthy abbot, fat and fair,
To starving child, withering there,
All of them eager to usher in,
The soul, ransomed by It's sin,
And tell me hapless bigot, why,
For what, for whom did Jesus die,
If pyramids and statues of saints must rise,
To form the passage to the skies,
Would you think man can wipe away,
With what but penance, day by day,
One single sin, too dark to fade,
Beneath a bleeding Savior's shade.
(after the painting by Vincent Van Gogh)
Does she even exist? Doubting her own reality,
seeing herself vanishing in undulating undergrowth,
fading and merging into summer-scorched scenery.
But cold lurks there beneath shafts of sunlight, the phallic trees...
He wears the night underneath, a fabric of dark and unease,
his hand heavy upon her arm, silver-tongued charm
smooth as the silver-limbed leafless trees,
disappearing, now, on a twisting breeze...
Sinuous stems suffocate, writhing and thrashing;
convulsions of shuddering green and yellow.
Enticed ever deeper into flailing flowers,
evanescing into foam of frothing flora...
Did she ever truly exist? It's doubtful.
The flower-frail faceless and nameless
will always be lured and laid, invisible,
dissolving, under bare, phallic trees.
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