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Keith D Trestrail Poem
Today is International Women’s Day.
A day to celebrate women’s rights but those rights and freedoms are under attack and the wounds appear to be self-inflicted. So my question is where has the feminist movement gone? Their silence has left real feminists and past heroes of the cause turning in their graves. In America, and in all western democracies, woke liberal marxist ideology and anti-intellectualism is like a cancer on women.
In the U.S. in the federal election half the women who voted did so for a woman and a party who are trying to erase your gender. In an act of what I can only describe as smug hypocrisy some Democrat congresswomen showed up at the joint address to Congress this week wearing pink in solidarity for women but refused to support restrictions on biological men playing in women’s sports. It gets worse. They support gender neutral language so if they get their way today will be called International Person Who Menstruates Day.
They want to strip you of your identity and dignity by calling mothers “birthing persons” or a “birth giver” or “egg producer”. They want to call mothers who breastfeed “chestfeeders” who produce “chest milk” as they believe that men too can have babies. They want you and your daughters and sisters and mothers to share bathrooms and women spaces with biological men. That’s what the modern left think of women’s rights. If it wasn’t so dangerous it would be hilarious.
But it’s not just you ladies in their sights. They want fathers like me to be deemed “second biological parent” but I guess as long as they keep calling for abortions on demand that’s all that matters, right? That seems to be what’s most important to a lot of you. So the next time some Trump deranged lunatic tells you they’re voting for the Kamalas of this world to protect the rights of women call the men in white coats to come and take them away. You’ll be doing a public service.
Trump is the only one that I can see anywhere protecting the rights of women.
So spare me your woke liberal scatology on this great day. Women in America owe Donald J Trump a huge debt of gratitude for ridding us all of this crap but many of you I know are so full of hate and ignorance you’d rather betray your own gender and ignore the reality. That’s a you problem, not a me problem.
Have a wonderful day, girls.
You deserve it!
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2025
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Keith D Trestrail Poem
This town, this Silk Road had no toll to pay
yet from the east caravans again fill its
pharaonic marble and glass temples. Monolith
malls rise its clefts, eco-wilderness morph
into multiplex cinemas; mini golf
and carparks - the 20th century gold fields.
A new rush of debit credit borrow sorrow
where the mortgage belt go to covet,
to con themselves - live beyond their means.
Here the sweatshops of Asia are legitimised
and exploitation of trafficked slave,
child, immigrant, and asylum seeker for sale -
here the suffering of others is repackaged,
bulk sold, discounted - a great lie
perpetrated on human aspiration! Seven billion
sins for a spoil and a ransom in higher income
streams of consciousness while our mills,
our plants, our factories are rusting graveyards.
Showrooms fill with pizza ovens; microwaves;
big screen TVs; IKEA; nouveau riche kitsch…
supermarkets of genetically modified superfoods
nuked in cryogel flavour enhancers; sweeteners;
emulsifiers; stabilisers; MSG; palm oil
and sodium nitrate for the hooked toxin addicts
of convenience - a fill that knows no limits.
And saints of haute couture bow down
before the anorexic altar of the Fatted Calf…
to the guilt offerings of culture spin. Already
the subliminal wave is a raging tsunami,
and we a ship of fools on the rising tide blown
on a contrary wind. I fear my quiet desperation -
the cold ironies of fate; spiritual paralysis;
I fear for the blitzkrieg’s raw collateral damage…
the billboards; vandals of corporate graffiti;
drive-thrus of Americana; that uglified
futuristic aesthetic of mirrored urban jungles
and high towers of critical mass; naked ideology.
I fear the currency of political correctness;
of usury where the end justifies the means;
alas the black dawn into planned obsolescence
where ravenous jackals and wolves feed
on the carcass of idle idealism…mythology!
And whores of dystopia; pimps; moneylenders;
oracles of the grand evangelical sell who
divide and conquer! Lepers walking its streets;
necromancers and fools; mad Scientologists
at my gate; the cults and hubris of men
dividing God from Godless; good from evil.
What now of my chimera? What of my anti-hero
anachronisms? Sadly one day I must leave
but today I write my rant. Listen! This town
this pastoral lay has become to my ear an echo
dumb of sound - to my tangential thoughts
a place and past of no return…a time that was!
Written: September 1994
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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Keith D Trestrail Poem
Death knocked at my door
last night but no one was home.
Pity, I might have invited him in or
ask “are you here on business?”
lest it was me he was looking for
We met before, me and Grim,
yet he took someone else that day.
But I was sure my chances were slim
for there hung a dead silence
as he looked at me and I at him
Was it just a random knock
or was it more? Jeepers creepers
last night I forgot to fasten the lock
but duh, he has a skeleton key
and I now call on the jabberwock
Death called by again today
but I was in the karzi without a care.
Didn’t stay long the old prick but hey
when you gotta go you gotta go
and I know he’ll be back one day
Should he return tomorrow
I’ll ask “so what took you so long?
I’ve been expecting you, you know”.
For years I've seen the spectre
and have walked in your shadow
I won’t bargain with a-holes
or fear the dead or man in black.
He is Death and come for my soul
and I become my seal of fate
for he is a destroyer of worlds
O’ who do you think you are
that life and time is yours to take.
On my shelf I keep my soul in a jar
so take it all for I am still here
and lucky to have come this far
I’m sure our paths will cross
if he wants to meet up bad enough.
I won’t beg for more time or my loss
so Reaper raise up your scythe
cos I could not give a flying toss
Written: November 2021
*In memory of a good friend.
Inspired by a poem from NZ poet,
Sam Hunt, called Death Called By.
Note: Jabberwock or jabberwocky
is a reference only my mate
would understand. RIP C.B.
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2025
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Keith D Trestrail Poem
In the tea trees to the whistling song thrush
I alone hear the first September dawn,
and outside beyond ryegrass, fern and rush
glisten woolly coats of sheep early shorn.
Smell the petrichor and jade scented hedge,
the lambs, the honey bees in pollen’s net -
that botany of sights and sounds, that fledge
of young and new from moonrise to moonset.
See in the mists swamphens and waterfowl
and behold the prismatic dawn of spring -
the morepork on nocturnal moonlit prowl
that casts its eye and spreads its speckled wing.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
Written: September 1996
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2024
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Keith D Trestrail Poem
It’s one thing to be senile
and lie in your own drool.
It’s another to be President
and be that droolin’ fool.
So ask yourself, America,
of all the President’s men…
who was runnin’ the country
signin’ with Joe’s autopen?
Note: To those who have eyes it was obvious that Sleepy Joe wasn’t just sleepy but in cognitive decline before he was even elected President by supposedly receiving 80 million plus votes. He wasn’t fit to run a lemonade stand but the media convinced you he was on top of his game lol. Joe wasn’t physically or mentally up to the job and so his Democratic masters and media overlords set about carrying out the great subterfuge that he was in charge. They stage managed every event and choreographed his every utterance until he inevitably went off script and his handlers (carers) had to shut him down.
So the next time some loony tune tells you that Elon Musk has too much power for an unelected member of Congress just remember the White House for four years under grifter Joe Biden was run by unelected bureaucrats. Yep, the country was ruled by President Autopen. Let that sink in.
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2025
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Keith D Trestrail Poem
Dear Sam, hello it’s me, don’t fret
old friend whom I have never met.
I wrote a letter time forgot,
you may ask why, I ask why not?
A sad meditation of late
on our nation’s new police state -
its central thesis at its core
is blame the pimp and shame the whore!
It lay unopen and unread
cos my carrier pigeon fled.
A kiwi odyssey I seek
to find the man from Bottle Creek
on the Kaipara water’s edge
by windin’ estuaries and the sedge.
I’m just a pilgrim like you, Sam,
a vagabond - that’s all I am.
No signposts, GPS or apps -
just the moon and stars as my maps.
I’m a poet without a stage,
a biographer of my age
but we’re as far as I can see
surrounded by dumbfu-ckery!
All was well with the world until
the old and comorbid got ill -
Gain of Dysfunction WuFlu hit
and everyone lost their sh-it
over a coronavirus -
a hoax existential crisis.
And in this pandemic caper
a mad grab for toilet paper,
madder still, I was told don’t ask
and wear a useless an-al mask.
The rulin’ class in Wellington
lock down and answer to no one -
a canker on the bloom of youth
so fu-ck their Ministry of Truth!
Those intelligentsia pricks,
faceless functionary buttlicks
who con us all surprise, surprise
spewin’ their propaganda lies.
And on people none the wiser
prey the narco men from Pfizer
pushin’ their untested vaccine
while I get pissed in quarantine.
I wonder if James K Baxter
would have been an anti-vaxxer?
The gutless leaders who spread fear
threaten me but I don’t care.
I don’t need a jab to survive
from the queen bee in her Beehive -
Ardern can jab it up her ar-se
for this yellow plague too will pass.
In the Land of the Long Dark Cloud
where our spirit was once unbowed
we were a pioneer people
but “baa baa” I fear we’re sheeple.
Sam, yours is a quicksilver tongue,
a voice in higher realms among,
somewhere between and born to be
the man and the mythology.
But me, I’m just a misanthrope
doin’ my best to live and cope -
I drink to outlaws and misfits
who live and die by their wits,
to poets and minstrels who scorn
at all the crazy panic por-n!
Nothin’ anymore makes any sense
and no justice or consequence -
not for commie cun-ts in Beijing
or fu-cktards who kiss Fauci’s ring,
not those sinophile U.N. flogs
or the rabid Big Pharma dogs.
It all seems to me way too sus,
a bad joke and the joke’s on us -
I’m tired of the insanity
and rage against its vanity,
but I’ll have a tonic and gin
till the cold fog of death rolls in.
I’m no seer or philosopher,
just a man who’s been right so far -
a soldier in the culture war
up for a sh-itfight that’s for sure.
Let ‘em come for me if they will…
I’m ready to die on this hill.
Written: March 2021
Pictured above is Sam Hunt.
Note: You may be wondering why dashes have been inserted in some words. They are used to circumvent the software on this site that expunge words deemed to be offensive. I know, right!
Wrote this during the Covid pandemic as a laugh to kill some time never intending to post it, but now I think why not post it? Sam Hunt is a famous New Zealand poet. James K Baxter is another NZ poet who wrote a reply letter to Sam back in the late 1960s which inspired my own. Ardern was NZ's socialist Prime Minister during Covid. The NZ parliament is colloquially known as The Beehive
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2025
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Keith D Trestrail Poem
Ms Flip-Flop, busted for plagiarism in her co-authored book in 2008 stealing texts almost verbatim from Wikipedia and other sources.
But the media still run cover for her.
Also plagiarised was a story she told of a childhood memory about when she was a child during the civil rights movement. Only problem is that she stole it from an interview that Martin Luther King gave in 1965.
But the media still run cover for her.
She hasn’t done a press conference in 87 days since she became the nominee because her handlers are terrified of her word salads. Like Joe, she can only speak from a prepared script.
But the media still run cover for her.
The media don’t fact check her because she’s one of them - a gigglin’ woke Trump deranged puppet of the radical left.
But the media still run cover for her.
60 Minutes got caught editing her answers to make her seem intelligible to voters and are refusing to release the transcript of the interview. That’s election interference.
And so the media will do everything they can to get her elected.
You really think Putin and Xi and all the other dictators and despots of this world are scared of Kamala? You think Iran and Hezbollah and Hamas are shaking in their boots at the prospect of a Kamala presidency?
It’s Trump they fear!
You’ve been gaslit for long enough…vote wisely and vote often (just kidding, we don’t want a repeat of 2020).
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2024
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Keith D Trestrail Poem
In a chariot of fire in the sun
blew a pale horse and pale rider’s last breath,
and on your grave sings a boding raven
in the shadows of the valley of death.
Where no graven image rise from its bones,
only a cold wormwood wind on death row
pipes through the rushes beyond the tombstones
where time cut short above stood still below.
But far more does sound a haunting in me
as if your faint voice my ear passing through -
and I trapped betwixt life and parody
sit this day communing with God and you.
Yet I fear death itself I shall not mourn
when diviners blow its fiery flamed horn.
Written: July 1995
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2024
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Keith D Trestrail Poem
DEI is not only racist and unconstitutional but it puts lives at risk!
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2025
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Keith D Trestrail Poem
O’ to fade! To pass! To rest! To die!
To ponder, to listen
and not to forebode -
you were as a thresher to the chaff
and the driven wind
that winnowed.
The thunderclap of Tawhiri raging
silence not a loving
fool’s complaint,
nor portend for whom the bell tolls
when the echoes
of time grow faint
My heart alas divided against itself
knows not what to say
or what to feel,
and with ponderous words recited
I return your resting
place to kneel.
Some final absolutions shared alone -
cold black rain upon
my brow and cuff.
Judge not a froward son - I am who
I am, and have
been judged enough
We are but the quick and the dead,
and just or unjust
no keeper of time.
O tell, what sin was imputed to you?
What concealed divine
law or crime?
And what burden so dark the lamps
of Heaven and Earth
burn less bright?
I ask do we in this realm find peace
or is death’s victory
our only respite?
Only in beds of posthumous sleep
will end my
unspoken confessions.
Nay, I no longer exhume the past -
it rebukes all my
searching questions.
From umbilical dawn to end of days
I failed you - I added
unto your woe.
In life and death there comes a time
when to hold on
and when to let go
May your life and times early passed
live on in the heart
that lives in me,
for in all the silent screams below
is my own howl
in my own vanity.
As I pen my verse the charcoal sky
again rumbles softly
over a distant knell.
No loss, no sorrow, no love unwept
can unring that
fearful tolling bell
Written: July 1991
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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