Tag Archives: irony

Illegals Need Not Apply

Illegals Need Not Apply

We’ve established a mandate to clean up our town—
evict all the illegals, tear their shacks down.
Any esculent foodstuff we find in their digs,
we’ll put in a trough and feed to the pigs,
but our lawyer has issued strong words of advisement
that we must buy a one-week advertisement

telling them where they can pick up their things
before they take off to spread out their wings
to head out for another gullible city
so naive, as we once were, that they will take pity
on these ignorant folks with no backing or dough
who claim that they all have no place to go.

If they’d displayed gumption and shown their compliance
by earning our favor and conquered reliance
(we suspect) on whiskey or illegal drugs,
become steadfast citizens, not (alleged) thugs,
things might have been different, the outcome more pleasant,
but as it is, affairs at the present

have favored their ouster. The townfolks’ conviction
is that they warrant immediate eviction.
We’re God-fearing folks here. We know one-and-all
that when God sees the smallest of sparrows to fall,
he doesn’t mean illegal immigrants or
any of the other indigent poor

who come from the south or the east or the west
trying to find out the place that is best.
What of the jobs that they took cleaning houses,
picking our fruit, ironing our blouses,
cooking our hamburgers, watching our kids,
tending our gardens and getting rid

of our garbage? I’m pretty sure we can find
others to fill them of our own kind.
What college graduate or spoiled kid
of indulgent parents would not want to bid
on a menial job at minimum wage?
I’m sure our “want” ads will be all the rage.

Prompt words today are esculent (fit to be eaten), advertisement, mandate, gumption, reliance and outcome.

“True” Art

“True” Art

Ugliness invades the exquisite hall:
brazen rude truths hung up on the wall.
Training the rich to see the real world—
the truth of the starving so crudely unfurled.

Exquisite lives overlooking the grime
of ghettos and junkyards, pollution and crime.
Riches amassed while refusing to see
how greed contributes to poverty.

Idiosyncrasies. Truth told in chrome.
Sad themes and base metals invade the rich home.
Landscapes with hardships depicted in oil:
rusted-out car frames returning to soil.

Thus crude art invades the beautiful world
with the ugly truth blatantly unfurled.
And though robber barons might greedily yearn for it,
and they might hang it, they sadly don’t learn from it.


Prompt words today are chrome, hardship, landscape, brazen, trainer and idiosyncrasies.

Cruel Fate

Cruel Fate

If you want aggravation, she’s a candidate for giving it.
If you have a seat picked out, it’s sure to be the place she’ll sit.
Encroaching on your comfort is how she gets her kicks.
Any plans that you suggest, for sure are ones she’ll nix.

She’ll likely raise your dander, whatever choice of topic.
Her taste in politics and art? Impossibly myopic!
And if you harbor any hopes that you won’t have to see her,
you can blame cruel fate that your next blind date will be her!


Prompt words today are harbor, raise, aggravation, encroach and candidate. Image by Obie Fernandez on Unsplash.

Preaching to the Preacher

Preaching to the Preacher

When your downside is upside and all’s in arrears,
there’s a secret I know that will dry up your tears.
It’s much easier, really, than you might suppose.
Just find a good spot and enact your repose.

A hammock will do if you can’t find a field
of wildflowers, grass or sand dunes that yield
to the shape of your body to comfort what ails you.
Take whatever place to lie down that avails you.

Then when your nestling-in is all done,
let the storm of your worries dissolve in the sun.
Swing in your hammock or roll in tall grass.
Let what happens happen. Just let it all pass.

Refuse to let problems consume and astound you.
Take heed of the beauty that is all around you.
Every moment of every day,
choose what holds on and what slips away.

Life deals you the hand and sometimes it’s unlucky,
but yet if you’re hopeful and cheerful and plucky,
You can determine what you do with your hand.
 The end of your story has not been preplanned.

You may draw, you may hold, you may just walk away
in search of a better end to this day.
Bad fortune is but a rough interlude
What remains with you is your attitude.


Irony is us. The minute I finished writing this poem, my doorbell rang. It was Raquet Club security with a letter that I have to tear down the small storeroom I built on the wall between my upper and lower lots because it violates the easement!  I can’t believe it that I’ve spent thousands of dollars to create a beautiful space in lieu of the neighborhood dumping ground and they nitpick over my attaching a tiny storage building to my own wall between two properties that I own! 

Tranquila, tranquila,” Yolanda directed, as I raged––and then I suddenly remembered the words I’d just written and not even posted yet.  I was going to entitle this poem “Preaching from the Choir,” but I think I need to change the title to “Preaching to the Preacher.”  I’m going to post it and go lie in the hammock for awhile.


Prompts today are storm, upside, repose, comfort and tears.

Light and Dark

Our Children Follow in Our Footsteps

(Click on photos to enlarge.)

Light and Dark

Darkness is a costume that light dons every night,
drawing ghoulish shadows around her blinding light.
Outlandish to surrender to midnight’s inky stain,
then return as Aurora—shedding her light again.
Why do we seek our opposites? What could the purpose be?
The mountains meet the valleys. Desert gives way to sea.
Every single element and every creature, too—
Christian and agnostic, Arab, Hindu, Jew,
lives with all these contrasts jostling within.
Goodness gives way to evil. Piety battles sin.
Frolicking or feuding, our inner natures jell—
drawing us toward Heaven and/or jerking us toward Hell.
Day by day how can we know how we’ll go down in history?
This alchemy of opposites still remains Nature’s mystery.

Word Prompts today are shadows, outlandish, ghoulish, frolic, light and costume.



For NaPoWriMo Day 7, the prompt is to choose a news headline as the topic for a poem. Here is the news report I chose to write about: “Researchers Discover Faraway Planet Where the Rain is Made of Iron.” I guess you might call this an ironic poem?


Use your cook pots for umbrellas, ‘cuz it’s raining iron rain.
I don’t mind heavy metal, but as weather? It’s insane.
The drumming is excessive, and if you can’t take the pain,
you don’t want to be caught out singing in the rain.

If you plan on going wading, I’d have another think,
for the puddles that you’re ogling seem to be full of zinc.
When it snows, most of the snowflakes have crystals made of lead—
not a pleasing prospect when they’re falling on your head.

Oceans full of copper, bronze and steel and tin
may be the place you have to die for to be in.
Silver hills and valleys, rivers made of gold
are all that’s left now that our nature’s all been sold.

Does tungsten please your taste buds? Can you eat the golden calf?
With no leather, those bronze slippers aren’t as comfortable by half.
Aluminum for cooking, some folks think can’t be beat,
but what you use for cooking you cannot also eat!

Now they’ve fracked away our water and melted polar ice,
Mother Nature thinks a world of metal would be nice.
So put away your appetites, for food will be passé
once the plants and animals have all been put away.

Say thank you to our rulers. Say thank you very much
for their self-serving decisions and their Midas touch.
Some of us saw this coming but the others did not see
They were too busy getting their news from Fox TV!!!

Oh dear. I said I wasn’t going to write another political poem. Well, the prompts made me do it. Once again.

Christmas in a Modern Age

Christmas in a Modern Age

All around the town and all around the parish,
folks put up decorations wherein they laud and cherish
the Christ child and his mother and his holy birth
then put up lights and tinsel to show the joy and mirth
with which they remember all he represents,
and then they go a-caroling, these ladies and these gents,
overlooking other pilgrims in their present.
Dealing with such immigrants in real time is not pleasant.
They’d slam the door and relegate them to their horrid fate,
for generosity and charity is not the mode of late.
Religion is much easier when practiced from afar,
so those in need of shelter will not find our doors ajar.


The prompts today are joy, tinsel and cherish.


photo by Mari Lezhava on Unsplash, Used with permission


His behavior was egregious, his actions purely shocking.
With combat boots, upon each leg he wore a nylon stocking.
Never appeared in public totally alone
lest he meet his comeuppance and be asked to atone
for all the calumnies he’d voiced upon the telephone.

Yes, a shocking gossip—slanderous at best.
A million little rumors started at his behest.
Diamonds on his fingers and slander on his tongue,
he had become a legend while he was very young.
How Cher was such a harridan and how Sonny was hung!

Needless to say, he did well there in the Hollywood scene,
his appearance so eccentric, his behavior so obscene.
Until that certain story spread both far and wide
concerning certain juicy bits where he had surely lied
that led to an untimely death—this time from suicide.

He tried his usual posturings, excuses and false proof,
but this time all his public chose to remain aloof.
They pointed at his nylons. They snickered at his boots,
speculated that his rings were diamond substitutes.
He and Donald Trump, they’d heard, were rather in cahoots.

Dropped now from the A list, he barely made the C.
Got tables near the kitchen, his meals no longer free.
His rise to fame so rapid, his fall was just as fast.
He became a pariah, a definite outcast.
Of the victims of his venom, he was the very last.

Prompts for the day are comeuppance, public, alone, egregious and legend.



War Games

photo with permission by Hasan Almasi on Unsplash

War Games

I’m not an island hopper, even in time of war.
Didn’t your mother tell you that’s what a basement’s for?
Wherever you may wander, wherever you may roam,
the best place to dodge missiles is right there in your home.

So reinforce your bunkers, store up delicious rations
so you can withstand war games of the leaders of our nations.
Naughty little spoiled boys who cannot learn to share
will not heed entreaties of those of us who care.

Even our democracy is ruled by a throne.
He gnaws away at joints of beef and throws us all a bone.
With no other agenda than playing at his game,
he does not know the difference between infamy and fame.

So build up your defenses. Reinforce your door,
for he and his rich cronies would profit from a war.
And all the brave young soldiers sweating in the sun?
He’ll take away their benefits after they are done.

Once the war is over, they’ll rebuild the world again
with their construction companies while they sit drinking gin.
Counting profits from the opportunities they’ve found,
they’ll enjoy their hillside mansions as we hunker underground.




Click on first photo to enlarge photos and see as series.


If we took every advertisement
that we saw under advisement,
envisioning ourselves in cars
filled with TVs and guitars,
food choppers and Barbie dolls—
everything we saw in malls—
we might buy it all and after,
fill every house to every rafter.

Blenders, stereos and blouses
would pile up in our many houses.
Consumerism would be the key
to  how happy we would be.
Lethargic children would sit about
staring at phones in hands, not out
into the world their windows face.
Imagination would replace
a reality no one could cotton.
Our old world would be so rotten—
all it was so ill-begotten
that it had to be forgotten.

Our present world now so diluted
(nature being so polluted)
that the animals our kids would see
would not be out and roaming free
but in some zoo with air protected
and no fluorocarbons detected.
All these things that we could buy
would be what caused our world to die.
Plastic world and plastic lives
would seal us into plastic hives
where we could buzz around in cells
creating our own private hells.

How hard would it really be
to imagine this reality?
How close are we to it already—
Our brains scrambled into spaghetti
by barrages of consumerism?
Could we even heal the schism
that our plastic world has wrought?
Would we give up all we’ve got
for the greener simpler earth
of our great-grandfather’s birth?

Man will speed on toward his doom
in his air-conditioned room
that screens the poisons out while he
sits rapt in front of his tv.
His children, who can no longer stand,
sit, each with eyes glued to his hand.
Only robots will go out
to shop for us and walk about
in air that’s suited only for
machines to venture out the door.

They’ll greet each other in the street,
smiling at each bot they meet.
Perhaps the plastic revolution
was the next step in evolution.
They’ve locked us all within their lairs.

The world they sought is finally theirs
as every human sits and stares
at the unreal world he shares
with every other other fleshly being
that gave up doing for simply seeing.

The prompt words today were key, lethargic, advertisement and envision.