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Political Satire
John Bell
The Jester
The jester knows
why crabs walk sideways
and stuttering crows
descend on rooftops
to do likewise,
ungainly, hopping on their toes.
The jester laughs because he knows.
The jester knows
why some feel mighty
and must impose
their will on those
who are much weaker.
While all the earth bemoans its woes,
the jester from his high place crows.
The jester knows
why mandarins feel
a need for foes,
and send out boys
to kill their neighbours.
Why the arms race forever grows -
the jester is the one who knows.
The jester knows
why some children starve;
some have no clothes
in this fat Eden
that heaves with plenty.
They die not knowing where it goes.
But, yes, the smirking jester knows.
The jester crows.
Yet there is one light
that ever glows
from glittering palace
to blackened slum
while darkness festers as it grows.
The jester may pose
In his charlatan's harlequin clothes.
He's not the only one who knows.
Copyright John Bell ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Judith Skillman
The Rat
Is back, scurrying
with the profile
of a Jew down
in back, which Céline
said, and he is dead,
which Dieudonné says
and he's alive.
The rat is back
all of a piece,
prophetic as dawn's
fallen rabbi, the dark
robe split down
the middle.
The cage empty,
the cities punctuated
rat tat tat,
by grenades that mine
the guts of land
and doctors who
wrench pellets of shot
from the belly.
The rat, an object
of desecration,
a perjury, a black lie,
an angel with the claws
and nose of a Jew.
How is it
the temple built
for three holds only
the one rat,
its offal, its fancy
arabesque of retreat
and overture
an invitation
to partake in the feast
of pomegranate rice
of duck fat gone white
as an eye that can
no longer see
what it came for.
The rat--how
many have written
it into oblivion
only to have it
pop back up
out of the sewer?
Bearing up under
our curses, rat
finds the jugular
while the thief
runs at a woman's
scream. Well-placed
in any story,
watchful, nimble
as a pet.
What we cherished
was, after all,
only the extinction
of the right species,
and knowing
we got that wrong
we tolerate the rat.
Copyright Judith Skillman ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Blaming the Congressional Pages
RUSH LIMBAUGH: I'm just thinking out loud here. What if somebody got to the page and said, you know, we want you to set Foley up. We need to do a little titillating thing here. Keep it and save it and so forth. How would you get a kid to do that? Yeah, who knows? You threaten him or pay him.
Ravening children, predatory
little beasts pursue their Congressmen
as they lurk in the Senate cloakroom, leer
from toilet stalls, prowl down the gilded corridors
of Congressional power--slender youths
with puzzled and uneasy expressions,
crafty, despite their center-parted hair,
studious glasses, well-tailored jackets
and red-white-and-blue tie pins
affixed by conniving and power-hungry moms
pushing them to prey on closeted Congressmen
vulnerable to their ploys, their geekish allure.
Foley, at his computer, leapt for the bait,
snapped up email addresses, promised
dinners at Moreton's, connections, and booze
to the greedy teen predators, most of whom
said sick, sick, sick and refused to reply--
a clever facade to mask their machinations.
Behind the scenes, the evil media plotted,
pulled strings and gloated as the children
lured the tormented hero, child molester
Foley, helplessly to his anguished doom
and flight into rehab, while his lawyer
proclaimed his client's deep remorse--
and the real villains--a Catholic priest,
ABC news, the dastardly journalists,
and cunning George Soros--got off scot free.
Copyright Maryke Cramerus ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Ken Jones
American Stars and Bars
Efficient beyond belief, we are
Alpha species avatars
Man on Moon Drives Car
For millionaire superstars.
Comfortable beyond belief, we stare
Humored consumers, needs bare
Manufactured culture we share
No others compare
Wherever you find, come approach
These minds crushed like roaches
See videos in a tidy home
Mirror the malaise of Imperial Rome
Go with the resources--irreversible
Use and abuse--a cycle recycles
A closed system, twisted, free
Edging the Earth toward entropy.
Copyright Ken Jones©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
50 States
I.
Don't frighten the salesgirl.
Don't scare her. We're here
To buy our own way out.
Bail for the sinking ship
Set at one shout.
She's selling herself
Fuel for the pagan fire
A box of electromagnetic desire
How! Why!
Bellows the Village Crier
Global in the know-it-all hole in his skull.
Atop the prayer tower, holy souls call out
Strangely harmonious yodels masked
As within the all without.
On an armoire--a deadly armada
Too many cooks spoil a primeval broth
Primordial soup's on--
What hath God wrought?
II.
Talk is Cheap
But Guns Speak for a Price
Let's demolish a power station!
Let's just stare at the fecal stew and make nice.
Below the mottled hopscotch game
Of our capricious displays
Two Girls and Two Boys play Four Square.
Slam the red ball at their open toes. Beware
Wearing wary gazed stretched taut
Across your phases: wax, wane, or gloss
Insane--all in all amazes. Haze
Through the thought. Thought through disconnected
Resurrected levels beveled by a carpenter's helper.
III.
Whelp her across her flat back. No attack.
Noblesse oblige leads to ruin and revolution.
No solution. Wiser eyes hide at heights,
Shackled to graveyards. Tackled despite
Shakes, shocks, convoluted pollutants,
Decimated ground, desiccated sound, a hollow town of lights, eyes lenses
Action, motion, traction
Camera, ejecta, dissection, two.
Copyright Ken Jones©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
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