Trump Poem

Jul 26, 2009
5,666
406
Opa Locka
#1
'Twas the night before last

When all through the White House

Not a traitor was stirring

Not even his spouse

The election was rigged

By the Russians, with care

In hopes that Western Democracy

Soon would no longer be there

The Republicans were nestled

All snug in their Congressional majority

With visions of fat paychecks

From buying their authority.

When out on the airwaves

There arose such a clatter

Trump's aides sprang to their laptops

To see what was the matter

The report of a meeting

Between a Russian and Sessions

Gave the luster of perjury

And the conspiracy freshens

When what to their wondering eyes should appear

But a man with miniature hands and ties to Putin, dear


Credit to u/reverendrambo on Riddit, I wish I was this creative.
 
Likes: 2 people
Nov 24, 2016
1,376
283
Victoria, BC
#2
'
Here is a vilanelle which I wrote some time ago, before our Era of Stagnation began in 2001.
I would be happy to dedicate it to George W. Bush and his present-day Trumpite rabble.

SUR FACE

I wish I did not see your face,
I hope you are not unaware;
The world would be a pleasant place.

It is a thing without a grace,
It never looked on beauty bare;
I wish I did not see your face.

It would be lovely to erase
That sign of thought that is not there;
The world could be a pleasant place.

The words it utters are so base,
So false of tone and so thread-bare;
I wish I did not see your face.

If they would go without a trace,
Those sightless eyes that stare and stare;
The world would be a pleasant place.

It is so very commonplace,
The essence of vin ordinaire;
I wish I did not see your face,
The world could be a pleasant place.


A vilanelle is usually a light, fluffy piece of froth, as mine is. When a real poet takes it up, however, it can become something entirely different. Consider this incredibly powerful, and famous, poem by Dylan Thomas, the great Welsh poet. An amazing tour de force, eh?

He wrote it for his dying father.


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning, they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.


Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

.
 
Likes: 1 person

Similar Discussions