Californian In The White House

When critics carped that W.
Was worst, I’d ask them, “Surely, you
Recall the horrors Tricky Dick
Inflicted on us?” In the thick
Of Donald Trump’s dominion, though,
I can’t dispute we’ve reached a low
“Unpresidented” heretofore.
Congrats, DT: You broke the floor!
The depths you’ve plumbed make Nixon’s bummers
Almost quaint…and he had plumbers!
Nixon showed a sense of shame;
I doubt The Donald feels the same.
Chagrin afflicts the self-aware.
For Trump, there’s simply no “there” there,
Like California, per Ms. Stein.
Your views may vary; this one’s mine.


Ducking DACA

I had a celebration planned
But Congress says we’ll have to wait
A few more weeks.
Please understand,
And check back February 8.

Cleaning House (And Senate)

Creeps in Congress? Not surprising.
Dems seem worse at compromising
Values, though, for politics.
They try, but when dishonor sticks
They show capacity for shame
Which ultimately cramps their game.
It’s tough to win when you’re in thrall
To conscience while your not-at-all-
Equivalently-shackled foes
Say anything unproven goes.
(And when that last’s unqualified
We’ll know democracy has died.)

What They Say

Well-meaning friends say it will be okay:
“It’s tough, we know. We’ve lost these votes ourselves.
Two thousand eight’s was rough enough,”
they say,
“But that was silk compared to twenty-twelve’s!
Turn off the cable news, and you’ll be fine.
You’ll realize the White House occupant
Will hardly touch your life. It didn’t mine!
Eight years will fly–you’ll wonder where they went!”

What they don’t get is, I’m not under threat.
I’m privileged by race, and gender, too;
Religion’s hidden (so far). Here’s a bet:
If you’re for Trump, I look a lot like you.
So, I’m not in the crosshairs–not today.
“Relax. This, too, shall pass.” That’s what they say.

Voice Vote

Now is not the time to run away,
As tempting as it sounds, because to flee
Would leave the field to those who have to stay
Because they aren’t as fortunate as we.
Nor yet is now the time to hunker down,
Sandbag the cellar, barricade the door
And just ride out the storm while people drown
For being women, Muslim, brown or poor.
The options: Join the fray, or be complicit
In what befalls the one whose anguished voice
We’re trying not to hear. There, listen: Is it
Not, in fact, our own? We made the choice
That brought us here. We’ve one more choice to make:
Compound it, or atone for our mistake.