If his name’s not on the building,
No one gets
to go inside,
For to have
someone else honored,
Causes damage
to his pride.
He attempts to
rule the country
Like a bully
from the block
And the fact
that some enable him
Leaves
normal folk in shock.
I am tired
of his tweeting
And I’m sick
of all his lies.
He’ll be
listed in the books as one
Most voters
did despise.
But to end
this on an upbeat note,
A U-turn
from obscene,
It’s a
special day for Henry,
As my
grandson turns 13!
A class on Zoom, as you’d assume,
Attracts its
share of crazies,
But in your
room, no need to fume;
Just
rearrange your daisies
Or fill a
grid your camera hid,
Completing Sunday’s
puzzle,
If the
teacher did not place a lid
On some who
need a muzzle.
With mic
sound shut, if every nut
Must jabber
with a story,
You tune
out, but, your tsk and tut
Won’t dampen
someone’s glory.
The time
will pass and soon your class
Will come to
its conclusion
And then, en
masse, you leave; the brass
Believing
the illusion.
To watch and see a grandchild shine
In a
performance is to feel
Like
shouting, “Yes, that one is mine!”
Of course
his talents do appeal.
It’s hard to
be objective, but
We want our
grandkids to do well.
Still, if they
aren’t great, my gut
Would let me
know. (Though, would I tell?)
Not
everybody who performs
In sports or
some way on the stage
Will rise up
way about the norms
And with the
audience engage
Except
within subjective eyes,
Which always
think that they’re the best.
The future,
though, holds the surprise
Of who will
leave the world impressed.
The outdoor art fair has displays
In canvas
booths that zip.
When setting
up for two days straight,
I guess it
saves a trip.
I don’t know
what security
Is there for
overnight,
Though thieves
could slice the canvas,
Even if it’s
zippered tight.
The booths
provide protection more
For rain-related
times,
The artists
likely worried
About damage
more than crimes.
Today, the
second of the fair,
Was raining
from the start.
I walked
past many zipped-up booths
And couldn’t see much art.
Predictions
were for sunny weather
In the
afternoon.
I'm sure for all
the artists
Sunshine couldn’t
come too soon.
I’m sure
some picked up all their work
And didn’t
stick around,
While others
waited, hoping that
Their
business might rebound.
On holidays, the texts will fly;
Good wishes will begin.
There is no need to wonder why;
That’s how it’s always been
At least since texting was a thing;
Before that, cards were sent.
The mailman was the one to bring
Somebody’s good intent.
It’s strange it takes a holiday
For people to connect,
But that’s become the common way
And what you would expect.
Yet still, it’s nice to hear that ding
And see upon the screen
A greeting that your phone does bring
From one you’ve hardly seen.
Today’s a date you can’t forget,
When evil had its way.
To all responders, there’s a debt
We never can repay.
The world may mourn, but locals feel
A different kind of grief.
For here the shock was all too real;
We watched in disbelief.
For months we read the flyers
Of the missing and we woke
To the smell of all the fires,
Sadness mingling with the smoke.
In the classrooms, they’ll be teaching
Versions of that day’s events,
But, for most, it won’t be reaching
What that horror represents.
To honor someone’s talent
While
excusing certain views
Which the
world may deem offensive
Is the stuff
that makes the news.
For a
well-endowed museum,
With a Costume
Institute,
Planned to
showcase a designer
Who’s the
face of ill repute.
Known for comments
that disparage
People
different from his type,
Nonetheless,
his output thrives
With many
drawn into the hype.
Yet the show
for Galliano,
With Ms. Wintour’s
staunch support,
Raised the
hackles of some donors
And those
critics got to thwart
What, to me,
was recognition
That should
surely be reserved
For designers
with both talent
And
integrity observed.
Sometimes
those with too much power
Make
decisions which, I’d bet,
Turn the
tide to flow against them,
Though they
harbor no regret.
