100

Before the sixth day of the next new year,
Strange wonders in this kingdom shall appear:
Four kings shall be assembled in this isle,
Where they shall keep great tumult for awhile.
Many men then shall have an end of crosses,
And many likewise shall sustain great losses;
Many that now full joyful are and glad,
Shall at that time be sorrowful and sad;
Full many a Christian’s heart shall quake for fear,
The dreadful sound of trump when he shall hear.
Dead bones shall then be tumbled up and down,
In every city and in every town.
By day or night this tumult shall not cease,
Until an herald shall proclaim a peace;
An herald strong, the like was never born,
Whose very beard is flesh and mouth is horn.
—WR

59

He sent for granite, limestone, quartz, and slate,
And sourced the rock from mines across the land,
So all America could fabricate
The racist wall he spitefully had planned.
The hammers hit, the chisels chopped, the splitters slashed;
The wall was built with optimum technique.
Sweat streaked down builders’ faces light as ash
And smooth as hickory and dark as teak.
But when the final rock was hit in place,
There rang a sound—not from the hammer’s head;
A rising hum that started to displace
The prejudice: a song of love instead.
He tried to build a wall, but up we soared,
And welcomed all new immigrants aboard.
—SRF

39

A call is placed from Spicer—high alert!
The trusted men and women straggle through.
Attorneys prod and poke and lift the skirts.
He’s looking for the source, whose ass he’ll chew.
The accusations fly across the room.
iPhones are grabbed, the tablets nabbed—adieu
To your career, if secrets found—you’re doomed.
“Confess!” he yells, while staring down his crew.
Their protestations counter every charge
Of treason Spicer lays on his new guard.
The tempers flare in people small and large,
Their reputations questioned, threatened, marred!
I pity them, who take the fall for me,
Though all I say is, “coffee, Sean, or tea?”
—GSU, TEU, SF

32

Q: “How come no poet was chosen to speak
at your inauguration, Mr. Trump?”
A: “I chose, I asked, I called three times that week.
We figured that she’d give the crowd a bump.
Just think: a woman, and what’s more, a black.
Her way with words I hear is great, just great.
I don’t know why she never called us back.
I’m not a guy who likes to have to wait.
I’d say I gave the most poetic speech,
With words like ‘winning like never before.’
‘Scattered tombstones’ got tons of thumbs-up tweets,
And ‘‘Merica First!’ made them chant for more.
Yeah, she might’ve written an okay poem
But Maya Angelou just wasn’t home.”

—SBF

 

14

Just there I spot a lily growing wild;
Of course this spot I take above the rest.
It’s weird—the bloom seems fresh and rude—looks gild—
Hot orange sways and lures my eyes the best.
Other bees to buckwheat burrow fast
But I will dream in this damned flower now,
Who struts and dictates with his powers vast;
Will it yield honey stores, as it avows?
Gauze wings are not enough to fly across,
Like pawns who see one square but not the next,
To horsemint or to sumac tipped with frost,
Delight to bees, but sometime man’s death-hex.
If Trump ends up dishonored for his taste,
Remember not to judge the honey waste.
—HYY, SY, JCD