The first one hundred days are almost done;
A period of time considered huge
For seeing how the president will run.
Now Donald scrambles; he must show that through
The messy start he’s had, to say the least,
He’ll have done something good.  Something.  Anything!
“Uh, hey, Jeff.  I don’t mean to halt your feast,
But I think we’ve got an issue here. See,
I want to brag about my work in these
One hundred days, but I have not done much.
I need that wall right now! I beg you please
To make up some petty distraction, such
that it will just divert them ’till week’s end:
Offend some island people, for your friend?”


“Strategic patience.”  That is what it’s called.
A euphemism standing in for peace.
Fewer than a hundred days, in all.
Yet probabilities for peace decrease.
And like a child kneeling at a pond
Who sees himself, his image, reflecting,
Though he knows that deep below has spawned
A bubble that is rising, surfacing,
Our country slowly watches, filled with horror.
The bubble ripples through the peaceful scene.
Our government has changed, a new director
That leads us to a war we do not need.
They warn Korea, “Don’t test his resolve!”
But ours is tested.  Already they fall.


The calm before the storm arrives at last?
A Pepsi will not stop what is to come.
Within the first one-hundred days, so fast.
The dominos are tipped, what can be done?
The missiles are not all that disrupts sea;
Our warships suddenly are changing course.
Are we to now submit and just believe
This fast response is just a “show of force?”
Another demonstration, one of power—
The option known as “nuclear” is used.
Gorsuch takes his place, our system soured.
They do not care how these actions are viewed.
Who knows just when the rising tension stops,



A child playing with his toys sits taught.
He doesn’t move, yet resonates with anger.
A slow, tense turn begins to show his thoughts.
All of his friends now notice they’re in danger.
“You bumped my house, and made it fall!” he shouts.
“And now I have to use the one that’s old.”
“I didn’t touch it, you knocked everything out,”
Says Ryan, surprised that Don’s being so cold.
The two are friends, they always play such games,
So why does little Ryan take the fall?
It seems that Donald cannot take the blame
Though he’s the one that drove us at a wall
He can not take responsibility.
What happened? Where is the humility?


“I think the big problem this country has
Is being politically correct.”
Why, Mr. Trump? I think of P.C. as
A thing that has a positive effect!
His party is, no doubt, waging a war.
They want to stop us from being tactful?
So do they want to get us to be more
Offensive?  I can’t get it through my skull.
They say that we’re all far too sensitive.
To change the way we speak? It’s far too hard.
The irony is hard to just forgive.
The things that matter most, they just discard.
They say we’re scared of words, which makes so strange
The headline: DOE Bans Words “Climate Change.”


There has to be some form of punishment.
How blatant—blunt—he barely thought—just said!
Though Trump’s “position” changed, we can’t forget;
I cannot get the words out of my head.
To take a woman’s choice, he warns: or else!
How can a person be so full of hate?
How can he gloss a woman’s rights, and health?
A Texas lawmaker creates debate,
Though tongue in cheek, about just how insane
Proposing laws protecting procreation
For seed’s own sake can be—how inhumane:
It’s time, she says, to ban men’s masturbation.
When presidential words seem cruel joke,
The laws themselves must politicians poke.


The day is late, but on comes TV light.
“Live from New York it’s Saturday night!”
It’s forty-two years old, but now has found
Its stride, a switch; this show has turned around,
Its ratings up, a 20-year precedent,
All thanks to our new thin-skinned president.
In fact, they’ve taken shots at all his staff—
At Sessions, SpicerPutin—they don’t laugh.
In truth, Sean Spicer wants to take it well
But furious Trump will not let him retell
The jokes he says are mean; it is so bad,
Trump thinks, to be mocked by a woman. SAD!
In Trump these skits a desperate anger woke—
What kind of leader bans political jokes?


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?”


Another day of dining at the club—
The news brings Donald’s dinner to the rub.
A missile’s testing tests our president,
Disturbing dinner with the one percent.
The first step was to stage the blow-by-blow
Before the guests: the Mar-a-Lago show!
Our national security at stake
Could barely pull the Donald from his steak.
All in one place—the nukes and Shinzo Abe—
No need to find a SCIF—just try the entrée!
Is this how Trump will face down Kim Jong-un,
With secrets of the state played up for fun?
The only consolation from the dinner
Was that this diplomacy skipped Twitter.


A land of open arms is changing now.
Cold, closed, crossed: our borders block the entry
Of ordinary bodies homeward bound,
Although their stories make it to their country.
Sarvin Haghighi kept from her own husband,
Kamal Fadlalla’s doctor-training stopped,
Nael Zaino reaching for his son’s hand—
Called nameless risks, and of their families robbed.
What must the children think of punished parents,
Made into questions strewn across the sea?
Where once were people, now just “where?” and “when?”,
And “who’s this judge?” and “will he set Dad free?”
Of us, too, ask: will freedom turn its back?
Or will our rules make hearts and minds abstract?