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Canadian Winter May 2, 2016

Posted by vsap in Blogroll, Poetry.
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Yellowknife

arctic, polar

thirty, forty below

windy, icy

white on white

then whiter still

no horizontal

no vertical

no discerning

road from sky

water from earth

except by sound

cracking

not crackling

cracking

with each move

for each inch

it’s cracking

that screams

screams

warning the

coming

condemnation

warning and

condemning

each move —

wave off

heroes

stand down

the mighty

they are

lost against

this white

white on white

then

whiter still

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GI Bill suburbanite dad May 2, 2016

Posted by vsap in Blogroll, Poetry.
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He’s standing in the middle of his backyard,

GI Bill suburbanite on a July afternoon,

white t-shirt sweat rings graphically displayed

under outstretched arms.

Jet black hair glossed back, it looked like he was ready to fly.

Dad, hamming it for the camera,

nothing new. If I have one, I have dozens

of similar character and composition.

He wasn’t reluctant to speak of the war,

or the other wars he’d seen since.

He had pictures he took and a stack taken by others,

he shared at reunions until too many in the platoon were dead.

Germany, Belgium, France, 1943, 1944,

it was ugly, he would say, but there was beer and girls

and helpless children and nuns to protect.

He was a medic and he patched his own and the enemy,

many of both dying without regard to his efforts.

And it wasn’t that he was brave…he was drafted,

and he was first to tell he would have rather not gone

but it was simply more attractive than prison.

Sure, saving the free world from tyranny was noble,

but it wasn’t until he was back home and the years rolled on

that he came to think of it as patriotic at all.

“When you’re in the middle of it,” he told us, “It was kill or be killed.”

I thought it was heroic since he could have run.

I thought it was patriotic since he helped preserve freedom

for his country and others.

He never voted in an election. “All politicians are crooks,” he said,

“Just because they don’t call it Mafia doesn’t mean it ain’t.”

And, of course, he was right since it’s true,

the older I got, the smarter the old man became.

Observing Hillary Clinton, 10/20/07 May 2, 2016

Posted by vsap in 2008 Presidential Election, Blogroll, Poetry, US Politics.
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This is not about you, it’s about America.

It’s not about your pant suits or relationship with Bill,

it’s about your record, your positions, and truth.

You trade honesty for pandering like boys traded

baseball cards when you were a child, but this is no game,

this is not about you, it’s about America.

It doesn’t matter if you’re the smartest woman in the world,

everyone thought that of Martha Stewart before prison,

now, like you, she has her mindless drones, her groupies,

to keep the media empire stoked, to keep the PR machine humming,

but this is not about you, it’s about America.

It doesn’t matter if you’re gay, straight or trans, what matters

is that you place the best interest of your country ahead of your own

and if you ever do, maybe it won’t seem like you’re mailing it in,

soaking us with bromides and double-speak the likes of which

make Dick and George blush and say, “oh my!” Oh, yes.

Seeking after adoration and coronation (I sound like Jesse, oh no!)

you’ve forgotten, this is not about you, it’s about America.

It must hurt that Al won the Nobel, however hollow that is,

since you have to think of something better to claim as your own

and we see you scampering for it, elusive that it is, and frankly,

there’s great amusement in watching your arms flail and your

head bob up and down in those unfamiliar waters.

Somehow people forget you’re a Chicagoan, not an Arkansas

Ridge Runner and no more a New Yorker than Bobby Kennedy.

What you’ve learned since Park Ridge has made you smug,

not humble, and in no discernible way Midwestern.

Make no mistake, this country doesn’t embrace you,

not for some personal quirks or swirling issues, but because

we know your vision is to marginalize us, to install your

peculiar brand of monarchy, and create a third-world fiefdom

of your own choosing, of your own liking. But you forget one thing:

This is not about you, it’s about America.