“Men in Orange Jumpsuits”

By: jacquelinecaseypoetry
Donald Trump, iambic pentameter, Kathy Griffin, poem, Poetry, Political Poetry, Politics, Shakespearean Sonnet, Sonnets, verse, , , , , , , , , , Leave a Comment on “Men in Orange Jumpsuits”

 

She wanted the attention and the wealth.
Bold disrespect she shows Memorial Day
for Christians dressed in orange to their death;
be-headings all the rage is Griffin’s way.

I weep for Man whose lost all sense of shame
I shudder for her stupid, bloody hands
I feel the filth just mentioning her name
A comedy of sorts lost to her fans.

Catastrophe to those who clap and grin.
There will be sorrow for the rest of us.
A lost humanity attuned to sin,
we’ll view our part , if any, with disgust.

The heart has withered once the head is lost
and so Man’s spirit where there is no trust.

“Two Sisters”

By: jacquelinecaseypoetry
poem, Poetry, prose poem, , , , , , Leave a Comment on “Two Sisters”

two sisters 001Lithograph: Miguel Martinez

But we are strangers, always. Two sisters, so close in age. Time separates like two wet leaves cling, dry, then snap away with the wind. What causes human partings? Does there need to be a cause?  Like sleepwalkers holding hands, we slowly wander off to opposite lives. No need to look back or try to fathom what happened. Nothing at all. Once, a call to share with me her medical. I listen with empathy; apparently unable to offer the sympathy she needs. Once I post a letter_ loaded with spousal problems. She responds with feelings of disgust for a sister that is nothing but a “poor me” cry baby. Neither of us able to give what the other needs or wants. Time forms a lost, hurtful relationship.  Strangers, we answer with numbness until the scab finally leaches off and leaves a clean, clear perfect skin beneath. But somewhere in that perfection, just beneath the skin;  a bloody, mysterious half-forgotten longing.

The Manchester Massacre

By: jacquelinecaseypoetry
Poetry, Politics, verseLeave a Comment on The Manchester Massacre

frosty rose

We’ll freeze;

obliterate his hatred

with a keg of sharper, longer nails?

Save the rose, instead,  before she falls.

Freeze that place where he inbreeds.

Encapsulate his cousins, conjugal.

This fruit fly seeks the closest mate to seed.

Degenerate, cares not where useless fate

is spread. But history has told before

there’s no Valhalla for his frozen soul.

His seed will fail. His head consumed with hate.

“A One-Sided Conversation”

By: jacquelinecaseypoetry
iambic pentameter, poem, Poetry, Sonnets, verseLeave a Comment on “A One-Sided Conversation”

Photo for Poem

So, love me now before that day will come

when both will mourn my last day in the sun;

before that twilight leaves us little voice;

before that silence muffles every choice.

So, greet me now with kindness ‘fore my fall

accept our hours together precious few

with no resentment for each time I call

with no acusal I am stressing you.

Don’t let our words unspoken stall mid-air;

the sharing that, between us, might-have-been.

Our use of moments; time we’re left unfair.

Don’t leave us with that awful should-have-been.

I speak, alone, but do not wish to be

so deep that only forest hears my plea.

“Pause the Parsing”

By: jacquelinecaseypoetry
Haiku, Haiku poetry, poem, Poetry, Political Poetry, Politics, verse, , , Leave a Comment on “Pause the Parsing”

“Pause the Parsing”

President’s dismay

at White House briefing parsing

gives me ample pause.

“How To Write A Sonnet”

By: jacquelinecaseypoetry
iambic pentameter, poem, Poetry, Shakespearean Sonnet, Sonnets, , , , , 1 Comment on “How To Write A Sonnet”

How To Write A Sonnet

The miracle of birth when words do sing.
The hungry mouth so round from out its shell.
Stout voices from the nest may try their wings.
Newborns and rocking horses may rebel.

“I am not made of steel”, the riddle plays:
“A magic song is soft and full of sighs”.
My bonnet, as it tilts and then sashays,
I’ll grab the golden ring before it flies.

And as his nostrils flare; we gallop round.
Calliope’d,  his pipes now spin and turn.
My pen becomes a dagger ‘fore he bounds;
escapes my inner critic ‘fore he burns.

For love of form, some well might offer scorn
but from my heart a sonnet, sure, is borne.