I’ve often heard of the year of the rooster
but 2025 is turning out to be the year of
‘The KooKoo’
Tag: political
~What a State~
do you think it’s funny
hilarious, haha, a joke
how a billionaire’s money
is enough to make him an expert
on how to put his hands
around your throat
until you choke
how your taxes should be spent
and who should be sent away
to another place
to disappear without a trace
sold into slavery
or worse
to another time
when people were schooled
that rich white men ruled and
everyone else was
easily fooled
where women stayed
in the kitchen all day
preferably naked
and always ready to play
nobody was welcome
unless they could pay
their five million dollar
fee to stay
does it make you giggle
when our president
rants and raves
stomps his feet
and holds his breath
until his face
turns orange
says that only he
knows what’s best
for the billionaires
because quite frankly
no one cares about
all the rest
everyone must bow down
lay down
stay down
or get put down
orange marmalade
like fentanyl laced Gatorade
breaks the spirit
numbs the mind
until you find
you’re on the floor
too weak to
care anymore
Oppressed
What is it I wonder you don’t want us to see
that you don’t want included in the story
Do you think just because
your big smelly marker says
permanent ink that it
can cover up history
Why are you so scared
that someone might care
about the true version
of how the past
should be told or how
the future might unfold
Did you think with a stroke
you can cross out the hopes
of generations
who came and went
or maybe prevent those
who have yet to dream
their dreams
Just because you erase the words
does not mean
we can’t be heard
Because we can scream louder
than you can whine
we’ve done it since
the beginning of time
~She’s Been Here Before~
Once green and firm,
she danced,
on the boughs edge.
Whirling and dipping,
through the breezes,
of changing seasons.
She basked,
in hot summer suns.
Rejoicing in the adulation,
heaped upon her,
as she selfishly,
provided shade,
and shelter
to all who sought it.
Asking for nothing,
needing no one.
Autumn days,
stroked her ego,
into maturity.
transforming her,
into the envy of
artists and poets,
sages and prophets,
wise men and clerics.
But the chill of winter’s age,
dried and wrinkled her,
she fell,
dying.
Until all that remains,
of her once majestic existence,
is a final crumbling gasp,
under the heels of,
marching boots.
Jerry Brotherton 