Republicans: Found Poem III

Published January 21, 2017 by kdorholt

Life handed me a golden apple Thursday night after I read about the Republicans unconscionable actions in Congress on 1/12/17. As often happens with me, I started reading to help me try to understand–this time on-line articles. Eventually, I happened upon a thread entitled “Words you would use to describe Republican voters.” (http://www.democraticunderground.com/1002948039#post7) I was intrigued! As I read, Found Poems jumped from the screen to my brain because people were responding with passion. One poem I’m working on is listed below. I know some might not like the topic or how the poem defines it. But it’s true for me. I’m posting it here, but I’m not making you read it.

Republicans
(Found Poem III)

Some Republicans exist
in a mental space
close to addiction . . .

a state of arousal
a charge
out of more

and more
hate filled,
negative anti rhetoric . . .

until some
are truly
unreachable . . .

Through that veil
is another
problem.

Inauguration Poem (for Trump Supporters)

Published January 21, 2017 by kdorholt

Here are the men that you elected
Your finest choices
Your creme de la creme
Try to feast now on their drivel
produced by vacant virtues
through clouded chicanery
and hollow hearts

It will be vacuous
not a nugget
of nourishment will
it provide the people’s
or your palate.
You cannot survive
on surreal supposition

But you will try . . .
You will be coaxed
into cruel cooperation
and give “it” one more try
sucking up every word
in want of sure sustenance
while the rest of the world
watches you wither

You will call foul
and thunder blame
in the world of your wishes
but no one will hear you–
Your voices are filled
with words that human beings
can no longer comprehend.
You will wind with unwilling others

Down your drain of deceit and corruption
You will feel their fearful fingers
clutch at you for comfort
but you will only callously care.
You will look to “your men”
for more assurance–
more vicious validation

And they will answer
with nothing of value
or worth or honor
But you will feel fed
Refreshed once more
by their disregard
ignorance, derision, and disdain.

(*Note: I actually wrote this poem. I didn’t pretend to write it for photo op to try to convince people I could think.)#Resist

I Protest!

Published January 21, 2017 by kdorholt

I protest!
the reality
you have
falsely fashioned for
me without my
free consent

your small vision
firmly fencing in
my cherished choices
with false facts
and desperate measures

a narrowed view
of nature
as nothing more
than your weak word
against the world’s wisdom

this constant correction
of all that is
already perfect
purely without your
needless interpretation

one vile view
of whole humanity
and humanness
under the guise
of ultimate understanding

vapid minds
weakened with big ideas
that defy and denigrate
the clear definition
of love and
all that is holy

all need for blood
to fill the hunger
of the mighty and mistaken
from those who bleed out
each day’s suffering

that I must
resist each renewed struggle
with the same flaming vigor
for less and less real

righteous reward

I protest!

Pearl in Translation

Published April 30, 2016 by kdorholt

Pearl (Middle English)

1 Perle, pleasaunte to prynces paye
2 To clanly clos in golde so clere,
3 Oute of oryent, I hardyly saye,
5 So rounde, so reken in vche araye,
6 So smal, so smoþe her syde3 were,
7 Quere-so-euer I jugged gemme3 gaye,
8 I sette hyr sengeley in synglere.
9 Allas! I leste hyr in on erbere;
10 Þur3 gresse to grounde hit fro me yot.
11 I dewyne, fordolked of luf
12 Of þat pryuy perle wythouten spot.

“Pearl” in Translation

Pearl favor worthy of nobility,

A match for gold, this treasure.

From the East, this wonder be.

No  gem can meet its measure.

Perfect circle–splendid curiosity,

Dainty, shining–mine forever.

I set her down in silken luxury.

Wherever I roamed she gave me pleasure.

But in one spec of eternity,

Four brigands stole her from my sack.

Now, I will not fear what dangers be

Until I bring my pure, pearl back!

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Remember Grandma

Published April 29, 2016 by kdorholt

I remember Grandma Karason,
a most loving soul,
the first person I ever knew who went to Heaven,
I remember that I’ve never grown comfortable with her leaving so suddenly
without a final good bye
I remember walking up the gray front-porch steps on Long Street
how she stood at her screen door
how the tears sparkled in her eyes like bits of magic
when she greeted us hello or wished us good bye
I remember her short, stout arms, made strong and sure by years of taxing labor,
reaching out to us in joy and comfort
and her songlike voice caressing us with her immigrant Hungarian tongue:
“Lány” for me     “Fiú” for my brothers–
special words bestowed like papal blessings
I remember the look she gave my father,
(head always cocked delicately to one side)
like he was an answer to a special prayer
I remember her hugs that always carried a bit of her kitchen when she drew us close

I remember that kitchen–like no other anywhere on my earth–
her kingdom–where she cooked and baked us Hungarian dishes
I was sure were really meant as gifts for the angels
I remember her working the retes dough until it looked as thin and lithe as linen                 and her carefully forming it into a dough tablecloth
before she’d cut it up for strudel
I remember poppy seeds and front-yard cherries
chicken paprikash and stuffed cabbage
I remember a Singer treadle sewing machine,
its place by the wall at the entrance to her kitchen,
and watching her work fabric under the pressure foot as she pedaled
I remember how she’d purse her mouth so her lips disappeared
to make the material move just the way it needed to go
I remember her house was “the old country” dark and heavy
the sun only shining when she was in a room

I remember her waist-length, wavy salt and pepper hair
braided and coiled around the top of     her head
like a crown every day
and hair pins–loads and loads of hair pins
and the blue tin (with the silver butterfly on the lid) that she kept them in
I remember her sturdy, black, perforated Red Cross shoes
and stories about her father, the shoemaker
I remember the whispered secret that he died in Auschwitz for being Catholic, too
I remember the fragrance from the lily of the valley that ringed her house in the springtime and         permeated her home with its bloom
I remember a tipped navy blue hat on her head
with a bouquet of white fabric flowers pinned to the front
delicately dancing up and down in rhythm to her minuscule movements
I remember the dull, definite thud of her body whenever Grandpa pushed her
against the wall in anger and frustration
I remember her asleep in her (one comfortable) living-room chair,
her hands folded, remarkably at rest
the slip of a serene smile
and Hop-Along-Cassidy in the background

I remember the feeling of melancholy
and the importance of prayer,
family, good food, faith,
love, forgiveness, grace
and simple joy . . .

She would not want me to forget.

Lucky to Be Alive (A story told backwards)

Published April 28, 2016 by kdorholt

What just happened?
With a scream like a rabid raccoon
the quarry stops and slumps by a barrel

In hyper induced reflex, he squeezes the trigger
Tearing through the alleyway chance chose
Unfortunate, fleeing, failed robber

Gun ready, in perilous pursuit of a dark figure
Not some pansy postal worker
He’s the neighborhood Dirty Harry

Relentlessly recharged he reaches for his .45
He feel its rejuvenating power
Adrenaline, nature’s speed, courses in his veins

He hears the alarm tripped in the lonely garage
Somehow, through his snoozing and snoring
The eyes, the mind relaxed in midnight’s spell,

Left this tale’s hero a snoozing, listless vessel
After thousands of letters sorted and sent
“What happened” happens here in Indiana.

Source: Nestel, M.L. Burglar Sues Man Who Shot Him: ‘I’m Lucky to Be Alive’. The Daily Beast. 28 April 2015.

The Prince

Published April 27, 2016 by kdorholt

*I lived in Minnesota most of my life. Time for a “longer-lined” poem about Prince.

The Prince

Bob Dylan left but the Prince stayed at home.
(Some people wander; some never quite roam.)

Prince could have put Paisley Park anywhere,
Even on Mars–the songsters wouldn’t care.

They would have rocketed way past the moon
To record with him or sing a sweet tune.

But, he loved to bicycle near Paisley Park
Or stop by some local nightclubs after dark.

We’d see his car at local Dairy Queens
or First Avenue–“Mini-apple” scenes.

He gave late-night jams for many to see . . .
We mourn our Prince now; he was family.

Source: http://bigstory.ap.org/article/00078308adec4acdbf4aa8e5fe8f8729/music-star-prince-stayed-home-minnesota-endearing-fans

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My Tangled Adventures

Chris Gerstner

Kathy Fish

my website and blog

Denzer Family Art

Sharing Our Art with the World

Lindsey Gendke

Writing to My Roots

Notes to Self

...because life is a beautiful mess

JUMP FOR JOY! Photo Project

Capturing the beauty of the human spirit -- in mid-air -- around the world

Martian

Truth is a pain to accept

The Blahgg Blog

life by design in a small and still charming town.

Stories in 5 Minutes

because short stories are fun to read.

Peace, Love and Patchouli

My life of words set free to be

Daily (w)rite

A DAILY RITUAL OF WRITING

Words. On the Internet.

And perhaps some punctuation?

Here

Nowhere else

Theme Showcase

Find the perfect theme for your blog.

The WordPress.com Blog

The latest news on WordPress.com and the WordPress community.

The Daily Post

The Art and Craft of Blogging

Salsachica's Ramblings

A place to share a chica's thoughts about food, life and music

Don Charisma

because anything is possible with Charisma