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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2209665
Not exactly a political poem, rather an ode.
This cold lump
Of earth is made warm and flowering
By the Sun - Mister Trump.

His red solar hair
And his shouting mouth, made into a strong, threatening O
Dissolve the darkness.

McDonald’s fried potatoes
Are really sunbeams, made crisp and edible -
Credible! -
As Mister Trump’s every action.
As a golden distraction
He enjoys having them for dinner
(The invited persons feel free
And some even use toothpicks
In a relaxed manner).

I soar high
In my thoughts if not in the physical space
When I see his red tie.

Though being the Sun,
He is not pompous.
Nor is Mike Pompeo,
His trusted Moon.
Mike’s face is plain,
But the meek inner light
Grants it the significance,
Which should be expected from a second-in-rank.
Not too overbearing,
Not too self-imposing,
But yielding whenever it’s expected to yield
With a clockwork precision.
The Moon yields to the Sun
And to nobody else.
That is the reverse,
Hard side of the meekness.
A heavy coin lies in my palm,
Half gold, half silver.
I do not stress unduly
Its being a dollar.
I know exactly how it lands
If I toss it.
A secure gratitude
Fills me.

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