My zeal for learning how things work, and the ability to fix them when they don't.

I voted for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz, and I invite our fellow American Minglers to join us.

I agree with your outlook, Julie, thanks for sharing it.

Thanks for sharing your thoughts.

Lathered into minions
by lies and spittle
coup coup caws
cuckoo madman.

Gallows stood
America teetered on the brink,
a swinging noose hung
to snap the neck of the Veep.

Flocking from coops
or coupe deville's,
dodo's scratched and scuffled
clawing into the hill.

Bird-brained maneuver
brain dead scheme,
walls smeared with feces
zombies going extinct.

Citizens turned mobsters
all-the-while the Don gloats,
flagpoles as weapons
intruder shot in the throat.

The cuckoo madman's
coup campaign failed.
He's out golfing
his dodo's are in jail.

Jackass wipes his **** hole mouth
with gospel towels pinned to bathroom walls,
scriptures torn from the "good book"
for offering a turned cheek alternative
to tooth yanking or an eye gouge.
The bankrupt money changer banished
the devout, to stage a token bible photo op.
Banker box towers housing dictator's
love letters, and battle plans, flank his porcelain
throne. This ruffian lech pachyderm
stomps on piss ants then he trumpets,
frantically trying to bullhorn browbeat
sycophants and courtrooms into acquittal.

I like the phrasing and cadence in this emotional poem, mig.

Tim Buck Twoh

That's a generous compliment, thanks mig.

Thanks, Robin.

Thanks, Storm.

Thanks, Julie.

Bumping the door knob didn’t hurt,
contact made me mad, not a pain.

Storms dreary my windows in spurts,
confinement makes me sad, not rain.

Whirring wind fires my red alert,
floods amp me up, not the drain.

No olive branch for throaty blurts,
bile burns my gut, not my brain.

I appreciate the sweet sentiment you've expressed, CrazyBitsAsian.

Family, stories that effectively portray the heart of being human, introspection, writing.

Thanks, Julie. This is actually what's called an ekphrastic poem, meaning it was inspired by another piece of art, in this case a painting.

Morning Breakthrough

Seaside sunup, wharf shed warms up,
grandsons load up bait lines,
and his Jimmy Buffett cassettes.

Carton of cigarettes, cooler of long necks,
top the checklist of gear to square away.

Sunbathed aft deck, tales of shipwrecks,
sun dried fish nets and sea legs sway.

Helmsman spreads Hellman's on sliced
burger rolls, pickle barrel diving
while the skipper plots the shoals.

Old man's cranky without his kosher dill,
his onions and mayo, and margarita swill.

He's steady at the wheel, but grandpa’s
sextant views don't align with his crew,
and anchors wont tie down his heels.

Lou Pole

I'm holding out for a kiss from a rose on the grey.

Fletch U. Lance