Taco Trump
In the neon-spangled circus
of American dreams
Donald Trump struts like a peacock
feathers, spray painted gold
they glint under his spot light.
They call him TACO now
Trump Always Chickens Out
a moniker that sticks like
hot sauce on polyester.
Picture him, bellowing
atop a Mar-a-Lago balcony
he proclaims tariffs
like Zeus hurls thunderbolts
each promise a sizzling fajita of bravado
only to fizzle out and
leave markets to hiccup and investors
to chase the mirage of his resolve
a coyote chasing a roadrunner
that always vanishes
in a puff of cartoon dust.
His podium is a taco truck
parked crookedly
on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Its menu board scrawled with threats:
“25% tariffs on Canada! 10% on China!”
But the grill stays cold
the nachos bare
as he retreats
a matador dodging his own bullshit
leaves Wall Street to dance a jittery salsa
to the tune of his indecision.
Oh, great captain of the MAGA seas
he navigates like Odysseus
lost in a kiddie pool
his odyssey, a series of tweets
each one a paper boat sinks
in the shallow waters of policy.
The Financial Times whispers “TACO”
through the columns
and he bristles, red as a chili pepper
calls it "nasty," as if words could wound
his armor of hairspray and hubris.
In the digital realm
memes bloom conjuring him
as a chicken in a sombrero
clucking through a border wall
of crumbling nachos
each chip a broken promise
each dip a diluted vow.
Democrats park their own taco truck
outside the RNC
a culinary middle finger
serves shade with a side of guac.
Fox News spins him
as a lion, not a fowl
but the crowd smells the grease of retreat.
He’s a piñata stuffed with soundbites
swinging wildly
as the stick of scrutiny
swings back.
TACO Trump, a fast-food emperor
in a drive-thru kingdom
where the orders are loud
the delivery spotty
and the customers are left
clutching empty wrappers
laughing, groaning, or both
the carnival barker promises
another combo meal
that never arrives.
Salem's Shadow
In the shade of Salem’s gnarled oaks
where frost bit harder
than a preacher’s tongue
the Puritans’ dream of a shining city
crumbled
their utopia choked
by barren fields and bitter winters.
They saw witches in every shadow
spindly women with eyes
like cracked lanterns
their breath accused of curdling milk
their whispers blamed for corn’s blight.
So they pointed at the strange, the other
and said, “Burn them, and the sun will smile.”
God, they thought, would polish their fields
make the cod leap into nets
if only the witches’ ash fertilized the earth.
Now, under neon skies
we don’t hunt witches
we chase immigrants
their hands rough as burlap
their dreams heavy
as the weight of the border.
They’re the scapegoats for
a world gone sour
jobs vanish like mist
their mere presence blamed
for empty wallets.
And the mob howls
"Send them back!"
As if their absence would
stitch the economy
pave the streets with gold
make the Wi-Fi never buffer.
In Salem, fear was a noose
swinging from a tree older than doubt.
Today, it’s a hashtag, a rally chant
a barbed-wire promise to keep us pure.
The witch was the widow
who spoke too loud
the girl whose laugh didn’t trill.
Now it’s the man with an accent
thick as adobe
the woman whose veil
sparks a thousand glares.
They’re stealing our plenty, we snarl
as if plenty ever existed
as if our hunger wasn’t carved
by hands that look just like ours.
Salem’s pyres traded for deportation vans
sermons swapped for talk-radio rants.
We still want a villain we can touch
a face to pin our failures on.
The fields didn’t bloom after the hangings
and the cod still hid.
Deport the blamed, and watch
the cracks in the pavement will still spread
the bills will still pile like autumn leaves.
History’s a mirror, but we’re too vain to look.
We Are The Resistance
Our nation gasps
poets collide like sparks in a forbidden forge
their tongues honed into quills
each word a shard of glass glints
under a dictator’s sun.
We craft rebellion from
the ash of voices silenced
our verses a river
carve through tyranny.
Trump chokes liberty’s throat
but we scribes are alchemists of defiance
who transmute fear into ink
our pages, a forest of whispers
grow wild against his lawless wind.
We stand with pens like torches
to illuminate crevices where hope still pulses.
Our metaphors are fists
to strike the edifice of his lies.
Each stanza is a brick pried loose
a window shattered
to let dissent’s air rush in.
In streets his decrees
choke the air like smog
our words are lanterns
above chaos, they burn.
We sing of prophesy
We are a chorus of wolves
who howl at a blood-red moon.
Trump's fascism
a beast with a thousand mouths
devours freedom of speech
but poets feed it poison
images of children caged
of justice blindfolded
of liberty’s torch dimmed to a flicker.
Our similes cut like thorns
his rule is a vulture
circling a dying land
his promises a mirage pool
in trust’s desert.
We write in attics, in basements
on the skin of their own courage
our poems a tapestry of rebellion
threaded from history.
Each allusion is a spark
each symbol a stone in the sling
against Goliath’s brow.
The flag, once a beacon
now a shroud in our verses
stained with the ink of forgotten oaths.
We conjure Whitman’s ghost
his heart bleeds for a fractured union
and Neruda’s fire
his words a rifle
loaded with futures.
Against the tyrant’s roar
our silence is a blade
our pauses
heavy with the weight of what's unsaid.
We paint his lawlessness
as a riverbed, cracked, dry
where law's clear current
once flowed.
We shun rhyme
too orderly for this jagged fight.
Our lines break like waves
uneven, relentless
they erode the mortar of his power.
In the end, poets are the flame-keepers
our words- a constellation
to guide the lost
through the long night of his reign
until clear dawn breaks the horizon.
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