Michael Brownstein writes

There once was a leader named Thump

who could not dance the old fashioned bump

but when it came to telling a lie,

he was that guy

and he led his nation into the dump.

Michael Brownstein writes

Donald Trump's the bully without a roar,

a grown man with tantrums as if he were four:

angry and red-faced,

he needs to be replaced

so let's make sure he is kicked out the door.

Michael Brownstein writes

TRUMPERS HATE POETRY

He told them: “Gather them by color.” They did not understand.

He said: “Neglect their meaning." They became restless and began to mull around.

He asked: “Do you sleep with someone’s shape? Do you plagiarize a poem?” They scratched their heads, nodded yes, no, no and yes, maybe, perhaps, who really knows.

“Sometimes,” he instructed, “a poem leaps off the page and into your skin. It is more than a tattoo, a burning brand. Specific lines can stick to you like gum on the bottom of your shoe.

“This is what I have done here. I have stolen three lines from the poet Sheila E. Murphy and made them my own. I gathered them, I have given them my own meaning, I have stolen them as T. S. Elliot had, as others will in time.”

They did not understand. Poetry eluded them. They stood on the lawn before him muttering under their breath.

“OK,” he finished, “any questions.”

No one said a thing. No one nodded yes or no or no or yes or maybe or hey, who the hell do you think you are telling us you can steal from another poet and make their lines your own.

He knew what they were thinking. “April is not the cruelest month. I’d think you’d know that answer lies within the heat of August.” Then he bowed, waited for any kind of reaction, and getting none, stuck the middle finger of his right hand high above his head.

Michael Brownstein writes

Tree

This morning

a tree bloomed in the yard,

it's branches full of ornamental eggs,

ancient grass,

volcanic ash and fresh fruit;

It's leaves tamarack,

paper birch,

oak and maple,

thick red leaves from the flamboyant tree;

it's crown jaybirds,

robins and cardinals,

flying squirrels and albino squirrels,

possum and woodpecker,

a great nest of eagles;

and at the bottom of the trunk,

a small window I easily slipped through.

Suddenly I was on a Savannah surrounded by grand lakes,

lions walking with elk,

hyenas frolicking with antelope,

pythons play wrestling with giraffes,

dingos and monkeys,

elephants and mice.

I explored for hours, but when I crawled back through the window,

only five minutes had passed.

I walked around the tree, a breeze of song,

a flutter of tolerance and wishes,

but when I came to the spot where the window had been,

new bark formed smooth as onyx and butternut squash.

I touched it with my hand and tingled with wonderment,

touched it again only to find a growth of petrified wood.

Michael Brownstein writes

A Half Life of Dissatisfaction

She gathered her insults, interruptions, cognitive dissonance,

laid them neatly on her favorite shelf of intolerance,

waited patiently for a metaphor to slap him in the face.

There is a thing called silence when your mouth is taped shut.

All you are able to do--are allowed to do--is listen

and listen and listen until all that is left to you is the great vomit 

inside of you. The problem is nothing comes out. 

You are holding an empty bag, but her entire collection

is now a part of your fabric, your makeup. And so it is.

Michael Brownstein writes

Tree

This morning

a tree bloomed in the yard,

it's branches full of ornamental eggs,

ancient grass,

volcanic ash and fresh fruit;

It's leaves tamarack,

paper birch,

oak and maple,

thick red leaves from the flamboyant tree;

it's crown jaybirds,

robins and cardinals,

flying squirrels and albino squirrels,

possum and woodpecker,

a great nest of eagles;

and at the bottom of the trunk,

a small window I easily slipped through.

Suddenly I was on a savannah surrounded by grand lakes,

lions walking with elk,

hyenas frolicking with antelope,

pythons play wrestling with giraffes,

dingos and monkeys,

elephants and mice.

I explored for hours, but when I crawled back through the window,

only five minutes had passed.

I walked around the tree, a breeze of song,

a flutter of tolerance and wishes,

but when I came to the spot where the window had been,

new bark formed smooth as onyx and butternut squash.

I touched it with my hand and tingled with wonderment,

touched it again only to find a growth of petrified wood.

Michael Brownstein writes

A Half Life of Dissatisfaction

She gathered her insults, interruptions, cognitive dissonance,

laid them neatly on her favorite shelf of intolerance,

waited patiently for a metaphor to slap him in the face.

There is a thing called silence when your mouth is taped shut.

All you are able to do--are allowed to do--is listen

and listen and listen until all that is left to you is the great vomit 

inside of you. The problem is nothing comes out. 

You are holding an empty bag, but her entire collection

is now a part of your fabric, your makeup. And so it is.

Michael Brownstein writes

2019--THE CLIMATE OF POLITICS 

The people of this place

divided as they are 

can easily be replaced

by lowering of the bar

Lowering the bar? he asked

and what will that do?

If we raise it, said the other,

we still won’t have a clue.

Limbo -- Wayne Pascall

Michael Brownstein writes

IF YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO OUTSIDE, WHY WOULD YOU GO OUTSIDE

tombs of ice

breaths of sleet

rain hat hair

a weight to oxygen

strengths in fog

white lined beards

the dogs asleep beside me

a sleeping bag, hardwood floor,

a sweatshirt and a gunshot hole

icicled glass

thin breaks in the wood

a path of frozen

frost in the eaves

solid breathing

liquid breathing

Brown Dog & Man with Gun -- Stuart Cumberland