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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: Trumpandemic

T-Rump Swan Song

30 Friday Oct 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

coronavirus, COVID19, Cult, pandemic, politics, treason, Trumpandemic

“Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes!

His floating hair!

Photo by Todd Trapani on Pexels.com

The Ridin’ Biden? 

He plays fair!

How dare he dare! 

So unwise!

He has a socialistic plan

To ban the planets who rotate right!

He’s mean and keen 

And he will break your overbite!

He’ll do whatever 

He damned well pleases! 

Oh, Base, oh Base 

Get down on your kneeses!

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

I despise you all 

And hope you fall 

And die of cold

Or die of heat; 

It never gets old 

To watch you fold.


I let you die of Trumpandemic 

But now I’m out to scare

You to death with the dire predictions

Of imaginary Biden

Whose leads widen 

My lies no longer can be sold!

Original drawing by Pierce Morgan


He’ll square the moon!

Outlaw balloon! 

Eat a loon!

Eliminate June!

He’ll replace the flag 

With an all-black rag!

He’ll make water run uphill! 

He’ll make the sun too chill!

Photo by BROTE studio on Pexels.com


So much solar power

Sucked from the sun each hour!

It will die! I wouldn’t lie! 

You know I never do! 

And I love everyone! 

(Who isn’t Muslim or Jew,

Or dark, or smart, or thinks, 

Or cares, or loves

Or anyone who cannot afford

A yacht and gloves). 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

But people like that? 

They hardly count at all. 

Long as you stick with me, 

You’ll have a ball. 

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

But lest you forget

Let me now resume. 

I’ve no evidence but you can presume

Biden will cancel Christmas!

And even cancel sex!

Ivanka thinks he uses hypertext! 

He’ll turn off gravity! 

Outlaw depravity!

Make everyone marry a woman of color

Maybe your own daughter. Did I mention Ivanka?

She’s also a brilliant business tycoon billionaire like me.

Oh, but yeah, we were talking about Obama and how 

He tried to make America — you know he’s from Kenya? 

Did I mention that I am a mental giant?

Yep. Went to the Doctors and they were amazed!

They said my brain was hardly grazed! 

They told me: “man, woman, person, camera, TV” 

And I said:

Hey! that’s me! 

A story about me!

I am a man

(Or at least pretend to be one)

I grabbed at women by the score; 

Raped more than a few;

It didn’t count because a woman isn’t really a person.

Photo by Caleb Oquendo on Pexels.com


I confessed it all on camera; it all was taped. 

But then on TV, I simply japed.

All was forgiven by my faceless base.

They all need me, but I don’t need any one of them. 

Photo by Alin Luna on Pexels.com

They are what I call the “Minutes”. 

There are people you need for a few minutes — and when those minutes are over, 

The photo-op done? 

You’ve no more need of them. 

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com


But there are others I think of as the “Hours” —

These are people you need to be your tool

For an hour or two; long enough to win a suit.

Long enough to sell a lie. 

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

And, a few are the “Days” —

They are not a momentary craze. 

I might wait a month or two 

Before I chop them up and throw them in the stew.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

And that rhymes with slew 

I guess you knew!

I’m over two hundred thousand and twenty-two!

Way ahead of Putin who

Has not passed thirty two! 

But Oh, yes, I was talking about how terrible Obama was!

Photo by Life Matters on Pexels.com

Or, wait, I seem to be in a bit of a fuzz.

Clinton, Hilary that’s the one we’ll lock her up!

Because why should a black or a woman be POTUS 

And not me?! ME!?! Born rich and lost it all.

Pity me, pity me, oh, poor me! 

Let me dis you and kiss you

And spread my sick death

I’ll unmask you 

And you and task

You to suck in my breath. 

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Kim Jung Un really opened my eyes!

To be a leader, you needn’t be wise!

Just grab for the cruel-stick don’t ever let go!

Demand to be king in the absolute know!

Photo by Jose Lorenzo on Pexels.com



Watch me steer America

Down into flame. 

With all of my fingers

I’ll spread out the blame.”

Photo by Ming SUN on Pexels.com

America wake.

And give a good shake. 

Another Trump term 

Would be a mistake.

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

One day soon, we’ll all recall 

We work best when we work as one. 

Working together will add to the fun.

Work together for the good of all.

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

—————————————————

Trumpism is a new religion

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

The Ailing King of Agitate

Life is a Dance

Author Page on Amazon

Ramming Your Head Into a Brick Wall Does Not Make You a “Hero”

06 Tuesday Oct 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

COVID19, pandemic, Trumpandemic

Suppose in your neighborhood a certain little boy lived — a boy who was rather naughty. I don’t mean naughty as in one day the kid’s baseball rolls into your yard and smashes into the basement window and breaks it and then they all run off and you end having to pay for the new window yourself. No, not that kind of naughty. I mean more like the naughty where pet after pet in the neighborhood seemed right as rain for years on end and then met a most untimely death. Sometimes, they would look a bit as though they got hit with a car — various pieces gone, etc. Sometimes, they would simply disappear without a trace. (You’d be surprised how undetectable a cat is when it has run through a chipper along with a large amount of brush). Mostly though, they simply died from what was at the time said to be “natural causes” though pretty much everyone in the neighborhood privately thought that a cat screaming endlessly until it clawed itself to death sure didn’t seem like “natural causes.” Nor did it seem all that “natural” when Billy’s Bull Terrier ran head long into a brick wall. They are called “Bull Terriers,” I grant you, but they don’t charge things the way a bull does and bulls certainly don’t charge into brick walls. Even bulls are too smart for that.

Did I mention that the little boy was known as “Donnie Boy”?

Anyway, speaking of running into brick walls, Donnie Boy loved to play croquet at the Country Club.  It gave him plenty of opportunity to practice his cheating skills and Daddy always said to take every chance to do that because those were the most important skills of all! Why just the other day, Fred had told his boys how he had ripped off someone for a million dollars!

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

“And you know what the best part was, Junior? The best part was that that sucker was paying big bucks for a high-falutin lawyer with a degree from HAHVAHD. And, his lawyer tells him not to hand over the cash without a signed contract and witnesses. Of course! Duh! And I look this sucker right in the eye and I say, ‘Joe, I’m an honest man. Always have been. Always will be. And, when I give you my word, there is no need for a contract. My word is my bond. My word is my contract.’”

At this point, Fred snorted and slapped himself on the thigh to emphasize how funny he thought this was. Then, he lowered his head and used a stage whisper which naturally drew Fred Junior and Donnie Boy closer. “You know who he believed? His own lawyer? Or me?” 

Fred Junior knew the answer of course, but he felt uncomfortable being an unauditioned-for part in someone else’s play. 

Eager Donnie Boy though supplied the line. “You!!” 

“That’s right, Donnie Boy! That’s right! That fool-cake gave me the cash and then of course I denied it! Idiot!”



Many such experiences led Donnie Boy to revel in cheating at croquet (just as in everything else). He would loosen the mallets of other players. He would kick the balls when no-one was watching. His favorite though was when someone went through a wicket and hit a ball. Then, the sucker-player would start taking his extra shots and Donnie Boy would scream: “HEY! What are you doing? You already took your extra shots!” 

“No, I didn’t!” Some of the other players weren’t sure. But those who had kept track told Donnie Boy he was wrong. Then, he would attack them by saying that they were in cahoots with the person with the extra shots; that everyone else was a cheater anyway! Often, the person who still had an extra shot coming would give in. But sometimes, everyone would get mad and eventually and go home. And, when that happened, they would leave the set up in the courtyard because no-one felt responsible for putting it away. 

And, that’s how the trouble began. 

Other folks liked to go for a walk on the lawn at night. Some were rather elderly and almost all were somewhat Martinied up. And, some avoided wearing glasses in public for reasons of pure vanity. Murphy (of “Murphy’s Law”) was not only alive and well but actually prospered as never before during the last few years; he now owned a little island chain in the South Pacific. Therefore, it should come as scant surprise that the very first night the young croquet players “forgot” to put away the set, not one, not two, but three club members tripped over an unseen wicket at various times. One sprained an ankle; two each ruined her gown. All three spilled their drink and ended up smelling as though they had had too much to drink….which was probably true, but not really the point. Being drunk was perfectly fine. Being perceived as being drunk was definitely not fine.

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com



Needless to say, Fred Junior and Maryanne were severely punished for their (supposed) part in leaving the croquet set out. Maybe it isn’t really “needless to say” because they actually had had nothing to do with it. Donnie Boy was the only family member involved. For that matter, you could even say that it was mainly his fault because he had intentionally created the chaos that led to everyone quitting in anger. True enough, there was nothing physically preventing the other kids who were playing from taking it upon themselves to put the game safely away. But none did. All of them were punished in one way or another.

Except Donnie Boy of course. He heard about the accidents from his mother.

“Oh, Mommy, that’s awful! I’m so sorry. I’m afraid it’s all my fault!” Donnie Boy hid his face in his hands, grinning from ear to ear, while making sobbing noises.

“What do you mean, Donnie? How is it your fault?” 

“I’m sorry Mommy. I just couldn’t find a way to make them put it away. I mean, when they quit their game, I knew it was dangerous. I reminded Maryanne & Junior, but they just got mad and told me to mind my own business. Junior said, ‘So what if some fat old lady falls and breaks her ankle? Who cares? I don’t care. Do you?’ So, I just shook my head. I didn’t know what to say. I started to put the set away myself but Junior said he would … he said he would ….”

Here, Donnie Boy faked sobbing again. It was several moments before he could pull himself together. He was on the verge of bursting out with laughter. At last, when he thought he could control himself, he went on, “would beat the ever-loving … the ever-loving … something I can’t say … out of me.” And, he clenched his fist like this (and now Donnie Boy clenched his teeny fist to emphasize the point).   

“I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m so sorry I wasn’t braver. I should have made them listen to me!” 

“That’s okay Donnie. But those two are in for it!” 

Donnie Boy was still small enough to spend most of his time in the same neighborhood. Soon, no-one wanted to play croquet with him. To Donnie Boy, this seemed a horrible thing. He wanted to practice his cheating so he was losing out there, but he also was looking forward to some more old people tripping over the unnoticed wickets.

A few nights later, he was at a family dinner at the boring old people’s Country Club. Fred Senior was waxing eloquent about himself but the stories were all ones Donnie Boy had heard many times. It was early fall and the days were still warm; at least this one was. Donnie wandered over to the equipment shed. He glanced at the croquet set. It was unlocked. Maybe I can practice my shots, he thought for a moment. Nah, what’s the point? It’s a lot easier just to cheat. But no-body wants to play any more and there’s no more excuse to leave it out… Donnie’s train of thought was interrupted by the loudspeakers at the clubhouse. They were announcing awards of some kind. I should be getting one, he though to himself. So what if I never played?

Wait a minute!
Thought Donnie Boy. Who says I have to play croquet to set it up?! I can just put out a few well-placed wickets and old people are sure to fall over them again.

Sure enough, that very night, three people had again fallen. This time though, one of the injuries was serious. Old Mrs. Barrett fell and broke her arm in three places as she smashed against a nearby brick wall. 

Fred Senior broke the news over dessert. Everyone did a nice job of feigning concern except Donnie Boy who burst out laughing. Fred tilted his head sideways and stared at Donnie. He walked over and took the small boy’s head in his normal-sized hands and said in a hard menacing stage whisper, “Now Donnie Boy, you are going to tell me the truth. Look at me. Tell me true. Did you put those wickets out?” 

“Wickets? I didn’t play croquet today! Honest!” Donnie Boy’s pants were getting a little wet.

Fred Senior ground his yellow teeth as he spoke: “That is NOT what I asked you. Did you put those wickets out today?” 

Donnie yelled, “It was probably Fred and Maryanne again! I didn’t do it! And anyway, there isn’t any brick wall out by the croquet! It’s all lies! I’ll prove it.” 

Donnie Boy jumped up from the table and ran out to the croquet lawn. He ran and skipped and sang, “I’m right! You’re wrong! No brick wall! None at all!” Suddenly, Donnie Boy tripped on one of the croquet wickets and smashed his head into the nearby brick wall. “ARGH!” he began to scream. “Why didn’t you pick them up?! I thought you’d pick them up! What’s wrong with you people?” 

Mommy nearly fainted when she saw how much blood was trickling down by Donnie’s ear. “Oh, Donnie, Donnie. We have to take you to the Doctor’s.”

“Mommy! Mommy! Why didn’t they pick up my wickets? Why did they leave them there?” 

“So sorry, baby. I guess they were busy calling an ambulance and everything for Old Mrs. Barrett. How’s your head? Try to stay awake. Daddy called an ambulance. What do you mean by ‘my wickets’ Donnie? Why do you say ‘my wickets’?” 

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

“I didn’t say that, Mommy. You must be hearing things.”

“Donnie, the ambulance is here. They’re going to X-ray your head and make sure everything’s OK. You’re Mommy’s little hero now, Donnie. Be brave.” 

She shook her head and took the hands of her other two kids and the went back inside to gather up their things. She felt she had to sit for a moment to collect her thoughts though and she toyed with her cake with her fork. The chocolate smelled good, but she had lost her appetite. She looked over at Fred Junior who was slowly shaking his head.

“What’s wrong, Honey? Are you also worried about our little hero?” 

Junior snorted. “Hero? How is he a hero? First he doesn’t put away a croquet set and people trip and fall. Then, he blames it on us. Then, he intentionally puts wickets out so people will fall and then he lies about their not being a brick wall — which anyone can see! There’s always been a brick wall along — actually along two sides of the croquet pitch. And, then, he trips over one of his own wickets and smacks his head! How is that being a hero? That’s not what the word means, Mom. Not even close.” 

Photo by Carmen Attal on Pexels.com

——————————————

Other purely fictional tales about a child sociopath. 

Donnie Boy Plays Bull-Dazzler Man

Donnie Boy Plays Soldier Man

Donnie Boy Plays Captain Man

Donnie Visits Granny

Donnie Learns Golf

Donnie Gets a Hamster

Donnie Takes a Blue Ribbon for Spelling

Donnie gets his Name on a Tennis Trophy

Donnie Let’s his Brother Take the Fall

—————————————

Trumpism is a new religion

Where does your loyalty lie? 

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic 

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

01 Saturday Aug 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

authoritarians, autocracy, coronavirus, COVID19, Democracy, pandemic, politics, Putin, treason, Trumpandemic, truth

Everyone I met as a child had a vivid, or at least a willing, imagination. 

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Let’s see how yours is doing. Imagine that you are in a role-playing game. The goal of the game is to acquire as much money as possible. You are cast into two very unusual roles. On the one hand, you are a player competing against a large number of other players.

On the other hand, you are also the banker/moderator of the game. You handle all the money and no-one else can see or double check on the amounts. If any disputes arise among the players (including you) you and you alone are in charge of deciding the outcome.

woman with face paint with pumpkin

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

Now, let’s say the game begins. 

Do you see how you are guaranteed a win unless you restrain your power with ethical principles such as a sense of fair play?

Exactly. 

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Remember that the goal of the game is to acquire as much money as possible. Given that, when will enough be enough? At what level will you stop? When you have 50% of the wealth? 75%? 90%? 95%? Read the goal again.

The only thing that would prevent you would be your ethical principles.

If you have any.

Exactly. 

usa flag waving on white metal pole

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

 


 

Trumpism is a New Religion

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

Unmasked

You Bet Your Life

Plans for us — some GRUesome

What about the Butter Dish?

Essays on America: Wednesday

The Update Problem

Who are the Speakers for the Dead?

13 Monday Jul 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, health, poetry, politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

communication, coronavirus, COVID19, death, Impeachment, pandemic, plauge, Putin, Trumpandemic, truth, wisdom

adult affection baby child

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

With space-Alien violence, people all across the world are ri

pped from their worlds and taken to those special beds.

The COVID beds. 

And just as in the movie an alien presence is 

forced down their throat and in their 

head

Perhaps they wonder whether they

Will get a final say 

Departing to those left behind 

The wisdom of an old, yet un-befuddled mind.

4F969AEC-A579-4A8B-9B35-F773A44B3E8B 

Of, if befuddled, who’s to say

Whether older wisdom may filter through 

To light a little (just a little), our path to a brighter day.

3FC757BE-A645-4C45-B75F-BD101D6225AC_1_105_c

Who are the Speakers for the Dead? 

What do they say? 

 

Perhaps they whisper one and all with the self-same silence of the lambs

The lambs led to slaughter from the King-Con Man of the Cowards. 

Supported by the most menial of the Blowhards. 

If they have no breath, 

If no-one speaks before their death, 

Then,

 

Who are the Speakers for the Dead? 

What do they say? 

 

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No-one can say. 

That’s kind of the whole point, don’t you see? 

Everyone is different. 

Everyone learns something different. 

Everyone has a piece of the puzzle laid before us growing ever larger till it will overwhelm

And when no-one will dare to grab the helm. 

And so these lives go silently 

Out of this life and into something else entirely.

 

Are we learning 

Through the burning 

And the yearning unfulfilled 

All the turning unwilled

That we are all:

photography of maple trees

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Leaves upon the Tree of Life. 

The Life of the Tree

Depends upon the health of every Leaf

And every Leaf 

Depends upon the Health of the entire Tree. 

Is that so hard to see? 

That’s it — in its entirety. 

Like most trees, humanity 

Must be its own gardener, 

Tender, 

Lover.

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How can we grow and glow 

Without the unspoken words of the many 

Dispersed instead of our waiting ears,

The unspoken syllables slide into the bowels of a machine?

 

And some few recover.

We should be listening carefully to each one. 

They are bringing tales from distant lands 

Which we hope never to visit ourselves. 

 

Are they, then, the Speakers for the Dead? 

And what, prey, do they tell? 

 

Or, shall we let the politicians far and wide 

Whose ear-to-ear grins have never faded.
Regardless of thousands of corpses laded.
(They’re playing for the other side) 

Shall we let them be 

Speakers for the Dead? 

No, they will not be Speakers for the Dead.

Because they cannot hear.
Because they cannot see.

Because they cannot feel. 

Because they have forgotten that Truth is not “ours” or “theirs.”

4770779D-0898-482C-B861-83F8498070A4_1_105_c
Truth belongs to the Tree of Life 

Not to one Leaf or Another.

Every single Leaf’s your sis or brother!

Let us sing then; sing together.
Heal the Tree wherever it’s needed. 
That’s how forests are reseeded. 

worms eyeview of green trees

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

 

Other Poems on the Web

The Impossible

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

Isa Dream?

Ah Wilderness!

 

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