Sunday, July 21, 2013


The judge was irked
With how he worked
The details of his case.
You cheated, sir!
Heard he from her,
And that is your disgrace.
And well beyond,
The case you spawned
With poisonous intent,
You did not show
An apropos
Respect for precedent.
The common law
On which we draw
Is now completely bound,
To every word
Which is conferred
By him whom we have crowned.

Your chief defect
Is disrespect
For what Obama said,
And in this court
You may not thwart
The path on which he tread.
I order you
To first undo
Your case by piece and part,
And then to find
The piece of mind
That comes through change of heart.
And furthermore,
To answer for
The disrespect you’ve shown,
To bow before
The presidential throne.


  1. The other day someone dubbed our illustrious president THE LYIN' KING. I thought it rather good, certainly apropos. I hope the name sticks.

    Endless kudos to you, dear Bard. You seem never to fail in hitting The Mark.

  2. Thank God for rhyming poetry with a message!

    I like your verse here.

  3. Thank God for rhyming verse with a clear message.
    I like your poems.

    Here is one of mine:

  4. Here is El Desdichado's offering reproduced here for everyone's convenience. It may be impertinent to copy and past, but it's a very practical method of sharing what wealth there may be. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Bard? I thought the piece worth sharing::

    Lines Composed upon the Finished Perusal of a Large Volume of Poetry

    The worst will be found toward the end of the book
    When you’re scanning the lines of a weighty anthology.
    Centuries have shaken what works can be shook,
    and what’s old is refined – and I make no apology.

    Angst-ridden ramblings, so fashionably bleak
    Start appearing somewhere past the middle, I fear
    With those modernist psyches, whose raggedly weak
    and depressing confessions sling mud in the ear.

    Like the scribblers of Suicide, brimming with bile
    or the autodestructive self-pitying boozer,
    whose quaint observations enshrining the vile
    are a crime against life – and an art for the loser.

    You ideologues, with your axes to grind,
    propagandizing causes in militant styles
    ought to stay in the hills, where the struggle is defined,
    and spare us the old dialectical wiles.

    The Feminist scribe, with her sex for a mouth,
    Ever pressing her case, for fallopian reasons
    Grows saggingly sterile. Her muses fly south
    with the passing of harvests and goddessless seasons.

    Absurdists, surrealists, and nihilist mystics
    whose hymns to destruction make glory of chaos
    should leave the black humor to God and ballistics.
    Your poems, like Judas, are bound to betray us.

    The Freudian flirt (whose neuroses abound),
    And the Jungian shamans (their animas, too),
    ought to rest on their couches. Why should they be found
    By the wellsprings of Spirit, whose guidance is true.

    The art-lover’s lines gild a frame around Knowledge.
    Their poems are like an art history course.
    As they flit past the idols they studied in college
    their name-dropping odes are a grand tour-de–force.

    Sixties drug-revelers, love beads a-jingle
    And brothers dashiki-clad, howling at Nixon
    no longer strike chords in my soul. Not a single sitar lick
    nor visions of hippie-chick vixen.

    You rhymers and rappers of rhythms in sample
    Whose words like a kick-drum send shock through old Whitey
    Now cease from your chanting. The genre is ample.
    Your gangstering paeans are too fly-by-nighty.

    Revived Roman legions, who relish things Latin;
    Your martial convictions inspire the hero.
    But while you are looking for cities to flatten,
    remember – old Julius was nobler than Nero.

    The theme of World Peace – this crops up near the ending:
    a desperate hope for New-Agers and liberals,
    who cherish a dream of reality-bending
    Through networking, magic, and energized crystals…

    But what can be shaken shall perish, forgotten.
    Anthologies show us that truth is enduring.
    All praises and laurels shall prove misbegotten.
    The Word become flesh is the most reassuring.

    So I leave the anthology, closing its cover.
    Three-quarters at least seemed like nonsense to me.
    Yet still, I admit, I’m a poetry lover.
    Let time do its work and in future – we’ll see…

    El Desdichado? (No author's name was given at the website where this piece appeared.)

    -------------> Katharine Heartburn