That Sinking Feeling

The greatest fear we face each day
Is dealing with “not knowing”
Which one of us would board a bus
Unsure of where it’s going?

For fortune’s cord is never straight

It coils, twists and bends
And so it’s up to poets
To identify the trends

When I announce the path I see

You might think I’ve been drinking
But I conclude our next ordeal
Is clearly global sinking

A bedroom floor’s an open door
A fairway filled with clover
A sidewalk near the Senate
Sees the sinkholes taking over

And oh!  The implications!
And they really are profound
You have no leg to stand on
And can’t even trust the ground

They drop you to the poorhouse

And send your wealth to debtland
When someone from the EPA
Declares the hole a wetland

The soil is getting softer

The crust is clearly cracking
And sure as shoot some institute
Will blame it all on fracking

For me that explanation seems

A little hard to swallow
To put the blame of fraking?
Well, it rings a little hollow

When there’s not much to count on

When every soul is straying
In times like these, uncertainties
May soon lead more to praying

Don’t let such insecurity and doubt

Somehow defeat you
In the words of that old Irish prayer
May the road rise up to greet you.

Truth or Consequences

In times like these
Before you sneeze
The media goes looking
For gals and guys
Cuts victimize
And that’s who Maddow’s booking

Like average Joes

I’ve watched these shows
Those broadcast and those buffered
Awaiting scads
Of Moms and Dads
Who, all this week, have suffered

The long parades

Of teachers’ aides
Afraid of being furloughed
The countryscapes
Of rotting grapes
That never will be Merlot-ed

The crises feared

Have not appeared
I guess we must have licked ‘em
Except for prides
Of White House Guides
Am I the only victim?

My lips are blue

My tongue is too
My sinuses congested
And hungry bugs
Attacked my rugs
My base boards are infested

They’ve slowed the courts
They’ve starched my shorts
There’s no gas for my mower
And chances are
I won’t fly far
My sinkhole’s sinking lower

I like my fork

In roasted pork
If budget cuts get bigger
They’ll be no swine
I’ll have to dine
On Mr. Ed and Trigger

To paraphrase

Judge Stewart’s phrase
You’ll know one when you see one
I’ve never stood
For Victimhood
But I guess I must be one

My vision’s vague

I’ve caught the plague
My boils all are festering
My back is out
I’ve got the gout
All thanks to the sequestering
(by Tarzana Job)

Send an Epistle

When I come home from working

I question, without fail
“How then, was your day dear?”
And “What came in the mail?”

And even back in college

Oh, when the world was wider
I checked my post box daily
If just to feed the spider

Each day with expectations

My weary way, I’d wend
Hoping I would find there
A letter from a friend

And when a note or package

Appeared there without warning
I’d tear the thing apart
Just like a kid on Christmas morning

And still anticipation

In some enduring way
Makes me hope and wonder
“What came for me today?”

For when the words were written

When I couldn’t hear or see
Somehow someone somewhere
Was thinking about me

If bills and pills and notices

Are so anticipated
Think of how, in hunger
Corinthians must have waited.

They came by road or wagon
By stealth beyond detection
Words of Wisdom Comfort Love
Assurance and Direction

And when in Rome or Ephesus

They greeted it’s arriving
It meant the word was growing
And the message was surviving

And if today you think good news
Is seldom ever heard
Take your pen in hand with me
And, gently, spread the word