Middle Diddle

for M.F.

Mona Fortier, Canada’s Minister of Middle Class Prosperity

 

Great! a Minister to watch the middle-class
As poor upper-class folks are being ignored
Who will sustain our portfolios, alas?

Canada’s become a land of taxing grass
Meanwhile, the legal stuff I cannot afford
Great! a Minister to watch the middle-class.

Good God! they’ve put a carbon levy on gas
Whilst alternatives, they’ve not well explored
Who will sustain our portfolios, alas?

When the next election comes to pass
I will recall all the friends they reward
Great! a Minister to watch the middle-class.

As stock prices fall short sellers amass
Considerable wealth, forcing me to hoard
Who will sustain our portfolios, alas?

The lower will be left, left on their ass
I hope the rulers fall flat on their sword
Great! a Minister to watch the middle-class
Who will sustain our portfolios, alas?

Montreal’s Charter Poets walk the talk

Two of Montreal’s Charter Poets (Caroline Filler and Ken McLaughlin) show they care about our climate emergency by carrying a piece of art(by karen elaine spencer) showing section 3 of the Quebec Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms from St. Henri to Verdun through the St. Remi Tunnel. Aug 23, 2019. Photo by J.J. Lokshtanov.

Sunday Poem: Lessons From A Snowball

From the corner of my eye I saw the snowball coming

But I was busy humming.

The snowball had a small rock in it

But I was too busy humming

It was coming

I was humming

Coming humming coming humming coming

Luckily, the snowball with the rock

I caught in the corner of my eye

Did not catch the corner of my eye

Why? Why? Why?

Because I slipped my body tipped

and the snowball with the rock clipped

me on the shoulder

And I learned one thing from that snowball with the rock

that passed by my eye

and it is this:

Do not put all your eggs on one shoulder.

Sunday Poem: The Air Is Unfair

The air is unfair

The carbon is thick

Government health says

Shut your mouth. You won’t get sick,

As my lungs get coated

Old lungs tell the story

Each cough gets noted

As I continue to worry.

 

Air once was oxygen

But now is soup

Breathing capital C Carcinogen

Is worse than poop.

In the bus garage

I knew something was off

With diesel fume barrage

All I could do—cough.

 

But it is the brain

That needs fresh air

Yet the more I complain

It seems more become unaware.

 

Sunday Poem: Aquarium, Aquarium

by J.J. Lokshtanov

 

Aquarium, aquarium

That was the place

Where I am.

But now

In backward somersault

I swear I am.

Sunday Poem: Should I Continue Reading Man’s Lame Law

The inspiration for this villanelle came from a recent Supreme Court of Canada decision, and from the Westmount Poetry Group.

Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?     /
Particularly when eyes suffer a shortage of time     /
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.     /

In most cases judges flip a coin, ya
I would do the same if I had a dime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?

Life’s lessons do not help preclude making flaw
I’ve discovered this often in my prime
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.

When holy court slams Vice they rub me raw
Flexing one’s freedom should not be a crime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?

Most decisions are filled with fluff and guffaw
The worst part is: The fuckers don’t rhyme
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.

Sitting in chambers supports the final straw
Talk, Talk, Talk. Dysfunction rules sublime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.

Sunday Poem: Address to a Jelly Donut

Good morning to you my jelly friend

Upon your deliciousness I depend

Annual joy I yearly defend

On lips upon chin

You’ve begat fairest social trend

Where no belly goes thin.

 

Your birth unknown from a baker wise

Your filling fills up a child’s eyes

Your taste no honest man can despise

If racks run bare

Another batch of yeast will rise

To fight despair.

 

Upon your lifting out from oil

The aroma divine, texture royal

There’s never been a one to spoil

As all get et

No bag is needed just sheet of foil

For none’s grown old yet.

 

In the palm of my hungry hand

You leave a mark a fatty band

There is no worry small or grand

You disappear

Upon my gut’s command

O save me dear.

 

As stickiness descends on my bite

I catch a mouthful of sugar white

As my exploding buds ignite

As I devour

The sweetest gluten in my sight

I thank farmers for flour.

 

Surrounding jelly, soft dough sings

The combination in winter brings

The pleasurablest things

I need another

And though the dough has greasèd wings

No pastry I’d druther.

 

After six I fear I might puke

My partner offers stern rebuke

I smile, I burp like richest duke

As acids blow

And swirl, I catch long fretful look

Suffer no woe.

 

Pączki, sufganiyot, berliner

So good out but better when inner

For none can I wait to get in ‘er,

I know for fact

Who eats them’s a winner

Red fruit jam-packed.

 

In this world there can be only peace

If donut availability doth increase

For every tongue needs a little grease;

War will abate somewhat

When all human beings get their piece

Of blessèd jelly donut.

 

Sunday Poem: The Only Amusing Encounter I’ve Ever Had

I once met a man named George Amusing
Did this actually transpire
Or was I snoozing?
Now that my head’s afire
I find the current occurrence confusing.

 

Sunday Poem: You Know What I Mean

I’ve had my fill of social media
When all I see is Fissipedia.

Sunday Poem: We Are Becoming Disco

We are becoming disco
nnected with every new app
With all the fruits in ‘frisco
silicon valley’s software trap
the future of poetry
is wholly crap.