Blind Date


Frumptart meets Trumptard:  it’s bliss forever!

Rainbow twins make pink Indian Summer

Poke your hontas, indigenous lover,

Till Twitter-dumb gets Twittering-dumber.

Having had my fill of a noxious brew

(Militant Marxist Genderqueer free verse),

My soul now seeks a less venomous view:

Write more poetry!  Dispel this global curse.

Today’s prompt asked me to do what I always do when I attempt a poem:
PROMPT #3: Today’s optional prompt asks you to make a list of ten words. You can generate this list however you’d like – pull a book off the shelf and find ten words you like, name ten things you can see from where you’re sitting, etc. Now, for each word, use Rhymezone to identify two to four similar-sounding or rhyming words.


A rousing hymn to techno-spring.
Please kneel for social distancing.
(Consider what you’re worshiping.)

New strains infect the melody:
A chord of biochemistry
Invading imperceptibly . . .

No longer dim or vague, but viral
Airborne fears begin to spiral.
Breath: a pulmonary trial.

Parties perish. Nations sigh.
Decrees are ordered from on high
Intending to demystify.

Our faces pushed to lifeless screens
Seeking solace from machines,
Placing faith in new vaccines . . .

Breaking news appears satanic:
Lemmings, in Pavlovian panic
Render rulers megalomanic.

City-dwellers bought the farm;
Chinese numbers quell alarm,
Mother Nature to disarm.

Bureaucrats drone on. World health:
A strategy of Marxist stealth
To siphon off our nation’s wealth.

Consolidating more control,
A cashless one-world rule their goal.
Read your Bible. Guard your soul.

Feathered Boas and All


Plumed Serpent/Fabled Phoenix/Rare Black Swan:
Let Poetry now shoot you from the sky;
Your sin, though trendy, shall no more rage on . . .
They’ll see you’re just a Dodo by and by.

You puffed and fanned, a dazzling Peacock Star
It’s high time you descended here to earth.
We see you for the Emu that you are:
Your gender, like your sex—assigned at birth.


PROMPT: write a poem about your favorite bird


more rare plumage HERE

Total Transparency

The dawn is nigh at hand. The clouds
begin to lift above the grange.
Arise, O Phoebus, bless the crowds—
let poultry roam the range.

I’ll bind a broom of gathered hay
to sweep the hen-house free of hate.
Let roosters hail the crack of day
and chicks with cocks tempt fate.

A fractured self and a challenge hurled:
they left the shell—but found it rough
because our bigoted barnyard world
cannot get queer enough fast enough.

They flutter through the breeder’s farm
subverting gender’s useless role.
We feel their pain, and mean no harm,
yet question this progressive goal.

They cluck a brand-new barnyard song:
Gender Identity Obsolete!
(As long as they claim God hatched them wrong,
biology signals their defeat.)

While poultry scratches rhymes for “hen”
and chicks are combing crests for cocks
let’s ring the dinner bell and then
we’ll synchronize the global clocks.

Let Mankind’s unmanned race delight
at Jesus’ gender-free return.
Soon Africa shall see the light
and Araby’s sun more brightly burn.

Then dawn shall break o’er Russian plains
to liberate the Tartar races;
loose their limbs from Gender’s chains
to stride with polymorphous paces.

China too, and Southeast Asia
swift shall follow in their train
celebrating sex-aphasia
joining in the West’s refrain.

Hindu multitudes will rise
to vanquish gender, caste aside
and shake the slumber from their eyes
with metro-ambisexual pride.

Carib isles, with Latin kingdoms
From the tropics to the mountains
Shall announce they too are Wisdom’s,
drinking from de-gendered fountains.

Juveniles, raised to simply be
shall pioneer new modes of life;
explore horizons happily
set free from biologic strife.

Then shall our earth, in glad array
spade dirt upon Tradition’s tomb;
unshackled from that dark dismay
to grieve — but nevermore exhume.

Alas, the global dreams descend.
We’re back in the barnyard, gender-queer . . .
where hens have cocks and eggshells bend
transcending Nature’s reign of fear.

The henhouse still votes hetero—
their eggless chickens cluck for rights
biologists, ex utero
are born to further futile flights.

(Because I was almost one of them
I’ve earned the right to make fun of them.
Time alone will tell if the trend
remains coherent to the end.)


P-Orridge 9 Days Old

A brainteasing cryptic digression evoking foul Genesis:
how insane just knowing Lord Megson, Neil (OrridgeP),
queer rebel satanist, turned unbecoming vapid woman:
xenolith = yesteryears zenith.

Prompt 19: write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet.