Stay Out!

Republicans, please stay out

Of women's uteruses, okay?

What EACH one does with her uterus

Is something in which you have no say.

 

Another thing: While you're at it,

Please leave women's eggs alone.

Why turn people's bodies into

A stupid political combat zone?

 

Stay OUT of our bedrooms, and stop making

Our intimacy an issue for you.

It's as though you are unable

To find something better to do.

 

There are many important matters

That should be addressed. Oh, but no!

Instead, you are hung up on

What to do with an embryo.

 

Instead of obsessing about such things

As women's embryos and eggs,

Worry about yourselves and what

Happens between YOUR OWN legs!

-by Bob B (2-24-24)

The Buddha-Cat

Sam was known as the Buddha-cat,

Mainly because of the way that he sat.

His feline posture was fascinating:

He always appeared to be meditating.

Quiet and still, he'd sit there for hours

As though he possessed remarkable powers.

People would say that he gave the impression

Of being in the midst of a calm zazen session.

Never upset or angry or frightened,

He made all who knew him think he was enlightened.

 

"But tell us: why 'Sam'?" people would query

So often that both of Sam's owners grew weary.

"It's short for Samantabhadra," they'd say,

"Who's just like a Buddhist saint in a way."

"Yes," Sam would think, "That's who I am.

But, everyone, PLEASE, just call me 'Sam.'"

Then Sam would continue his deep meditation,

Sometimes counting each long exhalation.

And when he was finished, he'd patiently wait

To see if a treat might appear on his plate.

 

He'd stare through the window pane when it was raining.

To him it was one type of mindfulness training.

He never would chase after insects or mice,

And if one ran by, he wouldn't look twice.

He was content just to take life with ease.

One thing that he couldn't stand, though, was fleas!

But he wouldn't kill them, for his point of view

Was clearly: that's what his owners should do.

He knew that life had both good times and bad,

And since life was so, he didn't get mad.

 

Sam was not a strict vegetarian.

His rules for dining were more nonsectarian.

He'd chant when you gently would stroke his soft fur,

Though folks said it sounded more like a purr.

He was a true inspiration to many.

Did he have enemies? No, not any.

When visitors came, Sam wouldn't hide.

Of all cats, he was the most dignified.

Sam felt that egos were dangerous, so

Everyone has to learn how to let go.

 

As Sam grew older, he slept day and night,

And fur on his face began to turn white.

He ate much less food--not a whole plateful,

But he continued to always be grateful.

He still meditated, although bit by bit,

He felt it was better to lie than to sit.

One sad morning Sam's owners awoke

To find that old Sam had died of a stroke.

For Sam there would be no more mañana,

For he had entered parinirvana.

-by Bob B (2-21-24)

"Be a Light unto Yourself"

It's funny how the followers

Of one religion often find

The myths of their religion as real

And true and easy to get behind,

 

While the myths of other religions

To them are merely stories, fiction,

Implausible beliefs, and they

Express their feelings with great conviction.

 

Oftentimes the god or gods

Of someone else's religion become

Devils or evil forces to certain

Believers. A case of zero sum.

 

It's also odd how many believers

Profess that their beliefs are strong--

That followers of other religions

Are in the dark, deluded, wrong.

 

In other words, they insist

That their religious point of view

Tops all others, as though they're saying,

"What's good for ME is good for YOU."

 

I resent it when anyone

Tries to make it his or her goal

To tell me what I should believe

And then attempts to "save my soul."

 

I also resent it when legislators

Use the pulpit to make our laws

And very conveniently ignore

The fact that such a process has flaws.

 

"Be a light unto yourself."

Beware of any religion that smothers

The truth, deceitfully pressuring us

To blindly follow the path of others.

-by Bob B (2-20-24)

Sudden Death Syndrome

As the world mourns the death of Alexei Navalny,

The truth of how he died won't be disclosed--

At least while Putin maintains an iron grip on the country,

For we all know he hates being opposed.

 

Beware of mourning in public if you live in Russia

Or if you demand the truth of Navalny's death.

Beware of consequences when your country is run

By someone who's as cruel as Lady Macbeth.

 

Russian penal colonies are far from pleasant,

But no one expects them to be comfy resorts.

However, couldn’t conditions at least be more humane?

Inmates end up in a torture chamber of sorts.

 

"Sudden death syndrome" is how Navalny died.

That's what we're told. Sounds suspicious, no?

That could run the gamut from colds or flu to murder.

However he died, his death was a horrible blow.

 

Beware if you go to Russia while Putin is in control,

For speaking your mind might be something you rue.

As long as the tyrant continues to have unlimited powers,

"Sudden death syndrome" could happen to you.

 

-by Bob B (2-18-24)

Poor Donald

Poor Donald. What took place?

You received the ruling of another case.

Consequences sometimes can be hard to face.

Poor Donald.

 

Poor Donald. What'll you do

Now that all your lies are catching up with you?

Accountability can be a dream come true.

But poor Donald.

 

Poor Donald. Don't say, "Pshaw!"

Conspiracy and fraud are both against the law.

The judge got fed up hearing all your blah, blah, blah.

So, poor Donald.

 

Poor Donald. Though you fight,

I guess that facts and truth can be your kryptonite.

The judge was baffled that you weren't at all contrite.

Yes, poor Donald.

 

Poor Donald. Do not pout.

Based on past experience there is no doubt

That donors and the RNC will bail you out.

Still, poor Donald.

 

Poor Donald. Hey, what now?

You'll be back in court, but it's amazing how

Folks can still consider you their sacred cow.

Yet, poor Donald.

-by Bob B (2-17-24)

(The format of this poem was inspired by a verse in Stephen Sondheim's song "Poor Baby.")

Mourning the Death of Navalny (1976-2024)

Opposition leader in Russia

Alexei Navalny sadly has died.

Putin is surely rejoicing because

Navalny had been a thorn in his side.

 

In a remote prison that lies

Above the Arctic Circle was where

Navalny spent his final days

To get him out of Putin's hair.

 

Having survived attempts on his life,

He kept blasting the Putin regime,

Saying leaders were crooks and thieves.

Corruption was his central theme.

 

Eventually, trumped up charges

Sent him to prison, thus preventing

His attempt to run against Putin,

Whose cruel tactics are unrelenting.

 

Who'll now lead the opposition,

Knowing that efforts will be curtailed?

High-profile critics of Putin

End up dead, exiled, or jailed.

 

Navalny wasn't afraid to speak up;

He wasn't afraid to bell the cat.

He hoped to liberate Russia from

The rule of a crooked autocrat.

-by Bob B (2-16-24)

Good-bye, Tucker, Good-bye! (Part II)

(This poem can be sung to the tune of the 1922 song "Toot…Toot…Tootsie, Good-bye.")

 

Tucker,° can't you say when?

You have done it again.

What IS your fascination

With someone who's a real threat to our free nation?

Giving Putin free rein

Is nothing short of insane!

How could you not

Be overwrought

When you let the Russian tyrant bolster his plot?

Therefore, fingers are crossed

That you'll somehow get lost!

 

Letting Putin spread lies,

Tucker, isn't so wise.

You, of course, are guilty of that,

And when you do you cater to the autocrat.

You think Moscow's so nice.

So, I won't tell you twice.

Surely you could

Do what you should:

Pack your bags, get on a plane, and move there for good.

When your jet's in the sky,

Tucker, we’ll wave good-bye!

-by Bob B (2-14-24)

°Tucker Carlson: political talk show host fired from Fox News in 2023

Rain

(This poem is based on Poe’s poem “The Bells.”)

 

I. (Initial rain)

 

It’s the luscious sound of rain—

Gentle rain.

How it seems to soothe my nerves and calm my weary brain!

How it patters, patters, patters

In the early morning hours!

And we're certain that it matters

That with every drop that splatters

It will feed the hungry flowers

As it falls, falls, falls,

Dripping down the roofs and walls.

Oh, the wonder of the music made so gloriously plain

From the rain, rain, rain, rain,

Rain, rain, rain--

From the gentle pitter-patter of the rain.

 

II. (Subsequent days of rain)

 

It's the dreadful sound of rain--

Heavy rain.

How the constant pummeling is driving me insane!

How it beats and beats and beats

On all our windows and our walls!

And the windows now are leaking

And some inside walls are streaking

As the dismal water falls.

And it pelts, pelts, pelts

As my optimism melts,

And my hopes for storms to quickly pass are miserably in vain.

It's the rain, rain, rain, rain,

Rain, rain, rain--

The depressing and distressing sound of rain.

-by Bob B (2-5-24)