Surviving in Mr Trump-a-dump's America

Make no mistake, Mr Trump is a horror to me. I am a liberal, almost a socialist in some areas, like health care for all!!

Bur Mr Trump is also an American "event" . He fits in our history as unfortunate as that is to say. He pulled together the "tea party" so called patriots, the very religious, the gun lovers and the white supremacists in a coalition. We has a black president, we were about to have a female president. All who opposed these events found a common cause, and are now bed-fellows with Mr Trump.

The USA is on a path to become a diverse and tolerant society. But we are, as someone once said, a civilization without a culture. When our culture is born, I am certain that it will be diverse, tolerant and welcoming. I was optimistic it would be in my lifetime, now I am not so sure. But got to stay hopeful. I am uncertain as to who will lead the anti-Trump movement in the 2020 election. No one is emerging now, because it is a long time until 2020, enough time to get wounded beyond recovery by the "tweetings." I am hoping for a wiccan transgender Latina, but let us see what the meta-verse spews forth for us. :)

the gyant went a-boating

The gyant went a-boating
  He took my princess fair
His iron chains upon her
  His flowers in her hair.

She is my own sweet passion
  But he has her now
He's leering from the poop-deck,
  She's reading in the prow.

I see them on the water
  My body shakes with rage
Against him I am helpless
  His boat is now her cage.

Far away they drift, alas!
  Leaving me behind.
Them on that boat together:
  It roasts my shattered mind.

I flop upon the marshes,
  As visions come to me
Though they are far out of sight
  There's much that I can see.

I know she's on her hands and knees.
  Her mouth is open wide;
Of gyants' food she will partake
  He'll thrust it right inside!

He'll make her suck the bitter root,
  Suck it dry and clean;
Then she'll eat the pulpy fruit
  Than ne'er a man has seen.

Her lips and chin so sticky wet,
  It drips upon her thighs:
The salty sap of gyants' fruit
  And bitter root's surprise.

I cannot bear to think of it,
  I cannot turn away-
He owns her out there on his boat
  She is his willing prey.

Minutes turn to hours,
  My hands sink in the mud.
Although I cannot really see,
  My mind will chew the cud.

His magick staff of hearty oak,
  It fills her now with bliss!
Ah! How can I, a mortal man,
  Ever compete with this?

A fever of delerium
  Now has captured me,
Pulpy chains of rooty bliss
  Are all my mind can see!

Vision of the Questing Knight

the fisher king
relaxed and triumphant
his line slack
drifting on calm waters
as the golden one
who holds the Grail
blesses the Holy Lance
with her moist lips

The Stolen Bride

Once upon a time, a blonde, blue eyed lass named Colette was preparing to marry Stan, her childhood sweetheart.  But on the very day of her wedding, she vanished!  Old Roger, her father, who thought, incidentally, that Colette could do much better, felt this social humiliation very keenly.  A whole days' paid entertainment now gone to waste!  But Stan and the old man agreed to a truce and set out to look for her.

After a few hours, Old Roger thought he heard his daughter's cries for help away off in the hills.  Not stopping to tell poor Stan, he ran as quickly as he could in that direction.  There he found Colette, still in her wedding dress, covered in silver ornament from head to foot!  Her father then understood that she had been taken by the gyants to be the bride of a particularly lanky and strong bodied specimen.  They had dressed her in silver as her bride-price.

Old Roger was much pleased with this new match, and did all in his power to encourage the union.  Poor Stan did not learn until it was too late that his dear Colette was now forever lost to him.  Old Roger grew rich from his new relations, but did not live long in the enjoyment of it, as dissipation and luxury ran its course.  And as for Stan, he wandered the hills, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of his Colette.  She stayed ever young and golden as he grew old and grey.

Gofaric the Gyant - part 3 of 3

                                                                        V.
After this debacle, Gofaric asked princess Colette why they kept coming to challenge him when it was so obvious that they could not possibly win.  Colette explained that her hand had been promised.  She, as fine a girl as had ever been seen thereabouts, with svelte figure, azure eyes and sungolden hair, would be wedlocked to him and have to clean his house, cook his favorite foods, wash his stinky clothes.....and sleep with him (ugh!).  It was quite obvious to any man that she was well worth the hazard of one's life (humph!). So the gyant pondered her words.

                                                                        VI.
Suddenly, Gofaric the gyant came to realize that he indeed liked the idea of wedlock overmuch.  He picked up the princess and smashed his way into the cathedral, where he forced Bishop Abner to marry them!  Colette has a hard life now, but she did gain eternal youth and a share of the gyant's immortality and strength through regular and prolonged exercise of his husbandly prerogatives.

                                                                        fin

((there are many variations of this tale, as the mythology of Algarsheen is rich in gyant lore...........))

the phooka's (abbreviated) lament

I am memory...

I am dreams...

Yet I am still

Alive , it seems.

So don't forget

That I exist;

Don't let me vanish

In the mist!

Koteka--abo Oyinbo: (ogun orixa+freyja shipping)

nets of naija

entangle me:

being an object

is now my fate?

but here i am

a special THING~

royal regalia

the "yellow gourd."

my curiosity

brought me here

to you, great one.

and you took me

to be your bride.

but now i see

i must be trained:

golden hair

and pink skin

do not kneel well

or hold burnt umber

with lissome lips

without experience (!).

i will be special

i will have value

(so you say)

for you are a god

as well as king~

creative fire!

a burning god

that i must cool,

sheath to a morsel

fit for a goddess...

northern ice

for tropical fire!