Image: Pixabay
Spare your staff,
Hold your curses,
Let me take half
Of your silken purses.
I’m just a lowly citizen
With mouths to feed
By the dozen;
My reason is not greed.
Allow me to go free
Leave you to your rest
All I ask you to agree
Is to let go of that treasure chest.
Image: Pixabay
The tall ships sailed
Outward bound
Fated to find a new world
To be conquered
Land ho!
Much to see, o!
Round up the bands
Of natives and their lands
Create new brands
Under the explorer’s commands
‘Tis a new world order
With a rebound border
Survival of the fittest
Along with a long list
Of those willing to enlist
To put up their figurative fist.
Image: Pixabay
El Niño
Gone loco,
Upset La Niña,
So no buena.
Category four
A lethal score,
Mother Nature,
Such a player.
Making waves
Like mad raves.
That’s her way,
We get no say.
Image: Pixabay
Reaction
Incapable
Of
Thoughtfulness
Reckless
Impulsive
Oversized
Temper
Rendering
Impossible
Offers of
Truce.
[In memory of 9/11]
A series of dire events . . .
Broad daylight
Turned dark
Nightmare shock
Impossible
Among the rubble
Heaps of bloodied flesh
Panic crash
Remembering the sorrow
Hope for tomorrow . . .
Words are uttered,
Never to be retrieved,
Reaction in motion.
Only imagination
Can avert
The hurt.
Image: Pixabay
Princess Beulah blows her top when she learns her royal crush, Prince Roland, celebrated his birthday without inviting her. She unfriended him from her Facebook and dropped him from her Snapchat. Taking out her bejeweled diary, she writes:
He’s just another minion,
A bunion to excise,
An onion not worth crying over.
No longer my major attraction,
I shall speak to my father,
And ask him to make way in his dungeon.
Watch out, Rolly, old flame,
Soon your head will fall
And permanently adorn my wall.
Image: Pixabay
I’ll make my bed
I’ll make my breakfast
I’ll even make it out the door
But, make my Monday.
The first day of the week
Makes me feel weak
Thinking of it makes me ill
More so than paying a bill.
I’ll crawl back to bed
I’ll forget breakfast
I’ll lock the door.
Make my Monday.
I couldn’t believe
He told me to leave;
This nice gnome
From his cozy home.
Me, his roommate
Since 2008.
Why the boot?
I’m just an old coot?
My space is a hole
Not even much for a vole
I’m a plain pushover,
I only eat your leftover.
I will admit
For longer than a bit,
I’ve been filling up your studio
I never thought I’d outgrow
But why couldn’t you be a diplomat,
And not simply call me a FAT RAT?
Image: Pixabay
Guerilla tactics
With the same dynamics,
Out of control,
They’re on a killing roll,
One after the other,
This is truly war.
They’re desperadoes
Showing they won’t be cowed,
Displaying their bravados
By ramming through a crowd
Of innocents,
Forcing their dissonance.
Time to shed the politics
Register both citizens and aliens
To identify ISIS and other lunatics.
Weed out the barbarians
To stop this downward spiral.
This is now a matter of survival.
[In reference to the Bastille Day truck massacre in southern France today.]
Karina Pinella 
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