Venezuela, one of the ten most oil rich countries in the world, is about to implode. The disastrous Socialist and virulent anti-American policies imposed by Hugo Chavez and continued by President Maduro has resulted in hyper-inflation, hyper-unemployment, starvation and bankruptcy. Venezuela’s currency, the Bolivar, is now worth next to nothing, and growing more worthless by the hour. The United States, the country Chavez and Maduro both have called the Devil that must be destroyed, will be expected to come to the rescue. Secretary of State John Kerry reveals the Administration plan to save another America-hating Marxist dictator.

The Sec of State, with lordly brow
Set in a frozen frown
Said help is needed and right now
We cannot let him down
Maduro has the right approach
His people know he cares
He lives a life beyond reproach
He does what’s right, he dares
And so this crisis must be solved
Before it goes too far
And so our plan, as it’s evolved
Is save the Bolivar
The President has set the tone
The Treasury will print
Ten dollar bills that we shall loan
To Venezuela’s mint
Inflation makes each of those tens
A million dollar bill
If needed we will send some Bens
Each ATM to fill
The kicker is Maduro’s smile
Will grace each of the notes
And so we go the extra mile
To see he gets the votes

We are privileged to live in the time of Barack Obama, the greatest Chessmaster of all time, a man who looks so many moves ahead he is already playing the end game while his opponents are considering the move king’s pawn to king 4.

From Karpov to Capablanca
From Teheran to Casablanca
There’s a Sunni Shia fissure
That’s too wide for Bobby Fischer
But Obama’s on his game now
Putting lesser minds to shame now
With his black knights fast advancing
And his bishops nimbly dancing
Center files his rooks controlling
And his sec of state cajoling
The queen strikes and the trap sprang
But it’s just another zugzwang

Planned Parenthood removes viable, living babies from their mothers’ wombs, dismembers them and sells their body parts. Leftist power always leads to Leftist tyranny and barbarism, and barbarism always leads to decay and destruction.

At 23 weeks
She knew her mother’s voice
She woke and slept
In rhythm with the constancy
And comfort
Of her mother’s heartbeat
She was aware of herself
Aware of her surroundings
Content
Unknowing of the future
She was unafraid
Until
Until
A sudden spasm
Something tearing at her
Pulling her apart
She screamed
MOMMY! MOMMY!
Terribly afraid
Aware of the searing pain
Aware of the encroaching silence
She longed above all else
To hear the beating of her mother’s heart
In the briefest of moments she had left
She thought of her mother
And how she loved her

President Obama’s lovable friend, Dr. Zeke (Mengele) Emmanuel, the leading proponent of death panels for Obamacare, says he has voluntarily decided to die at age 75, and proposes that everyone else also die at 75 so as not to become a burden on the family and the health care system. He does not say if universal death at 75 is to be voluntary or government aided, but I have my suspicions. I’m 85, with no observable expiration date, and intend to continue to bore my grandchildren and great-grandchildren for another thirty years with how much better it was in the good old days.

I don’t want to be a burden
Said the spider to the fly
Come sit with me and listen to me well
I’ve set the date that I shall say
Goodbye to all and die
For it is I who strikes the mourning bell
But think thee said the little fly
What surely you will miss
The beauty of your web in dew specked sun
Bejeweled with gleaming diamonds from
The sun’s sweet gentle kiss
All gone as soon as life is truly done
The spider, weeping, gave a sigh
And said I know you’re right
But I am tired of seizing such as you
Depriving you of your short days
And wrapping you up tight
For you’re entitled to your lifetime too
So saying then, the spider leaped
The fly was quick and bold
And hovered as he watched the web still sway
It sorrows me, the small fly said
To see you’re getting old
The date you’ve set must surely be today

The radical left wing of the Democratic Party has labored for seventy years to attain their dream of a socialist utopia in the United States, and seem on the verge of accomplishing it. To dream is but to live, to live is but to dream and it matters not the dream be unfulfilled, it matters not the dream be unreachable, it matters only that the dream be dreamed. At the height of the Black Death, with half their populations dead, Venice and Genoa continued to fight for control of the Bosporus and the trade of the Black Sea, for only the dream of commercial dominance was real. And so we leave Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders and the rest of the Radical Left to their dreams, for nothing will persuade the dreamers that their dreams are not to be realized, and that, should one foolishly attempt to enter the dream, there lies only future catastrophe and generational misery.

A dream is like a river in its ceaseless flow
The dreamer carried on past flowered banks
Through deep gorged mountain passes filled with drifting snow
While smiling zealots cheer in serried ranks
Few dreamers ever reach the delta and the sea
And those who do in history have a name
They left a legacy of death and misery
And shattered nations burdened with their shame
And so we leave to all of them their fervid dreams
Of socialist ice cream and apple pie
Their dream boat taking water with its open seams
In spite of which the dream will never die

I am weary unto death of the Turks, the Middle East, and Obama, and prefer to turn my attention to loftier matters, namely the Great Game. The Great Game is not politics, nor business, nor is it the struggle between Britain and Russia for control of Central Asia and the riches of the Orient. No, the Great Game is football, and the struggle for control of the Lombardi Trophy. Let us forget the troubles and travails of the world and rejoice, for NFL training camps open Sunday

The summer wends its weary way
Toward Autumn when some large men play
A game that captivates us all
Who cannot wait till it is Fall
When leaves turn golden red with flame
And teams line up to play The Game
The tempo of the season goes
From first game sun to late game snows
From Autumn heat to Winter cold
Each Sunday sees the story told
We laugh and cheer and often cry
Giants, Boys, Fly Eagles Fly

Now that Obama has given Iran permission to build nuclear weapons and has given them 100 billion dollars to immediately buy any conventional weapons they choose from whoever they choose to buy them from, there will be a boom in arms sales to Iran, and then there will be a Boom. Obama has his own hidden reasons for doing what he does, and Putin and Xi expect Russia and China to profit greatly. Obama and Putin and Xi remind me of caterpillars racing along the top of a fence, looking for the pot of gold at the end of it. But being lepidoptera they do not realize that when they reach the end of the fence that will indeed be the end of it.

I watched them running fast atop the fence
Three caterpillars racing neck and neck
Assuming that to them the race made sense
They reached the end and dropped down to the deck
The decking had a gap between each plank
And down they went below the pine plank floor
To come out later by the water tank
And climb the fence and race along once more
I asked them why they raced each other so
They said a hundred billion was at stake
They said they saw the prism colored bow
Said the thought of all that gold just made them shake
I said Iran will shortly have the bomb
And infidels like you will be at risk
They smiled a cheerful smile with great aplomb
Said only dirty Jews will feel the whisk
I left them sitting calmly, breathing hard
As hungry birds began to circle ‘round
The shadows creeping slowly ‘cross the yard
The silent stillness making not a sound
I envied them their vigor and their youth
I knew not were they moth or butterfly
They did not sense the danger, more’s the truth
Not even with the bird wings ‘gainst the sky

I sit at night long into dark, listening to the night sounds that says all is not quiet in the woods behind the house. There’s a hooty owl nearby, and tom cats roaming free. An occasional screech disturbs my reading, and from time to time a dog barks, but mostly all is as it always is, just nighttime in the woods.

My kitchen window is the door
Into another world
A world of birdsong and what’s more
A world quite deeply squirreled
Sometimes at night in deepest dark
When lit by silver moon
I hear my neighbor’s hound dog bark
He likes not that raccoon
Some distance off a tom meows
He wanders, like my verse
A sound that sets off hound dog growls
But silence can be worse
All is quiet late at night
The kitchen dark and still
The birds sit waiting for the light
To sit upon my sill
Where nuts and raisins I will spread
Just as the sky turns gray
And wakes each little sleepy head
To start another day

President Obama, upon taking office in 2009, spent a trillion dollars on what he called shovel ready jobs. Now, over six years later, the country is shovel ready, and the liberal Democrat designers of the approaching catastrophe lay in bed, wide awake, hearing noises they were taking some pains to identify; workplace violence, lone wolves, justifiably inflamed, white supremacists, the religion of peace, unlimited Muslim immigration, increasingly alarmed as the strange noise grew louder. In the dark, in the sudden silence, came the sound of a shovel digging into the earth, louder now, coming from the basement. Thhukk shwoof, thhukk shwoof. They closed their eyes and lay quietly, in the dark, knowing that soon the grave would be finished.

Almost finished, a low voice said
Six feet and all is well
The infidels will soon be dead
And burning hard in hell
Who would have thought, the other mused
How easy we would win
They resist not, supine, confused
And filled with doubt, chagrin
So saying, shovels lifted high
They hurried up the stair
The end of history was nigh
And all in Allah’s care

It is all very well to look beyond the present and predict some future collapse of liberalism, but that future collapse will occur in the midst of violence. Already we see signs of white males getting pissed, and when white males stop genuflecting before the feminists and race hustlers and grab their guns, it will not be pretty for those who thought they could spit on and stomp on white males forever with assured impunity. Take down the Confederate flag? The singing and dancing crowd watching the flag being lowered will be met by grim faced white males who have other ideas.

They spit on and stomped on the gentle white male
Erecting a fraud in his place
They thought him a redneck and destined to fail
And told him so right to his face
He took it declining to venture a blow
But looked on with growing dislike
For the hustlers of race who most surely did know
That their hatred of whites filled the dike
To the overflow line and that something would give
And the white male would rise to the bait
And begin a campaign to restore how they live
And be stomped in the ground by the State
But the white male aroused is a terrible foe
When he grabs for his armor and shield
And he sharpens his sword and begins to deal woe
For the white male is never to yield