#100Days100Poems Day 19 #TantrumTanka

Let’s do one more #TantrumTanka. This is one tweet I’d like to see from the so-called Trumpet-in-chief.

CLOWNSTICK and I am truly
Original. Great. Orange. Hope.


© David Siller – 2017




For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author. VISUAL ARTISTS ! Do you have something visually poetic that you’d like to submit? GO FOR IT!

Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.

Read, follow, share, re-tweet, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !


M. Jordan, where is my painting? — NPM

The following is an attempt at a sonnet in French (panic not! a translation, rough like sandpaper, follows). For those francophones who follow the blog, it is not really a sonnet in French, given the sketchy scansion and non-rhymes of some lines. So let’s call it a faux-sonnet, or a fauxnnet, shall we?



La Société Surréaliste
Les araignées et les citrouilles font la grève,
dans laquelle je vois des immeubles flambés,
allumés par les dalmatiens-pompiers.
Au jardin, un chameau lit un journal, fume, rêve

de l’avenir, de l’eau.  Il feint d’ignorer l’élève
qui essayait de nouer un plan.  Mais il s’est
noué dans ses idées.  Et le chameau, il sait
libérer cette peste—ils s'associent à la grève.

Les araignées, les citrouilles sont sérieuses
bien que le chameau et l’élève dansent et chantent
en écoutant la musique des manifestants.

Je me demande:  Comment on capte le merveilleux?
La télé montre cette spectacle obsolète
et n’importe où quelque dieu se gratte la tête.

The spiders and pumpkins are on strike,
in which I see burning buildings
lit by firefighter-dalmatians.
In the park, a camel is reading a newspaper, smoking, dreaming
of the future, of water.  He pretends to ignore the student
who is trying to come up with a plan. But he's caught
up in his own ideas.  And the camel, he knows
how to free this pain in the neck--they join the strike.
The spiders and pumpkins are serious
even though the camel and the student sing and dance
while listening to the music of the protestors.
I wonder:  How do you get the marvelous?
The TV captures this obsolete spectacle
and where ever you like, some god is scratching his head.