* Florida Man Makes Announcement: Page 26

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Been there,
Don that

    With just 720 days to go before the next election, a Florida retiree made the surprise announcement Tuesday night that he was running for president.

    In a move no political pundit saw coming, avid golfer Donald J. Trump kicked things off at Mar-a-Lago, his resort and classified-documents library.

    Trump, famous for gold-plated lobbies and for firing people on reality television, will be 78 in 2024. If elected, Trump would tie Joe Biden as the oldest president to take office. His cholesterol levels are unknown, but his favorite food is a charred steak with ketchup.

    He has stated that his qualifications for office include being a “stable genius.”

    Trump also served as the 45th president.

Post Staff

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* New York Post, Wednesday, November 16, 2022

Winter

SnowFlowerq2l

What are we when the sun dims
        And the moon is queen of the sky ?

When the leaves brown
                         And the birds vanish

When the wind chills the body
                         And the bears sleep forever
                                                  And everything seems dead

Then a glint of hope
                         A small delicate thing
The only sight of beauty in this frozen wasteland

                         A snowflake

                                                  Then two

                                                                           Then five

Then five hundred freefalling like feathers
                         daintily landing upon the frozen ground

                         Long times pass

                         and then the snow melts
And what should I see out of my frostbitten window but

                                                  A flower

                         Spring at last

q2r

//Todd Hollow//

On Imagination

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T

hy various works, imperial queen, we see,
How bright their forms! how deck’d with pomp by thee!
Thy wond’rous acts in beauteous order stand,
And all attest how potent is thine hand.

      From Helicon’s refulgent heights attend,
Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:
To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,
Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.

      Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
Till some lov’d object strikes her wand’ring eyes,
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.

      Imagination! who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode,
Th’ empyreal palace of the thund’ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind:
From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th’ unbounded soul.

      Though Winter frowns to Fancy’s raptur’d eyes
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;
The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,
And bid their waters murmur o’er the sands.
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,
And with her flow’ry riches deck the plain;
Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,
And all the forest may with leaves be crown’d:
Show’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

      Such is thy pow’r, nor are thine orders vain,
O thou the leader of the mental train:
In full perfection all thy works are wrought,
And thine the sceptre o’er the realms of thought.
Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,
Of subject-passions sov’reign ruler thou;
At thy command joy rushes on the heart,
And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.

      Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th’ expanse on high:
From Tithon’s bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
While a pure stream of light o’erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy’s flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

CrownQueen

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//Phillis Wheatley//

Source | Poems on Various Subjects Religious and Moral (1773)

*[ WSB ].

Six Words

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y

es
no
maybe
sometimes
always
never

Never?
Yes.
Always?
No.
Sometimes?
Maybe—

maybe
never
sometimes.
Yes—
no
always:

always
maybe.
No—
never
yes.
Sometimes,

sometimes
(always)
yes.
Maybe
never . . .
No,

no—
sometimes.
Never.
Always?
Maybe.
Yes—

yes no
maybe sometimes
always never.

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//Lloyd Schwartz//

Link | https://poets.org/poem/six-words

*[ WSB ].

through a night

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Passage through a night in the “seemetary” moreover palpably embeds in human experience a sense of what it is to fall down “dead to the world” and to undergo a spectral transit through a dark “noughttime” at whose sunstruck latter end, after encountering shades and shadows and sometimes harrowing hell, one hurls back an immobilizing rock and undergoes a resurrection of the body into the sun’s day, at the pearly gates of dawn, under an eastering blade of matitudinal light: “Array! Surrection!”

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from: Joyce’s Book of the Dark: Finnegans Wake

//John Bishop//

*[ WSB ].

Thirsting

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I

t’s not that the old are wise
But that we thirst for the wisdom

we had at twenty
when we understood everything

when our brains bubbled
with tingling insights

percolating up from
our brilliant genitals

when our music rang like a global siege
shooting down all the lies in the world

oh then we knew the truth
then we sparkled like mica in granite

and now we stand on the shore
of an ocean that rises and rises
but is too salt to drink

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//Alicia Ostriker//

Link | https://poets.org/poem/thirsting

*[ WSB ].

Underbelly

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Wouldbelove, do not think of me as a whetstone
until you hear the whole story:

In it, I’m not the hero, but I’m not the villain either
so let’s say, in the story, I was human

and made of human-things: fear
and hands, underbelly and blade. Let me

say it plain: I loved someone

and I failed at it. Let me say it
another way: I like to call myself wound

but I will answer to knife. Sometimes
I think we have the same name, Notquitelove. I want

to be soft, to say here is my underbelly and I want you
to hold the knife, but I don’t know what I want you to do:

plunge or mercy. I deserve both. I want to hold and be held.

Let me say it again, Possiblelove: I’m not sure
you should. The truth is: If you don’t, I won’t

die of want or lonely, just time. And not now, not even
soon. But that’s how every story ends eventually.

Here is how one might start: Before. The truth?
I’m not a liar but I close my eyes a lot, Couldbelove.

Before, I let a blade slide itself sharp against me. Look
at where I once bloomed red and pulsing. A keloid

history. I have not forgotten the knife or that I loved
it or what it was like before: my unscarred body

visits me in dreams and photographs. Maybelove,
I barely recognize it without the armor of its scars.

I am trying to tell the truth: the dreams are how
I haunt myself. Maybe I’m not telling the whole story:

I loved someone and now I don’t. I can’t promise
to leave you unscarred. The truth: I am a map

of every blade I ever held. This is not a dream.
Look at us now: all grit and density. What, Wouldbelove

do you know of knives? Do you think you are a soft thing?
I don’t. Maybe the truth is: Both. Blade and guard.

My truth is: blade. My hands

on the blade; my hands, the blade; my hands
carving and re-carving every overzealous fibrous

memory. The truth is: I want to hold your hands
because they are like mine. Holding a knife

by the blade and sharpening it. In your dreams, how much invitation
to pierce are you? Perhapslove, the truth is: I am afraid

we are both knives, both stones, both scarred. Or we will be.

The truth is: I have made fire
before: stone against stone. Mightbelove, I have sharpened

this knife before: blade against blade. I have hurt and hungered
before: flesh

against flesh. I won’t make a dull promise.

q2r

//Nicole Homer//

Link | https://poets.org/poem/underbelly

*[ WSB ].

Charlie Kane

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There is a man – a certain man
And for the poor you may be sure
That he’ll do all he can!
Who is this one?
This fav’rite son?
Just by his action
Has the traction magnates on the run?
Who loves to smoke?
Enjoys a joke?
Who wouldn’t get a bit upset
If he were really broke?
With wealth and fame
He’s still the same
I’ll bet you five you’re not alive
If you don’t know his name

What is his name?…
It’s Charlie Kane.
CROWD: It’s Mister Kane.
He doesn’t like that Mister
He likes good old Charlie Kane.

Who says a miss was made to kiss?
And when he meets one always tries to do exactly this?
Who buys the food?
Who buys the drinks?
Who thinks that dough was made to spend?
And acts the way he thinks?

Now is it Joe?
CROWD: No, no, no, no!
I’ll bet you ten you aren’t men
If you don’t really know!

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//Herman Ruby//

*[ WSB ].

Yukon 1897: Price of Gold [after Jack London]

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His breath a blear of warmth across the vast white
stilled unreal snowfields—
through the feral silence—on the webs
of snowshoes, the old prospector shuffles
heading North.
His lean and faithful dog trots on beside him.

The old man dreams of glory-holes of gold—
dreams the sharp cold gaudy heat
of nuggets—drags his aging breath across
these frozen wastes men
civilize by greed—across this blank and zero world
of cold.
He hikes through frozen air
as though through solid ice.

Too late, on ice, he knows of his mistake—
across a buried lake he feels the crack and craze
of webbed uncertainness beneath him—
and sinking through receives a shock
that squeezes out his breath.

Fingers numb, he kneels and prays
for flame (learns, warmth is real
as riches that he’d looked for).
But yellow nugget-bursts of matches break and fly
and sputter out—
his body fading out,
the sharp cold
presses in.

Beneath the frozen sky
the old man sinks into a snowdrift;
in total cold feels somehow warm.
In soft snow dreams gaudily…
A spider with a body like a nugget
spins his breath like threads
—his vision blurs
and webs
with longings…

In stark, cold air, the stark primeval dog
sniffs briefly at the scents of missing life.

q2r

//John Briggs//

*[ WSB ].