A letter to the U.S. Congress, you bunch of dimwits

Dear Congress of the United States of America,
Yeah, you who begged for money to be hired,
What happened on your self-righteous trip to DC,
In what lobbyist cesspool are you now mired?

Is it just that you are lazy self-indulgent egotists,
Or a bunch of incompetent party hack tools,
Do you think you’re at a Halloween masquerade ,
Dressed as monied special interest banker ghouls?

Hey, I’m talking to you mob of politico dodos,
You’re burning up my hard earned tax cash,
People and families are suffering in our country,
Get to work, get off your partisan fat…er, ah, ash.

Does plutocracy ring your green back bells,
Or, have you forgotten about your nation’s need,
Does political party-line mean more than the voter,
Well then, we know from which slop trough you feed.

Where is your brain, what are you doing to us,
Has power, greed, and emotion taken our place,
Does the one percent now represent America,
Their campaign contribution the smile on your face.

When it comes down to your bottom-line,
There is only one thing that really rings true,
All those big dogs in this greedy indifferent world,
Have bought and paid for our congress, that’s you.

©2011, Donald Harbour

What gives meaning to the moment

An autumn rain is peppering the window,
Beatles play on the stereo,
the moment has a breathlessness.
Soon it will inhale, exhale,
then as quickly pass into oblivion,
it contains a puzzle, a question,
so little time to answer its whisper.
Pieces of the day’s life become
gathered up into a plastic Wal-Mart bag,
to be dropped in the waste bin of its passing,
the collected litter of civilized humans.
Structures of wood and brick,
poured concrete slabs on dirt,
only intermittent stamps on the earth,
they too are just a part of the moment.
The day will begin with coffee,
end with wine under a galaxy or stars,
day will become night, night
will commit suicide to the dawn.
Seasons will bury the flowers and
give them glorious life once again.
All the while the impersonal world
wheels about its axis offering an assumption
that there will be a today, a tomorrow.
Bankers will grovel for money,
it is for naught, it means nothing,
politicians fluff their lobbyist infested feathers,
pontificating their egotistical self-indulgence,
countries will engage in killing their own,
religious leaders will pass the plate, offering
their interpreted salvation, the soul’s redemption.
But in the end, each turn of the earth
moves everyone to the brink of their reckoning,
What is important, what will prevail, what
truly has meaning in this life?
Could it be only the earth and its permanence?
This orb is so carelessly misunderstood,
yet, it is the only constant in our moment,
that is the greatest conundrum of life.

©2011, Donald Harbour