ST. PETER'S PENCE

Edmund Conti is as old as the hills and older than the candidates.

THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT AN IMPEACHMENT DEFENSE

by Edmund Conti

13 or so Republican whitebirds.

I
Among the Carpathian Mountains
The only moving thing
Was Hunter Biden.

II
I was of three minds
Like a Congress
In which there are Republicans, women and blacks.

III
The blackbird whistled in the autumn winds.
Someone find out who he is.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A quid and a quo and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blower whistling
Or just after.

VI
Reporters filled the White House
Listening,
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood?
The blackbird cackled
Indecipherable caws.

VII
O thin men of CNN,
Why do imagine golden birds?
Do you not see the corruption?
Where is my lawyer?
Rudy. Rudy. Rudy!

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
A beautiful phone call when I hear one
Is what I know.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light
I cry out for a red light
To stop everything.

XI
He rode over Connecticut Avenue
In his limousine,
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The Washington Wizards
For blackbirds.


XII
The river is moving.
Get over it!

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The Democrats sat
Waiting.


There are many ways of looking at Edmund Conti’s poetry. Right side up is best

BIDEN OUR TIME

by Edmund Conti

Cartoon by Rob Rogers

When you want to die in state
And you need a pyramid,
Don’t offer up a camel, mate.
That’s not the proper quid.

Let me help you with your Latin, kid.                                                                                                                                  
It’s not that all profound.
You need the quo to get the quid
And not the other way around.

Say, you do not like your ego
And  prefer another id.
As they’ll tell you in Oswego.
You must let them see your quid.

Or say you’d like a Javelin.
Just respect the White House bid.
Stop your country from unravelin’
For a small (wink, wink) (hint, hint) quid.


Edmund Conti will accept any offer for his poetry. Lucky for you, it's free verse.

FIDDLER WITH THE PROOF

by Edmund Conti

The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s acting chief scientist said in an email to colleagues Sunday that he is investigating whether the agency’s response to President Trump’s Hurricane Dorian tweets constituted a violation of NOAA policies and ethics. Also on Monday, the director of the National Weather Service broke with NOAA leadership over its handling of Trump’s Dorian tweets and statements. —The Washington Post, September 9, 2019

to the tune of "Matchmaker" from Fiddler on the Roof

Mapmaker, Mapmaker
Make me some maps
And put in some storms there
A Cat 5 perhaps.
Then you will have to
Send me relief.
Just a few billions
Will allay my grief.
Mapmaker, Mapmaker
Take out your Sharpie
Use all your witchcraft
Be your best Harpy.
Matchmaker, Matchmaker
Add a small line
And soon we’ll see FEMA
And life here in Alabama (or Georgia or Mississippi) will be fine.


Edmund Conti will alter your poem for a small fee and make it his.

NOTHING TO SEE HERE

by Edmund Conti

Collusion Conclusions by Matt Bors at The Nib

Mueller was our hero
Until his work was done.
Final score, Mueller zero;
Barr none.


Edmund Conti has written several poems. Final score not in yet.

MANAFORT DESTINY

by Edmund Conti

Of course there was heartbreak and strife

     As he travelled through valleys and peaks

But he “lived an otherwise blameless life”

     Which he managed in two or three weeks.

Edmund Conti's life is best left unexamined.

MUELLER MULLING

by Edmund Conti

There is no smoking gun yet.
Results look rather thinnish.
But wait, we are not done yet.
Please just let me finish.


Edmund Conti is about finished as a poet.  Wait, maybe a few more.

HE SAID, HE SAID

by Edmund Conti

Image source: Shapeways

Did I say would, well I meant wouldn’t.
Did I say could, well I meant couldn’t.
Did I say should, you know I shouldn’t.
You heard right, but I meant left.
You heard daft, but I meant deft.
Did I say NATO was a joke.
Of course you know that I misspoke.
Did I just praise the sickle and hammer.
No I didn’t.  Just bad grammar.
Did I just give away Alaska.
You heard wrong, it was Nebraska.
I’m sorry for the things I said.
Perhaps  I should have stood in bed.


Edmund Conti's poetry may be meaningless, but he means what he says.

OUR DULY ERECTED PRESIDENT

by Edmund Conti

“Every time I issue a pardon
I get an executive hard-on.”


Edmund Conti writes straight-up poetry.

REST EASY

by Edmund Conti

Jim Morin, Morin Toons Syndicate via The Denver Post

According to the latest poll,
It’s all there on the table—
Right beside his taco bowl—
His genius? It is stable.

We all can see how smart he is
As far as we are able.
Just watch him do his daily biz.
His genius. It is stable.

He likes to watch TV all day
Especially on cable.
To see what Fox and Friends all say.
His genius. It is stable.

He is the hottest president.
Reminds us of Clark Gable.
Smart and handsome is this gent.
His genius. It is stable.

The news you hear of course is Fake.
Some Democratic fable.
Don’t listen to them bellyache.
His genius. It is stable.


Edmund Conti is not your normal genius.

BROKEN RECORD(S)

by Edmund Conti




Most lies. Most firings.
Fewest hirings.
Most gaffes.
Most laughs.
Most insults.
Fewest results.
Most lies (latest count).
Most cronies (large amount).
Most vacations
at southern plantations.
Believe me.  Believe me. Be-
lieve me.  Believe me.  Believe
me. Believe me. Be…

Edmund Conti has been published in new verse news, in new verse news, in new verse news, in new...

CLINTONATIONS

by Edmund Conti

When you argue with the GOP
Be sure to bring your best artillery.
Their argument you won’t foresee.
It goes like this:  “But Hillary.”

Your facts can sting like a bumblebee,
Dance and flit like a fritillary.
They’ll just respond with calm and glee,
“But Hillary.”

You can argue till your face is blue,
Till you get inane and sillary.
Your logic will be turned on you—
“But Hillary.”


Edmund Conti has not been published in The New Yorker nor has he won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry but …

THAT'SA MY BOY

by Edmund Conti




When your son (what a guy!) meets a Russian and spy
That’sa politics.

When he then says “So what?” since they got diddly squat
That’sa politics.

Dems will sing "What a ding-a-ling, what a ding-a-ling"
And you’ll sing “Mar-a-Lago.”
Let them sing, "Junior Junior jerk, Junior Junior jerk"
You can all keep Chicago.

When the votes make you drool even though it’s not cool
That’sa politics.
When you dance down the street tweeting tweet after tweet
You’re on top.

When you walk in a dream and you’re fooling your team and the voters
Scuzza me, but you see, just between you and me
That’sa politics

Edmund Conti is not related to Eddie "Butterass" Conti nor is he connected. Not to anyone. Especially not the Poetry Mafia.

THE WEEKLY NUISANCE

by Edmund Conti

"Trump Time" by John Mavroudis, The New Yorker

You want to be a cover boy
And that is good and well.
But let me tell you, Lover Boy,
Time will tell.


Edmund Conti has never been on the cover of any magazine, real or fake. Sad.

THE CABINET OF DR. CALIGULARI

by Edmund Conti

 Jim Morin, The Miami Herald, June 13, 2017

When should we start blushing
As the praises, they swell?
When the Cabinet is gushing
Is it too oily to tell?

When should we be stressed
By these fellows in tow?
When Dear Leader is blessed
Is it time that they go?

When should we be wary
When should we all frown
When each Secretary
Gets  his nose (or hers) brown?

Should we throw brickbats at ‘em
Or just let it pass
When this group seriatim
Starts kissing his ass.

Cartoon by Steve Sack, The Minneapolis Star Tribune, June 13, 2017

Edmund Conti doesn't need your praises but he wants them.

AMBASSADOR OF GOOD WILL

by Edmund Conti

When meeting with Sergei Kislyak
Your memory falls through the crack.
There’s so much to discuss
With this welcoming Russ
That it’s awfully hard to keep track.

Edmund Conti is always happy to meet with the Russians to discuss the high price of vodka, have a few laughs, and trade military secrets.

THE BODY POLITIC

by Edmund Conti

We both liked Istanbul.
She, having been there, and I
probably because I am,
as our President would say,
an international. I like
the idea of its being on two
continents. Intercontinental
our President might say.
I like the idea  that Istanbul
was Constantinople, that
Constantinople was Byzantium.
Wishy-washy our President
could say. Our President
talks turkey. But, then,
he’s a President and I?
I’m a Poet. And she?
She laughs at us both.


Edmund Conti's poetry is all over the place.

ROMAN VIRTUES

by Edmund Conti


Life was peaceful
on the Tiber.
No one feared
asbestos fiber.

Romans built the
Appian Way
without advice
from E. P. A.

No Ralph Nader
going on a
crusade for safety.
Pax Romana.

Caligula
was quite a pain
but didn't have
an acid reign.

No immigrants,
advised the omens,
and no hyphen-
ated Romans.

Terrorists in
distant regions—
dealt with swiftly
by the Legions.

Rome eternal.
Why so great?
Was no welfare
city-state.

Roman women
caused no strife.
Knew their place
like Caesar's wife

Let Nero fiddle,
Cicero strum.
as Romans dump in
Mare Nostrum.

Goths and Vandals
made their grim pact
without environ-
mental impact.

Do these verses
have  you stumped?
Let’s just say that
you’ve  been Trumped.





















Edmund Conti is a reformed litterbug (excepting of the poetry landscape).

MORNING IN AMERICA

by Edmund Conti

Image source: The New York Times

I get happy and all smiley
When the news is balanced and fair
Just listening to O’Reilly
As he permeates the air . . .

Michelle’s cup may runneth over
But that’s not Bill's cup o’ tea:
Though her girls grew up in clover,
She's no right to get so uppity.


Edmund Conti has been told not to say he "slaved" all his life—especially since he had it pretty easy.

RAIN DATE

by Edmund Conti

You saw the giraffes first.
Two heads.  Heads held high.
High above the other animals.
What’s up with that? she asked.
Great flood where they came from.
Where would that be?  Curious.  Not caring.
The Mideast.  The Near East.  Somewhere east.
Great, she said, but they better
not land here.  They smell.
We watched them approach.
We need the rain, she said.
I need a raincoat, I said,
holding my nose.


Edmund Conti is a fair-weather poet.