DEMAGOGUERY FOR DUMMIES: LYING WITH IMPUNITY

by Paul Burgess

President Trump’s shifting positions and outright lies have presented the American public with dueling narratives at every turn. —The New York Times, March 8, 2025

When caught in bold, apparent lies,
Just look accusers in the eyes
And flash a grave, offended frown
While digging in to double down. 
 
When people say they've gotten proof,
Declare their sources stand aloof 
From all that's decent, true, or fair 
And freeze them with an icy stare.
 
Then take their claims and throw them back
And wear them out with your attack.
Their armor takes no time to rend.
They came to charge and not defend.
 
Insist they envy all your fame
And labor hard to smear your name.
To get the mob to take your side,
Appeal to people's sense of pride.
 
Convince them that their brains are wired
To see the way your foes conspired
And other folks are not as smart
Or simply play the villain's part.
 
What's true will shortly be defined 
In only ways you have in mind.
Their truth's not worth a bag of beans
Because you'll change what “honest” means.

Paul Burgess lives in Lexington, Kentucky. He is the sole proprietor of a business that offers ESL, translation, and interpretation services. He speaks several languages fluently and enjoys engaging with the cultures and intellectual histories of many nations. His poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, The Orchards, Parody, Lighten Up Online, and other poetry publications.

HERO

by Gil Hoy




The sun rises, just as splendidly
and majestically as she did
the day before. And the day
before that. He'll be fine,
he thinks, for telling the truth.
The Lieutenant Colonel, with a
Purple Heart, is honest and steadfast.
He loves his Country. She's oblivious
to the impending tempest--ignorant
and innocent. He's not worried, unaware
of his coming marching orders.
For this is America--not the Soviet Union.

Gil Hoy is a Boston poet and progressive political activist. He served four terms as a Brookline, Massachusetts Selectman.

SELF-REVELATION

found poetry by Diane Elayne Dees

I have the right temperament,

I try to learn from the past.

I thought being president

would be easier than my old life.

I'm an honest person, I thought

it would be easier. Bing bing,

bong bong, bing bing bing.

I have embraced crying mothers

who have lost their children

because our politicians put their personal

agendas before the national good.

I have a great relationship with the blacks;

I wouldn't mind a little bow.

Despite the constant negative press

covfefe, they don't know how to write good.

I know more about ISIS than the generals do;

why can't we use nuclear weapons?

I'm their worst nightmare, my fingers are long

and beautiful. Even if the world is going to hell

in a hand-basket, I won't lose a penny.

Who’s doing the raping?

Who's doing the raping?

Diane Elayne Dees’s poems have been published in many journals and anthologies. Diane, who lives in Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that covers women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

WEIGHING DAY

by Devon Balwit 

Mayor-weighing in High Wycombe, England on May 21, 2016. The custom is thought to go back to medieval times and be unique to High Wycombe. The mayor is weighed in at the start of their year in office and then again at the end to make sure the mayor is not getting fat on the back of the town. Photo by Andrew Colley, Bucks Free Press.

Hey all, Hey!  In High Wycombe, it’s weighing day.
Come, big-bellied bureaucrats, step your girth on the scale.
Let the sigh or the groan of the gears tell the tale,
show you abstemious or making loose with our pay.

Hey all, Hey!  In High Wycombe, it’s weighing day.
Time to see what the work of our civil servants has been:
Slaving hard for our good or steeping in sin,
Swilling down spirits, cheese and filets.

Hey all, Hey!  In High Wycombe it’s weighing day.
Who looks chagrined, buttons straining from stress,
the fine silk of their suits split from duress,
as they step from their town cars, chauffeurs driving away?

Hey all, Hey!  In High Wycombe it’s weighing day.
All acts leave a trace, let’s spy out their deeds,
their back-table dealings, the track of their greed,
their cronies and sycophants, let’s make them obey.

Hey all, Hey!  In High Wycombe it’s weighing day.
Ready your missiles, your eggs and your offal,
sharpen invective to make them feel awful.
They serve at our pleasure: make them hear what we say.

Devon Balwit is a poet and teacher working in Portland, Oregon.  She has poems upcoming in The Fog Machine, The Cape Rock, The Fem, and Of(f) Course.  This election distresses her.