FAKE Elector

Bob dressed up real fine for his mugshot

Robert was a carpenter, a FAKE Elector too,

He lived in Palominas where 92 runs through.

Had an acre down on Cana where he plied his trade,

And it was full of all the storage sheds he made.

Maybe had a fling with the trucker’s wife next door,

‘til the hubby came home and figured out the score.

Brandished his AR when immigrants came through,

Though what it was about, he didn’t have a clue.

Framed up a house, but never finished it,

Got involved in politics, thought he’d do his bit.

Got active in the Tea Party, took over PFD,[1]

Believed everything he heard on his Fox TV.

Then he got his chance to make a big impact,

Became the County Chair, though principles he lacked.

Went on up to Phoenix, to mingle with elites,

And hung on every word of Trumpy’s latest tweets.

Then came that bleak November when Donald lost it all,

The election must be RIGGED! was the clarion call.

Then Eastman and Chesebro formed an evil plan,

A slate of FAKE electors and victory for their Man.

On the Fourteenth of December Robert donned a tie,

And voted with the Party for Trump’s election lie.

Kelli Ward would call for the FAKE Elector votes,

And Robert he became one of Trumpy’s Judas goats.

Robert was a carpenter, a FAKE Elector too,

He’ll probably be in prison before it all is through.

Video of Arizona’s FAKE Electors committing election crimes: Video Of Kelli Ward Signing Fake Election Certification Re-emerges Following Subpoena (newsweek.com)

Link to CNN Report on Arizona’s FAKE Electors:  Watch: CNN reporter tracks down Arizona fake electors | CNN Politics

[1] Palominas Fire Department

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Hope

The crackle of the fire slowly fades away,

  its embers mark the end of another day.

The winter snow doth glisten in the soft moonlight,

  like a Monet painting of a frosty night.

Outside all is quiet, the carolers have gone home,

  the stranger he is welcome, this is not the night to roam.

May this holy night warm your heart and soul,

  and if you’re feeling blue may this night console.

Let the star that guides you bring you peace and love,

  for everything that matters comes from up above.

LDT Christmas Eve, 2023

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Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I know I havn’t written since Nineteen Fifty-Two,

But lately I’ve been feelin’ sorta sad and kinda blue.

There’s trouble in the world and strife across the land,

And things have sorta gotten a little out of hand.

So as you pack your sleigh and head out on you way,

I’d just like to say, bring me yesterday.

Kids with rosy cheeks in their overshoes,

Never even caring about the latest news.

Stockings on the mantle full of little treats,

And not a hint of trouble in the city streets.

May each family gather around a fire so warm,

And never have to worry that some would do them harm.

Snow hanging from the trees, sleds and skates and skis,

No hostages to seize, someone to hear their pleas.

Garland on the wall, good will for us all,

No darkness and no pall, no bombs to ever fall.

Turkey, duck or chicken, just make it finger lickin’,

No viruses to sicken, and leave so many stricken.

Give us joy at last, it’s just a simple task,

Time is fadin’ fast, is this too much to ask?

LDT Christmas ‘23

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Mule Pass

Mule Pass Tunnel. Bisbee, Arizona

Up on Mule Pass there’s no place you can turn,

Just a tunnel to the past, no bridges left to burn.

Right  beyond the pass there lies another world,

Where I can hide from the troubles I have unfurled.

Up ‘til now I reckin’ I haven’t had a care,

I’ve learned to hang my hat nearly anywhere.

A miner’s shack in Bisbee on the side of a hill.

Scroungin’ up the cash to pay my next rent bill.

A roof and a wall, it ain’t the Taj Mahal,

The meaning of it all, I ain’t got far to fall.

I hang out on my own, my future is unknown,

The good life I have blown, I ain’t even got a phone.

At night I drive on back to my little shack,

And when I hit the rack, I’ve nuthin’ to unpack.

It might be soundin’ strange, I think I need a change,

Gotta cure the mange, but what can I arrange?

The tunnel’s up ahead, one more night to dread,

 It’s here that I have fled, shoulda’ faced the world instead.

No one counts on me, no one hears my plea,

I might be wild and free, but that’s no way to be.

Shake off my malaise, it’s time to reappraise,

There could be better days, Mule Pass runs both ways.

Tonight, I met a lass, and fell in love real fast,

And up on Mule Pass, I let go of my past.

LDT December 11, ‘23

Karen and I had our first date on December 11, 1971. I had a lot to think of on my way back to Bisbee.

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Gene Vincent Show

In the 1950’s I attended my first rock concert.



Be bop a lula, Gene Vincent Show,



Heard all about it on the radio.



He’s comin’ to town with electric guitars,



A rockin’ piano fit for the stars.



Glasgow, Montana will be rockin’ on out,



Cuz Rock and Roll is what it’s about.



He’ll grab the mike stand and sing with the
band,



He’s the best in the land until he get’s
banned.



He’ll shimmy and shake and wiggle his
pelvis,



He’ll sorta remind us of someone named
Elvis.



Lookin’ so cool in his ducktail haircut,



We know all about all the records he’s cut.



His collar turned up, his dancin’ shoes on,



He’ll have us rockin’ until the next dawn.



Our parents don’t like him, it’s sad but
it’s true,



His kind of music came out of the blue.



What happened to waltzin’ and cuttin’ a rug?



Aspirin and coke is a hell of a drug.



We’ll kick off our shoes and rock in our
socks,



No one will catch us lookin’ at clocks.



That Rock and Roll beat lies deep in our
soul,



It gets our feet rockin’ and we’re ready to
roll.



The Civic Center ain’t seen such a sight,



As that time we rocked through the night.



Be bop a lula, Gene Vincent Show,



Nearly as wild as a ranch rodeo.



LDT December 9, ‘23

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Lost Father

Book Review

My daughter, Michele, has written a compelling new book.

Some stories are not easy to tell. Being the father of a lost child is one of them. The main character, Bruce, is suddenly contacted by someone from the past. The story relates the anguish, the sorrow and the secrets he has kept hidden for 50 years. Confronted with the impact of his lies, he first makes excuses. He finally realizes that the time has come to face his past, but he doesn’t know how. His life flashes before him as he reviews his many missteps after his one huge mistake. His bad decisions have compounded leaving him deeply conflicted. A random stranger offers counsel. As the story unfolds, the answer gradually reveals itself.

Lost Father is a thoughtful, well-written book about healing nad redemption. It provides an accurate and compelling description of how difficult personal decisions were made in the milieu of changing values and conditions in a bygone era. (The 1960’s.)  The conclusion leaves the reader speculating about Bruce’s next step in his path to healing the damage he has caused.

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Orange Jesus

Oh, the things that we do for Orange Jesus,

He gets everything that he pleases.

We may have forgotten the times,

We had to ignore all His crimes.

We have to believe all His lies,

And proclaim Him noble and wise.

We have to ignore all the files,

That name his pals as pedophiles.

If He loses, we must proclaim,

Election fraud! Such a shame!

If He calls, we know we must come,

Though the Capitol riot seemed kinda dumb.

We will glibly be taking the Fifth,

It’s not for us to be makin’ a rift.

His attorneys all got disbarred,

Because they were lying too hard.

Now we are all facing jail,

As we struggle to come up with bail.

We broke laws for Him big and small,

Hoping that He would pardon us all.

As He deals with all of His trials,

We give Him our praise and our smiles.

Oh, the things that we do for Orange Jesus,

Some of it is quite treasonous.

LDT December 2, ‘23

The phrase, “The things we do for Orange Jesus,” was coined by Rep Mark Green (R-TN) as he voted against certifying the 2020 election.

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Urban Coyote

On the other side of Main there is a little wash,

Where lives a wily coyote with cunning and panache.

He don’t mind the traffic, the hubbub and noise,

Sneakin’ through the broom bush is what he enjoys.

When he’s done with chasin’ that Roadrunner bird,

He will run off with the Javelina herd.

In the middle of our town, he’s wild and he’s free,

With only the packrats, for his company.

He’ll dodge all the buses and all of the cars,

And then go a-prancin’ underneath the stars.

It’s mostly at night when you see him prowl,

If he’s lookin’ for love, he’ll let out a howl.

If you cross his path, don’t be afraid,

All he wants is a trash can to raid.

A reminder to keep little Fluffy inside,

Cuz out in the yard there is no place to hide!

LDT December 1, ‘23

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Pilgrims

by Robert Service

A Marine after the Battle of Iwo Jima (1945)

For oh, when the war will be over
We’ll go and we’ll look for our dead;
We’ll go when the bee’s on the clover,
And the plume of the poppy is red:
We’ll go when the year’s at its gayest,
When meadows are laughing with flow’rs;
And there where the crosses are greyest,
We’ll seek for the cross that is ours.

For they cry to us: `Friends, we are lonely,
A-weary the night and the day;
But come in the blossom-time only,
Come when our graves will be gay:
When daffodils all are a-blowing,
And larks are a-thrilling the skies,
Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing,
And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.

`But never, oh, never come sighing,
For ours was the Splendid Release;
And oh, but ’twas joy in the dying
To know we were winning you Peace!
So come when the valleys are sheening,
And fledged with the promise of grain;
And here where our graves will be greening,
Just smile and be happy again.’

And so, when the war will be over,
We’ll seek for the Wonderful One;
And maiden will look for her lover,
And mother will look for her son;
And there will be end to our grieving,
And gladness will gleam over loss,
As — glory beyond all believing!
We point . . . to a name on a cross.

From: Rhymes of A Red Cross Man by Robert Service (1916)

Poet Robert Service served as a stretcher bearer and ambulance driver for the Red Cross in World War I.

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The Man at the Post Office

Havre, Montana Post Office.
Mr. Kiesling had his kiosk in the lobby.

The unseeing eyes, the burns on his face,

His little newsstand seemed out of place.

He sold papers and candy and cigarettes,

Someone told me he was one of the vets,

As a young man he had heard the call,

Without caring that he might fall.

He tore into Hell where the firing was hot,

The burns on his face were all that he got.

They sewed up his wounds, and made a new lip,

Then sent him home on a Hospital Ship.

He had a white cane and blank stare,

But he could get to most anywhere.

The VA sent him to the Blind School,

To learn new skills and tools that were cool.

He came to our town and settled on down,

And it was good just to see him around.

He did not rue fate, and his dealings were straight,

He opened at eight and he never was late.

The Man at the Post Office gave us his all,

He should have got a plaque on the wall.

May we all remember a life lived with grace,

With unseeing eyes and burns on his face.

LDT November 11, ‘23

This poem is dedicated to the blind man who ran the Bodega at the Havre, Montana Post Office. He took some classes at Northern when I was there. his name was Rob Kiesling. He was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge. May his service and sacrifice always be remembered.

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