A combat-ready militia in the Sunshine State. (dedicated to Lawrence Mower.)

 

 

From where the palm trees sway and pelicans glide,
Where sunsets kiss the Gulf in sweet goodnight,
A change unfurls 'neath the Floridian tide,
In shadowed halls and dimmed, uncertain light.

Once stood the Guard, in hurricanes' fierce throes,
A beacon in the dark for those displaced,
Now their purpose wavers, evolves, and grows,
Their true intentions subtly encased.

The Governor’s words stir worry and dread,
As DeSantis molds a mightier Guard,
Visions of combat fill the public's head,
And the implications hit all too hard.

They fear, for peace, a price too steep to pay,
When a militia's mustered in the fray,
Rumors of coup, in hushed whispers they say,
Could Florida's own face an inner affray?

Unnerving questions cloak the Sunshine State,
A future obscured in a cloudy slate,
What are these changes that we tolerate?
What hidden storm does this new Guard await?

Yet hope persists in every Floridian heart,
For strength in unity can play its part,
In face of uncertainty, they'll not depart,
Standing together, they'll make a fresh start.

So, may truth triumph in this southern land,
For the power of the people is close at hand,
And in the face of change, they’ll make their stand,
As the tides shift upon the sun-kissed sand.
 

California's Housing Market. (Dedicated to Ryan Fonseca.)

 

 

California's housing market is a wretched mess,
Where the price of homes breeds such duress.
The coastal dreams, once within reach,
Are held aloft, like a sun-kissed peach.

Gilded mansions stand tall and bright,
Underneath them quakes strike in the night.
Along the shorelines, floods rise high,
In the tinderbox hills, fires light the sky.

Each year brings more threat, wildfire's bloom,
Homes wiped away, leaving just gloom.
Yet the costs spiral on, with unending increase,
A merciless cycle, offering no release.

The burdened buyer, weary and fraught,
In a merciless market, their dreams are bought.
Bogged in battles of bidding and claim,
In the Golden State, the game's in the name.

And where is refuge? Can safety be found?
Not in these prices, skyward bound.
Even the heartland, away from the coast,
Hosts haunting prices, a ghostly host.

Mortgage rates, a treacherous sea,
Robbing the hopeful of their glee.
And the agents, oh, their ethics wane,
In the pursuit of profit, in the hunger for gain.

California's housing, a troubling tale,
Where dreams are sold on a grander scale.
Yet beneath the glitz, and the golden gleam,
Lies the hollow echo of the Californian Dream.

I wish I lived upon a boat. (Dedicated to Colleen Wright.)

 

 

I wish I lived upon a boat, beneath the sky's grand quilt,
Where marina life's the antidote to worries and to guilt.
To rise with sun, to sleep with moon, amongst the rhythm, the flit,
To be one with the morning's croon, and the seabird's sunlit lit.

Ah, the public marina, where dreams float at modest rent,
Where laughter echoes off the brine, and hours joyfully spent.
Every dawn, a canvas bright, every night, a star-kissed token,
Life's simplicity at its height, unspoken words, yet spoken.

To the market, for daily bread, to the dock, for friendly chatter,
By humble means, yet nobly fed, where the world's woes do not matter.
The endless tales of ocean's might, in each boat's weathered lines,
Where every day brings sheer delight, and even sorrow shines.

But a shadow grows across our berth, a bitter, hard-drawn line,
The scent of change upon the earth, the taste of sour wine.
St. Pete's marina, once our home, now taken by the grand,
Where once was freedom's vast, blue dome, now stands the private land.

They raise the rent, beyond our reach, the dream begins to wane,
This haven, now a forbidden beach, filled with unneeded pain.
Where life was sweet, and joy was cheap, only echoes remain,
In our hearts, the wounds run deep, the loss feels like a chain.

From our boats, we must depart, our homes upon the wave,
Each farewell, a breaking heart, yet we must be brave.
The dumpsters wait, with open arms, a grim and bitter jest,
Yet even there, amidst the harms, we'll make the very best.

I wished I lived upon a boat, beneath the sky's grand quilt,
But now the dream begins to float, on waters of the guilt.
Yet hope endures, as tides will turn, and dreams might yet revive,
For in our hearts, the sea-lights burn, and keep our spirits alive.
 

Give me air conditioning or give me death! (Dedicated to Julia Carpenter.)

 

 

In the summer's fevered embrace, where sweat and desire interlace,
Sundry long for steak, seared and rich, for luxury such is their wish.
But give to me not meat's delight, nor pleasure drawn from appetite,
A humbler yearning stirs my soul, my comfort - the air conditioner's role.

While some seek sun-kissed skin and sand, and bodies bronzed by summer's hand,
I yearn not for a sun-soaked scene, with bathing beauties' radiant sheen.
Rather, I dream of icy plains, where snowfall weaves her endless chains,
In penguin's guise, I'd find release, in solitude, in icy peace.

The sun-drenched throng may scoff and jest, to them, my pleasure seems a jest,
Beneath the sun, they dance and sway, but I, in coolness, prefer to stay.
No sizzling steak or sultry beach could ever within my contentment reach,
For me, the summer's burning glare is naught compared to AC's care.

Such is the cool, steady hum, a lullaby to some,
It weaves a world of frost and snow, where heat and hunger seldom show.
Antarctica, in my dreams I roam, among the icebergs, I have found home,
Where frost-kissed winds do freely blow, in AC's steady, soothing flow.

Like penguins huddled against the storm, I feel not cold, but rather warm,
Amidst the snow and silent ice, I find a paradise concise.
While sun worshippers may sneer, I hold my frosted haven dear,
And shiver in my pleasure dome, the cold, my heart, forever home.

The scorching summer sun may reign, but I yearn for winter's domain,
Yearning for the icy blast, for summer's tyranny to be passed.
I call out to the frosty air, Old Man Winter, do not despair,
Hasten forth your frosty reign, bring your soothing, icy rain.

Oh Old Man Winter, hear my plea, make haste, return and set me free,
Exchange the heat for your frosty kiss, grant me my icy bliss.
End the reign of summer's tyranny, replace it with your gentle, icy sea,
Come, Old Man Winter, return and stay, and keep the burning sun at bay.

LGBT History is America's History. (Dedicated to Ben Chapman.)

 

 

In classrooms of stone and chalk, a story left untold,
Of lovers bold, of spirits free, of courage strong and gold.
Not tales of battles fought with swords, but battles of the heart,
A missing piece of history's scroll, an integral part.

In rainbows of identity, diverse in every hue,
Lies the LGBT story, full of life, authentic and true.
To cloak it in the shadows, deny its rightful place,
Is to rob the young of wisdom, blind them to grace.

Each tale spun in the classroom, it shapes the world we see,
For from knowledge comes understanding, from understanding, empathy.
Stories of love and struggle, of triumph over pain,
These are the lessons crucial, etched deep in every brain.

Ignorance breeds intolerance, so let our children learn,
Of the many roads to love and life, at each and every turn.
Tales of Stonewall's fiery night, of bravery shown in the face,
Of intolerance and bigotry, of finding one's true space.

Reflect the many shades of love, in all its splendid forms,
Break down the walls of prejudice, reject the tiring norms.
Equality's not a tapestry woven with a single thread,
But a vibrant, rich mosaic of love's colors spread.

For the youth will craft tomorrow, in their hearts and minds,
A world more just, inclusive, leaving no one behind.
Teach them of the past's mistakes, of love's enduring strife,
And they'll create a future, where all may live their life.

So, unveil the LGBT history, let its truth unfurl,
Paint a more complete picture of our wide and wondrous world.
In our classrooms, let these stories sing, resonate and thrive,
For in diversity and tolerance, we truly come alive.

The years have caught up with me. (Dedicated to Bill Kole.)

 

Now I bask in the warm light of indolence,
No reason needed, 'cept for senescence.
The years have caught up, as they tend to do,
Finally, I am free to sip my lazy brew.

Gone are the days of nine to five,
Now in languor's arms, I joyfully dive.
Reports and deadlines, they all can flee,
For the years, my friend, have caught up with me.

"Oh, you're a slacker!" they used to chide,
But I've always let such remarks slide.
Now that I'm aged, grizzled and grey,
There's no need for excuses, I dare say.

I bask in the glow of my TV screen,
In sweatpants and slippers, no need to preen.
Years of rushing, all a memory,
Now the years have finally caught up with me.

Unhurried mornings, endless cups of tea,
Books and daydreams, as far as I can see.
Ah, sweet laziness, my jubilant decree,
For at long last, the years have caught up with me.

I'm not lazy, I'm just biding my time,
In the rhythm of retirement, a beautiful rhyme.
Why run and chase, when you can be free?
Thank the stars, the years have caught up with me.

So here’s to the joys of doing nothing at all,
To living life slow, letting the time crawl.
I'm not a slacker, just finally living carefree,
Blessed be the years, for they've caught up with me.

The Hollywood Writer's Strike. (Dedicated to Samantha Chery.)

 

 

In the heart of Tinseltown, a discordant note rings,
Hollywood's scribes have downed their tools, silenced are the kings,
Scripted fantasies are frozen, on paper they remain,
In directors' heads, their visions - but their voices, they restrain.

Their words that fuel the dreams of many, stand in stark defiance,
No longer playing puppeteer in the dance of compliance,
TV screens grow silent, movie reels refuse to spin,
In the kingdom of the silver screen, a rebellion from within.

For each has found their power, in the silence and the pause,
They will no longer write on demand, without a noble cause,
No more cardboard characters, no plots absurd and thin,
In the absence of their labor, may a new era begin.

Now Netflix waits in nervousness, its catalogue growing bare,
Marvel's heroes rest awhile, mid-flight in comic air,
The ceaseless churn of mediocrity, finally at an end,
The call for true artistry, the writers did send.

From the ashes of this strike, a phoenix may just rise,
Stories told with more depth, no longer simply franchise,
The slate wiped clean, a canvas fresh, the writers hold the key,
To a future of more substance, where true storytelling's free.

So, hail this Hollywood strike, though it may seem severe,
For in its wake, we may just find, a cinematic sphere,
Where artistry is valued, and stories truly matter,
And the din of vapid content, begins to simply shatter.

For if we see no longer the incessant, thoughtless churn,
Then perhaps we'll value more the tales that truly burn,
Deep within our hearts, they'll resonate and thrive,
Heralding a new dawn, where quality will survive.
 

Threads vs Twitter. (Dedicated to Art Raymond)

 

 

There is nothing Twitter dreads more than Meta's brand new Threads,
A social network change the pace, on this grand stage, it treads.
Boldly entering the internet's high stakes game,
Twitter pales in comparison, feeling old, quite lame.

Once as vibrant as a rotary phone, now just an antique,
Twitter struggles to maintain its peak.
Its character limit, once a sly trick,
Now feels restrictive, a candle wick burnt quick.

Enter Threads, the innovative brainchild of Zuckerberg's mind,
A realm where thoughts can flow, unconfined.
Where conversation can flourish, ideas interlace,
Threads provides a dynamic, pulsing space.

People, they flock to Meta's newest gift,
Twitter's relevance down a precipitous rift.
The era of Tweets seems like distant past,
In the face of Threads, shadows it cast.

Musk's Twitter realm, once so popular, so bold,
Now seems weathered, stale, and old.
Zuckerberg's Threads, however, fresh and inviting,
Leads the social media era, bright and exciting.

In the realm of progress, the old must give way,
Twitter, like the rotary phone, has had its day.
The future is Threads, its appeal widespread,
A new age of communication, excitingly bred.

So, here lies Twitter, beneath Meta's expanding sky,
As obsolete as a rotary phone, we bid goodbye.
The world embraces Threads, its potential untold,
A testament to innovation, brave and bold.
 

In the MAGA mirror, Trump's personal peril looks like a personal threat. (Dedicated to Jesus Rodriguez.)

 

 

In the realm of power where voices intertwine,
Trump echoes loudly, his tactics bold yet fine.
A charisma like no other, his followers align,
Yet their hearts flicker with a disquieting sign.

His maneuvers skirt the edge of the lawful abyss,
In the political realm, it's a perilous bliss.
Yet those who stand with him in the boisterous mist,
Question the whirlwind, their loyalty amiss.

With every decree, each executive order,
Some fear they're pawns in his chaotic disorder.
Each rally cry, each accusatory recorder,
Does it herald trouble across the border?

For each legal misstep, a potential cascade,
That might implicate them in the mess he's made.
His words might shield him in the media parade,
But will their compliance render them betrayed?

They stand on the precipice, filled with unease,
Each tweet, each controversy, failing to please.
Could they, too, be tangled in his complex squeeze,
And be swept away by a legal breeze?

In the heart of his fervor, they're left to wonder,
At the echo of a gavel, a growing thunder.
Trump's reign, his tactics, the political plunder,
Leaves them in the tremor of potential asunder.
 

When A.I. Rules the Entertainment World. (Dedicated to Amol Sharma.)

 

 

 

(1)
On screens that hum with a pixellated light,
In echoes of laughter, in stories untold,
AI is the scribe that writes through the night,
Unleashing narratives, both new and old.
No longer do humans hold exclusive right,
To create the tales that on screens unfold.

(2)
In shadows of silver, on film celluloid,
AI crafts a drama with depth and scope.
Director, actor, both now devoid,
Replaced by algorithms that challenge hope.
Yet, in the echoes of what's been destroyed,
Lies the question - can a machine truly cope?

(3)
Now music whispers from silicon throats,
In melodies sweet, born from binary hearts.
Each note, each chord, algorithmically floats,
Creating symphonies, state-of-the-art.
But will this coded song in the end promote,
A world where human touch has no part?

(4)
The written word, once a human feat,
Now flows from AI with flawless ease.
Books and articles in every seat,
Created not by hand, but by machines.
Yet in the heart of each tale replete,
Will there remain a human's tease?

(5)
In the realm of sports, AI takes the field,
Predicting outcomes with unnerving skill.
From player stats to the protective shield,
It controls the game, bending it to its will.
Are we prepared for the world it's revealed,
A future that's algorithmically distilled?

(6)
On billboards high and banners wide,
AI crafts the message to sell and sway.
Human designers set aside,
As algorithms now hold sway.
Yet, can we trust this digital tide,
To ethically lead the way?

(7)
As AI encroaches upon our sphere,
In every field, in every way,
A question echoes, drawing near -
What is the human role to play?
Yet, in our hearts, let's hold no fear,
For we are the dreamers, come what may.