Chicago 11.6/7.12

The sky is crying tears of halfbright joy
Caught by the streetlamps, which declare the night
Open for us, in triumph, to delight.
The streets are mostly empty, but alloy
That emptiness with hope. What can destroy
The shining lamps, reflecting out their light
Into the puddled sidewalks? In the sight
I see a remnant of the future: coy,
And only half-arrived, but present still.
A future, not expected from before,
When walking here will be as safe and sure
As downtown daytime. And such daydreams fill
The empty stillness. We can be the cure
As sure as we're the ones we've waited for.

Reelect

Joy uncontained and shrieked into the air
Relief unboundable and so unbounded
At finding that our fears had been unfounded
And what we'd hoped to find had still been there
Within our country's heart; that we could care
For those less fortunate; that on being sounded
Our souls were not so selfish that we hounded
That charity out from us; that despair
Was not the message that we gave the future.
Of course there still are obstacled to face:
It will take time to heal the nation's suture
Stitched between those who perforce share a space
But not a heart or mind. And yet I hope
Seeing the past, that we in time will cope.

Seek

There is a kind of man I'd like to see
(Though it could be a woman, have no doubt
Who sees ahead by probability
And carefully does not rule bad things out,
But plans for them, and curates, while he can
The good he would protect from such a harm,
Who knows his limits like a humble man
But has the pride to sometimes bet the farm
When he is sure and odds are on his side,
Who loves his country, but can see her flaws
And grapple with them honestly, whose wide
Far-reaching mind is bound within the laws.
I'd vote for him (or her); as I have done.
And now tonight I'll know if he has won.

Endorsement

The last four years we all know have been hard
And some decisions were not for the best
But nothing that he's done has truly marred
The good he's done. I think we have been blessed
In times of trouble to have found a man
Who sees straight as he talks, both calm and wise,
Who knows the truth of life is "Yes, we can"
But sees that "we" is where the power lies;
Who does not try to force his way, but strives
Beyond belief to bring in others' views;
Who cares for those he works for and their lives,
And does not run this country by the news
Cycle, but by what is good and right;
A man I hope we re-elect tonight.

11/6

Tomorrow is decisive
Tomorrow is the day
When at our most divisive
We all can have our say
This is day we choose
The white rose or the red
The day one side must lose
The other win instead
And compromise cannot
Without a parliament
Revise what we have got
By joining alignment
We'll see tomorrow who
Will see these four years through.

Savings Time

The slow drip of empty hours
Towards the closing time of day
Needs not what the extant powers
Have decreed to help its sway
In the wintertime the sun will
Fly across the sky toward night
Like a beetle on a dunghill
Towards his mistress with delight
Why should we then help its travel
By decreeing day to cease
Earlier, and thus unravel
Daylight which alone brings peace?
Its as if the dark ruled man
In the winter. Which it can.

Dates

I miss the simple days
When planning was not needed
Beyond a moment's phase
And long-term thoughts were seeded
Only in the minds
Of those who looked for trouble.
But now each moment finds
Its future on the bubble
And I must peer ahead
Lest that that bubble break
And leave the future bled
Of what I can't foresake
Now calendars are key
To map futurity.

Spelling Game

The people next to me are playing
Something I have often played
I can't unhear what they are saying
And yet can't interrupt and wade
Into their errors and their follies
Wielding my self-certain sword
Although I'd love to get my jollies
Challenging their whole word hoard
Alot is not a word, you know,
Unless you take it from a meme;
Don't change the groundrules as you go
Despite how tempting it may seem
And for the love of God, please stop
Condescending like a fop.

Deal

What am I to do about
My innate self-adaptive sense?
I do not often fight with doubt
Or fear, and strive for competence
In all I do. Which means that I
When awful things assault all 'round
Hike up my mental belt and try
To seek an inner higher ground.
When deep frustration threatens me
I find a way around its flank
And so avoid it frequently
It sounds as if I ought to thank
This sense, however it was got
But what if it turns me robot?

Workahol

The days I am productive are
A resourced dwindling with time
Nowadays they're few and far
And often only deal with rhyme
In older times, I swear, they were
A common, almost constant stream
But now I fear the aquifer
Has self-diminished like a dream
That flits out of the nighttime head
Just as the sunshine wakes the eyes
And tantalizes from the bed
The woken mind with vain surmise
So as I dream of working well
I laze and feel those feelings quell.