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Silver Key Poetry by Kuk

A Conservative Poem
by Womsikuk  
Let me just say that
I love America.
Every part of it.
From coast to coast, every state is wonderful.
Except for the blue ones.
Let me just say that
I hate liberals.
They’re the kind of people who want the gays to get married.
They’re the kind of people who want every fetus to get aborted.
Every time a liberal wins an election,
God kills a kitten.
Want proof?
You don’t need any. It’s just a fact.
Let me just say that
Evolution is eviler than Satan, Hitler, and Howard Stern.
Don’t tell me I’m descended from monkeys.
God created everything. Evolution is hogwash.
Just ask the Kansas school board.
Let me just say that I love Reagan,
But not in a queer way.
The Gipper inspired me more than Hitler inspired G. Gordon Liddy.
Everyone knows that Reagan’s the best president ever.
What do you mean he developed dementia at the end of his presidency?
That’s a bunch of lies. You know who told you those lies?
In closing,
Vote Republican.
We’ve got your back.
Well, really we’ve got your millionare boss’s back.
But do you really want a Kenyan Muslim in the White House for four more years?
Thank you and God Bless America. USA! USA! USA!
by Womsikuk  
The leaves,
Red and frail,
Fall to the ground.
The water
Once filled with life
Is still and silent.
The trails are empty.
No one is around.
A squirrel pokes his head out of a tree.
The sparrow sings his last song of summer, of life.
In a few months,
Everything will be coated in snow,
The birds will be gone,
Flying to warmth and sunlight.
Winter, however,
Brings its own beauty and elegance.
The evergreens, with their needles coated in snow,
Are a sign that life will return.
Hale is a majestic jewel nestled in the blandness of suburbia
And I have spent many a magical day there.
by Womsikuk
All around you is green.
That deep unique green you can’t find anywhere else.
The field
trimmed and mowed to perfection
sparkles with morning dew.
At night, the lights shine brighter than heaven.
Thirty thousand fans cheering and booing an outcome
they cannot control.
When the players enter the field, their bleached white uniforms
Contrasting with the green,
A sort of poetry occurs.
Every double play, every strikeout,
Every home run hit into the crimson seats,
Is infinitely beautiful.
At noontime, fewer people come to the park,
But the faithful do.
They cheer on the hometown team,
Jeer the visiting one.
The visitors are strangers in a hostile land.
Fans shout the names of their favorite players:
“Big Papi!” “Jacoby!” “Pedroia!” “Lester!”
They each know which player is the best,
But they can never agree.
The veterans take the field, and so do the young men
Full of promise
And passion.
They have a whole career ahead of them,
They have limitless potential.
Fenway is baseball’s weather-beaten Vatican,
Its sweat-soaked Louvre,
Its Buckingham Palace.
It is majestic; it is stunning; it is a living, breathing piece of history.
A hundred years have gone by.
The memories from that time could fill a hundred volumes.
Fenway is more than just a ballpark.
It is Boston.