Who Governs?

The camp falls silent;Nestor stands to speak
this Argonaut knows much that's gone before.
Experience is precious to these Greeks,
who'd never contemplated ten years' war.
He'd left a son Telemachus' age
to fight for Helen, whom he'd never wooed.
But with Achilles seething in his rage
the enterprise may utterly be screwed.
The ego Agamemnon can't control
precludes commanding loyalty from men
who see which kings could better play the role
without inflaming rancor, yet again.
If leadership's not vested in the wise,
the greatest squabble, for the merest prize.

Crown Prince

bin Salman's virtue's nowhere to be found;
his failures heap up stinking to the sky.
No resume that justifies a crown,
when Salman must inevitably die.
He got away with murdering Mansour,
and still Khashoggi's body won't stay hid.
No honest judge could deem his hands are pure,
if they knew just a hundredth what he did.
Yemeni orphans starving, curse his name;
Qataris he'd blockaded didn't fold.
For these, and more he's utterly to blame
Without a brain, it's parlous to be bold.
Allied to Trump, he's doomed to sink or swim
And Vegas isn't taking odds on him.

the good wife

No towel dried her husband from his bath;
fair Klytemnestra swathed him in her net.
The victor's victim to his woman's wrath;
their firstborn's not some kid whom she'd forget.
Aegysthos lurked just off the killing floor;
no royal blood would stain his dainty hand.
To stay at home while others sailed to war,
the playwright marks this one as not a man.
Her cousin labors tireless to reweave
the shroud that she'd unpicked by candlelight.
The faithful wife who's careful to deceive
the villains violating what is right.
The textile arts, deployed for good, or ill,
no less than bronze, can bind a wound...or kill.

Conflagration

Great swathes of central Oregon ablaze,
a million acres, near as we can tell.
Horizons dwindle in this toxic haze;
myopically, we navigate through Hell.
Fire policies embraced in 1910
that felt so forward-looking, now seem cruel.
We've queued the same catastrophe again
Suppressing every fire, we banked up fuel.
A managed forest, leaving room to drive
more like the climax woodland long before,
might flare up briefly, yet go on to thrive.
Instead, each August smells like baleful war.
Until--improbably--we really learn
we'll build more wooden houses, and they'll burn.

Reparations

The reparations Trump proposed to pay,
like Kaiser Wilhelm, humbled at Versailles,
can't make his Persian folly go away;
Iranians would pay to watch him die.
The war he'd pledged he wasn't gonna start,
now holds a dagger to his party's throat.
His coalition's poised to fall apart,
when We, the People rouse ourselves to vote.
Three dozen times, he's bragged we're at the end
a glorious success all due to him!
But Congress holds the only pow'r to spend
those billions won't be doled out at his whim.
If this is "winning", we can't bear the cost;
historians will tally this "Trump's Loss".

Waterloo

Iranians have Trump against a wall,
as midterms loom, he's got to end this fast.
Reserves of crude have nowhere left to fall,
and voters' patience isn't gonna last.
Until elections, missile strike won't cease
to drive the costs of gas and diesel higher.
The urgency is all on Trump for peace,
as Persians hold his feet in his own fire.
Our Pentagon had gamed this out before;
that Persian Gulf fits like a jacket (strait).

Our navy's ill-configured for this war,
and all Iranians need do is wait.
The reparations Trump proposed to pay
can't make mistakes this heinous go away.

irreversibility

Six weeks and more, there's no one in that seat;
there's no one at the galas, chasing checks.
Kentuckians inured to ceaseless heat
deserve some slightest clue of what comes next.
The spirit's fled; the empty house of clay
might be sustained as labs would culture cells.
What's crossed the river Styx goes just one way
and can't rebook the slated date with Hell.
Heroics no one undertakes for fun:
machines to breath, and pump, and cleanse the blood...
But after everything's been said, and done,
this turtle's not emerging from the mud.
McConnell's damned us with his dying breath;
he even falsified his date of death.