Donald Trump & My Jewish Mother

Pearl would have known what to say to Donald Trump.

I’m thinking of my late mom as I embark on a patriotic mission: trying to find light amid the gloom of our current national political situation by writing 70 poems about our president.

Decades after publishing a volume of poetry, I decided to pick the pen back up as a new age dawned in Washington. I resolved to write the 70 poems about Trump, a man of my own age, about 70 years, and to find inspiration, and possibly something good in him 70 times, or at least 70 triggers from him toward the making of a good poem.

I’m up to about 20 poems now in my Trumpoetries marathon, and still standing. The collection is provisionally titled Donald Trump’s Bathrobe. I hope to get to 50 more before the end of his presidency, however that turns out. A few sample poems follow, including a selection in honor of Independence Day and another in honor of this week’s local property tax deadline. But first, the inaugural poem on how Donald Trump has made me appreciate my late mother, Pearl Appel.

Donald Trump And My Jewish Mother

I can’t deny what they say
That you are coarse and egotistical
A disdainer of women, immigrants, short people, germs
I could go on but what’s the point.
To you anger comes too naturally.
Why is that?
My mother, an uneducated woman,
Urged me to make friends
By looking for something I have in common
Or, better yet, to look for the very best,
Or at least a jot of the stuff in everyone.
She saw some, even in me, though I harbored
Toward her dark and shameful thoughts.
Honor thy father and thy mother.
Not as easy as it sounds.
And that ​“thy” always upped the ante.
And everyone heaves around the word ​“honor.”
Apart from soldiers, do we know what it means?
What do you harbor toward your mother and father, sir?
The nation awaits your reply
You must act at least as if you have parents
And were not sprung full blown from …
… Oh, forgive me, and let me thank you for …
For what? … For making me continue to think of my mother.
Who also said I should smile more.
How that made me squirm.
Still I’d like also to pass her advice on to you.
Smile as if it were as necessary as breathing.
Because your jaw is always so taut
As if a smile would crack the dish of your face
How can you expect to make friends that way?
From Kiev to Kalamazoo proclaim
That no one who smiles shall be deported.
And from sea to shining sea the nation will smile.
If your voice also had a little lilt to it as well
Which will come if you turn up the corners of your mouth
You will reduce or eliminate that scary intake-of-oxygen
Your hiss, as if each of your partial thoughts were the a final pronouncement
That is quite alarming in a democratic republic
Then for sure we’d think generally better thoughts
Perhaps of angels who wait for a voice box or wing repair
Yet still manage always to smile and to look up
Inspiring us. Oh, you are 70 years old
And human and you are going to die!
Will you just please be nice!
If not for me, then for my mother
May her name be blessed.

Instructions for July 4th.

Avoid barbecuing the facts
Serve only alcohol
With a high percentage of history
Best to fly a flag tailored
To your own heart
Decorate home with accents of truth
Parade humbly, preferably holding a small child’s hand
Play a game of baseball but do not hide the signs
Watch a war movie where the blood is real
Ask relatives to elucidate the difference
Between liberty and freedom, a republic and a democracy
Don’t be afraid to Google them yourself
Give a prize to whoever explains
The Nullification Crisis.
And a grand prize for the significance
Of Andrew Jackson’s hair
Presidential hair in general.
Do not let anyone leave
Who cannot elucidate what
​“Four score and seven years ago” refers to
Memorize the list of the dead presidents
Ask your guests who knows
A single fact about Polk, Fillmore, or Pierce
Their first names count
Though contemporary street names do not qualify.
Winners get to go home first
Visit the cemetery and say nothing
Make a speech that strives to be like the cemetery.
Leave room for dessert.

Paying Half My New Haven Taxes

I stand in line to pay my taxes, thinking of you, our president
A man who in his tax-paying is unprecedented
Four thousand, three hundred thirty nine dollars overdue
Having received no reminder, I paid only half the property tax
So here I am, inching up, and oddly not angry, I simply forgot
Actually pleased, sort of, to be part of something you’re not
So far as we know, yet if you too are overdue
On this friendly line I have no doubt there’s room for you
In front of me, or behind, anywhere,
We understand you’re unused to waits, so I’ve taken a poll
And my pal here, to whom I’ve confided these notes
Even voted for you. He’s offered to buy you coffee and a roll
No kidding, sir, you can make it a positive press event, it may get you votes
And then there’s this, as I move up, and am only two or three away. 
Isn’t tax collection like stepping into a history play
​“In the days of Caesar Augustus …” is how the New Testament begins
As the Roman tax collectors fanned out into all Judea
(Really, it appears taxes is a Christian thing, not my idea)
It’s hard to believe I’m a cheerleader for doing your duty
But why not, sir? You like to be the center of attention
Just suck it up and join the community …
… Then, suddenly, as if in a daze, I’m there
I’m at the assessor’s window check in hand
About to fill in the amount
When no interest is due, I’m apprised
What happens next I think you’ll recognize:
My pleasure is such I sign my name
Yet not in my usual nondescript way
But with a flourish, in letters two, three times the normal size
What’s more I’m now brandishing my small blue check for all
My fellow payers in the tax assessor’s office to see
I’m parading it, left and right, to all these folks
In the assessor’s office who, well, don’t all seem to get the joke
As it dawns on me what I have done. And for which I apologize, sir.
The executive orders? The signing ceremonies. Remember?
What in the world overcame me to become, for an instant, your TV gesture!
Security was courteous, the fine small, then waived, though it gave me a start
I’m resting now, thank you, sir. Isn’t it time you did your part?

Ode To Pre-Existing Conditons

Breathing. Sighing. Yawning. Dying.
Growing older, growing pregnant, growing unpregnant
It’s all there, in the folder
Just plain being. Acne. Love. Beauty
Fractured, over-devoted to duty.
Heartsick, heart-filled, heart diseased
Just plain hearty, diabetes
Diatribe-ing, Hodgkins lymphoma
Demureness, Demi Moore-ness
Opioids, other addictions.
Trampled by the bulls in Pamplona.
High blood pressure, low blood pressure
In between pressure, being alone.
Skepticism, humor, silliness, a tumor
Depression, anxiety, overcome by variety
Struck by crabbiness, cancer, and hail
Loony, gone fishing, turned down by Yale.
Arthritis, pericarditis
Lou Gehrig’s Disease, whacked by skis
Being bitten by Ralph Nader
Pre-existence as a Florida Gator
Delusion of being a dragon slayer
Believe we’ll live long enough to see Single Payer

In addition to being a reporter for the Independent since the paper was established, Allan Appel has published 14 books, including eight novels, and two books of poetry, New Listings and Not So Much Love of Flowers. His new novel, The Book of Norman, a send-up of Jewish-Mormon relations, is due out in September from MandelVilar Press.