Rejected for a reason

"We do not publish true accounts of crimes (including nonconsentual sexual acts), or submissions advocating violent crimes or illegal activities."

Fair enough....I'll work on it in here.

The Last Straw

He accepted his role
as a soldier, a sniper.
Accepted the grit and the heat
of Afghanistan, even the bad smells
that made him retch.
He even grew to accept
the indignity of the loss
of his leg but
his wife just could not.

Went from wheelchair to walker
in record time, now you’d hardly
know his leg was a replacement.
The meagre pension was hard to
swallow but he never gave up
looking for work.

Then, against
all odds, Trump became
leader of the free world.
He watched in impotent despair
as this parody of a man dismantled
democracy, destroyed his beloved country.

Every “breaking news”
revealed more ignorance
and bent laws until, one night
he hears a re-run of Howard Stern.
The guest that night was a cocky
Donald Trump boasting about his
sexual conquests in the nineteen sixties,
casually describing avoiding infection
from STDs as “My own personal Vietnam.
I felt like a great and very brave soldier.”

The faces of dead comrades, the same
dead young sacrifices from Vietnam,
Iraq, Bosnia, rose up in anger, raged
in his dreams, screamed at the insult
from this orange faces buffoon. Two
days later he unpacked his rifle, drove
to Palm beach where he knew his
president, his prey, would be and
lay for several hours in the rough
before scoping his target and firing.
Trump was a sitting duck on the 8th hole.

I'm not a big fan of political assassinations, regardless who the victim may be. But I think I should also point out that while Trump is vulgar and boorish, immature and petulant, he didn't start those wars.

AlwaysHungry said:

I'm not a big fan of political assassinations, regardless who the victim may be. But I think I should also point out that while Trump is vulgar and boorish, immature and petulant, he didn't start those wars.

Click to expand...

With respect, that isn't the point. The wars are mentioned to highlight the sniper's horror at Trump's idea of heroism not because he had anything to do with them......far from it, he had "bone spurs" after all. I'm not a fan of political assassination either, this is a poem, not propaganda.

Still tinkering.....don't mind me.

The Last Straw

He accepted his role, soldier,
a sniper.
Accepted the grit, the heat
of Afghanistan, even the smells
that made him retch.

He even grew to accept
the painful loss of his leg but
his wife just could not.

Alone he went
from wheelchair to walker
in record time until both legs
seemed real.

The meagre pension was hard to
swallow but he never gave up
looking for work.

Then, against
all odds, Trump became
leader of the free world.
The soldier watched
in impotent despair
as this parody of a man
dismantled democracy,
destroyed his beloved country.

Every “breaking news”
revealed more ignorance
and bent laws until, one night
he hears a re-run of an old talk show.

The guest that night was a cocky
Donald Trump boasting about his
sexual conquests in the nineteen sixties,
casually describing avoiding infection
from STDs as “My own personal Vietnam.
I felt like a great and very brave soldier.”

The faces of dead comrades,
the same dead young sacrifices
from Vietnam, Iraq, Bosnia,
rose up in anger,
raged in his dreams, screamed at the insult
from this orange faced buffoon.

Two days later he methodically unpacked
his rifle, drove to Palm beach
where he knew his president, his prey,
would be and lay for several hours
in the scrub before scoping his target and firing.

The target was a sitting duck on the 18th hole,
at least he finished his game,

Yep, still tinkering.

The Last Straw

He accepted his role, soldier,
a sniper.
Accepted the grit, the heat
of Afghanistan, even the smells
that made him retch.

He even grew to accept
the loss of his leg but
his wife just could not.

Alone he moved
from wheelchair to walker
in record time until both legs
seemed real.

The meagre pension was hard to
swallow but he never gave up
looking for work.

Then, against all odds,
Trump became the leader
of the free world.
The soldier watched
in impotent despair
as this parody of a man
dismantled democracy,
destroyed his beloved country.

Every “breaking news”
revealed more ignorance
and bent laws until, one night
he hears a re-run of an old talk show.

The guest was a cocky
Donald Trump boasting
about his sexual conquests
in the nineteen sixties,
casually describing avoiding STDs as
“My own personal Vietnam.
I felt like a great and very brave soldier.”

The faces of dead comrades,
the same dead young sacrifices
from Vietnam, Iraq, Bosnia,
rose up in anger,
raged in his dreams, screamed
at the insult from
this orange faced buffoon.

The next day
he methodically unpacked,
cleaned and loaded his rifle,
drove to Palm beach
where he knew his president, his prey,
would be and lay for several hours
in the scrub before scoping his target and firing.

The target was a sitting duck on the 18th hole,
at least he finished his game.

Afghanistan is really cold most of the time. My only constructive comment would be to not gloss over 'smells that made him retch,' as that's where a poet does his/her work.