*When you don’t have to speak; your name says it all.

Applesauce, balderdash,

codswallop, malarkey,

my grandpa’s scratchy voice

fiddle-faddle, folderol.

He didn’t suffer fools,

he’d tell you, and yet

oh my goddess, he was racist,

sexist, misogynist, chauvinist, and

what’s the word for when

you disown your daughter

for marrying a Catholic?

His unique perspective informed

by the white colonialism which brought

his family, escorted by US soldiers,

to the new land they stole

with US dollars, palpable

terror of

the displaced Indigenous peoples

who continued to live

in the arms of their ancestors,

fused to the roots of the giant

trees, and nestled in the webs

of the constellations spinning

through their language, guiding

their footsteps, their prayers

landing like gibberish

from savages, by god,

dangerous as a woman

who must be impregnated

in the continual breeding

of this new seed spreading

like kudzu.  Clearing the forests,

grinding the roots, that angry

protective fear the soil

I sprouted in.  I lean,


against the trunk of this massive

Poplar, who watched it all,

and she sends me insights

and visions even as the others

sit under the spell

of the vicious diatribe

the pure trumpery

they have elected

and say we must respect.

Inspired by: Impose, Malarkey, Unique


Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

4 thoughts on “Trumpery*”

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