Two Poems

By Vern Fein



My Little League team sucked,
made the Bad News Bears look good.
We fired our coach who was a drunk,
hired a poet to replace him,
He knew nothing about the game.
But he wrote limericks
about each position:

There once was a pitcher with no luck
still known for his excellent pluck.
He threw such a curve
which never did swerve
and then he just passed on the buck.

There once was a shortstop named Slykes
who also was known for his gripes.
He swung and missed
and all the fans hissed
when he said he needed four strikes.

We never won any games,
but our pitcher and shortstop
joined the debating team and did well.


There once was a bloke named Trump
whose antics caused many to flump.
He thought all were his slaves,
sent many to their graves,
wanting to dump his rump.

There once was a country
attacked by a terrible disease.
Everyone said we needed to stay home,
isolate safely until the virus ran its course.
We had elected a businessman.
His medical experience was going to the doctor.
But he said he knew about business.
He told everyone to get out there.
Get off the bench and onto the field.
Play Ball!
A lot of people thought he was crazy
and stayed home.
But a lot of people put on their uniforms
and began to throw the ball around again
and died.


If you have pored over Revelation,
nothing subtle there.
Destruction on every level,
unprecedented pain and suffering.
The one world government begats
the great world war begats
inflation and famine begats
a mighty earthquake, hide under rocks
begats a third of trees and grass burns up
begats blood rains down begats
a mountain of sulphur falls in the sea
begats the Star Wormwood,
bitters the sea
begats a diminished sun, moon, stars,
brings ever darkness begats
scorpions and locusts cause men
to plead for death begats
the Vial Judgments,
as God destroys all human systems,
ends Babylon in agony.

Maybe instead of a cataclysm,
a spectacular, big bang disaster,
the Tribulation is now,
happening before my very eyes,
day by night?

Daily I see the cracks,
shootings, bombings,
violence everywhere,
environmental fires,
collapsing ice bergs,
nuclear warheads bristling,
pandemics raging against the bit,
refugees aswarm
as nation warring against nation
becomes every nation,
kings more insane,
the rich so far above
the unseen poor,
a mist at the foot
of their mountain strongholds.

For myself, a privileged one,
a first world denizen,
so much good still:
An unruffled life:
Family vacations,
celebrate birthdays,
root for my teams,
my wife plants her garden,
new marriages, new babies.
I get up in the morning,
brush my teeth,
sleep tired.
So much good.

I go though my daily life,
not knowing what to do,
cluck my tongue more and more
as the news accosts me,
like the Marathon runner
daily falling exhausted at my feet,
as he reports event after event.
Toffler warned us
Media unleashed would
overwhelm us,
an impending sense of doom,
a feeling the other shoe
of the world will drop.

The evil increases.
During Covid.
I can feel it
as the Tribulation
drips, drips,
a rivulet, a stream,
a river, an ocean,
tsunami without end,
man clawing at himself
in abject fear,
clutching at what
will not hold still.

Vern Fein, poetry and covid

A retired special education teacher, Vern Fein, from Urbana, Illinois, started writing poems just a few years ago and has published over one hundred poems on over sixty sites. This avocation has become a delight of my life, particularly during the Covid isolation.

A SUBTLE TRIBULATION: If there is such a thing as Tribulation, which lots of people ascribe to, then instead of it being a Big Bang, maybe it is just slow dripping, the Covid being an example.

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