Sonnet XXIII - Does "dance" rhyme with "pants"?

I am burnt by the dark furies of Hell,

For Madame must accept reality.

I have no phony stories left to tell,

And reluctant come to sobriety.

The fantasies are flattened without air,

And comforting ritual has been killed.

No point to wearing paint or dying hair,

My dreams of Love and riches won’t be filled.

But free I am with nothing holding me,

Uncensored words are waiting for my hand.

I know it’s a responsibility,

A woman handles best when she’s unmanned.

Come with me friends, and do a merry dance,

And maybe have a laugh and drop our pants.

Site Under Construction

I've decided that the year end review had brought up enough truth for me and as it was somewhat self-centered, I removed all three and decided to begin 2012.

Look for new content later today.

Leftover Thoughts for 2011

I should have simply walked away,

On writing the words “End of Play.”

Was a ceremony at church today,

Burning papers on which we had written

Something we could strive for in 2012

And something from 2011 to forget.

On that one, I wrote your name.

And cried my final tears.

So, here I am, completely free,

Pity I’m trapped in this body.

I love the quiet of Christmas day,

When every other tenant’s away.

No rude noises or sudden bangs,

Sweet silence in the cold air hangs.

No more Muses of Fire, Dear Lord.

Of crazy men, I’m getting bored.

What a world

What a world

Here we go again

Back to square one

Hoping the young

Will fix it again.

A Christmas Susan Carol

Last year, I was fortunate to spend Christmas at my sister’s house in West Virginia and to be among family, but that is very rare for me. (Getting home after the blizzard is a whole other story). This year I will be having my usual Christmas, which means church and little else. Christmas is for family and women rattling around loose are not really part of the party. I wasn’t able to have children and my taste in men is ridiculous, so here I am.

Back in the old days, nothing would be open on Xmas except the 7-11. If I had been smarter and had moved to New York City in the 1970’s, I’m sure that would be different, with a bustle of a million people and a raft of open stores, but in the suburbs, it’s the 7-11 or its analog, Krauszer’s of Montclair. The video stores started staying open about 10 years ago and bit by bit,  stores started to realize that the Blue Laws didn’t apply to a holiday and started to use Christmas as a day to take returns, which cannot be good for family peace. (“Merry Christmas!” Hand over package; package is opened; recipient decides it must be returned. This must stretch the fashionable irony of any American.)

But I still go over to Krauszer’s on Christmas day to just get a cup of coffee and say “Hi!” to the Pakistani crew. There will be just a police car and an ambulance in the lot; or occasionally, a fire truck that I always park my tiny red car next to, as they look so adorable together. The streets are still empty during the morning when people opening their gifts. I lost that tradition of opening packages after the age of 21 when my parents washed their hands of the obligation. My sister and nephews and I used to mail big packages of “stuff” to each other, but lost that when I was laid off and couldn’t afford it and now what we give, we give to charity, thanks to the economy.

Both of my marriages were to Jewish men, so we didn’t celebrate Christmas, and with the aforementioned bad taste in men, my birthdays either. My taste in men has something to do with mothers who spoil their sons rotten to keep them around, but then the boys got so spoiled, they didn’t care very much about the mother and left for me, a woman they didn’t care much about. That’s why it’s better, all in all, to be alone.

I’ve been alone for twenty-five years and have myself financially set to be that way for the rest of my life. I’m old and fat and sagging and there will be no more romance, but there will be friendship and writing and family. I hope Christmas is quiet and serene and I can think and write and say “Hi!” to the boys at Krauszer’s. It’s my life and all that I need.

Merry Christmas to all. Hope you have all that you need.

The Holidays Loom

stars

and

red

and

green

smell

the

pine

gold

frankincense

and

myrrh

brandy

in the

nog

if only

or

maybe

I hadn’t

and

then

again what

if

and

never mind

that was

then

and

then

is yesterday

our histories

set

in stone

i have

books

to read

and

republicans

to mash

and

children to

feed

waste

no

more

time

on

yesterday

we are

old

with

little time

use

it well

be

free

SONNET XXII -- Toujours Seule, Indeed

SONNET XXII  -- Toujours Seule, Indeed

 

It’s slowing down and coming to an end,

We can’t expect our life to be the same.

Grandma has to let expectations bend,

And stop the search for love and wealth and fame.

Time for us to enjoy what bits we have,

And clear our minds of desire and envy.

Which give to us hurts that have no cool salve,

And blinds us so to what we still can be.

I fled too long the needs of normal life,

Ignored my house and art and books for aught.

And gave my heart to men who fed on strife,

And could not give the love that I had sought.

These sonnets still do not sing like Shakespeare,

I have much to learn, the reading makes clear.

Reality Where is thy Sting -- Random Thoughts

I realized a key question today….on days when I’m posting a lot of poems, am I inspired to find a thousand words, or am I flailing in the dictionary, failing to find the right one?

Everything is in place to keep me alive comfortably the rest of my life. The only thing I need is a reason why.

I’ve heard applause for my words both on stage and online, but is there just one person I want to see clapping and whistling in the crowd? Because if the relationship is right, every poem and burp I create is a magic, and if it’s wrong, they will not give a shit if I wrote “Ulysses”.  (Fill in your favorite poem or book that would not care if I wrote. ((Fortunately, I do not wish to be the author of “The Chronicles of Narnia.”)))

Why have I given up using colors in my verses and speeches? Perhaps when I wrote of the scent of blue and pink and lavender, I had said too much.

I’m terrified of new people and situations and now, I have to enter them on a cane, with white hair and tits around my waist.

Occupy made me realize that all the essays we wrote and petitions we signed didn’t bother the powers that be. We were content to be doing the right thing and the powers that be were content to ignore us. My beloved young protestors decided that our concerns will be heard. WE ARE…OCCUPY!

I’m tired of waiting for future love or future success. There is no past or future, there is only now. Looking around the moment, I am alone. Listening for sounds, there is just the hum of cars accelerating up the hill and my refrigerator shuddering in its self-created cold. I am tired of fighting for success and most of all, sick of looking for love. (see earlier remark of ‘tits around the waist.’) There is a certain power in giving up and of going slack and immobile (Hi, again, Occupy!). Of course I will write, I am writing now. Perhaps there may be someone out there to love, but I should have stayed in the moment forty years ago. I was lost in daydreams and fantasies and was never really married to my husbands because I wasn’t really there.

Reality, where is thy sting? I’m ready for it now.

I’m not going to get back into the show business rat race again. I will write and have my friends give it life in readings, but no more trying to compete in a younger world. However, if there’s a producer out there smart enough to get that there’s publicity possibilities in the crippled old lady hook, let me know and we can milk it to the max.

Sonnet XXI -- The Fizz is Gone

SONNET XXI – The Fizz is Gone

I see the fat and puffy aging broad

In my mirror and wonder who she is.

I think that makeup and dresses are a fraud

I’ve lost my luster and flattened my fizz.

I don’t read enough books or study the news,

Don’t know how people make music resound.

I never had children and paid those dues,

My future is just a hole in the ground.

But I can still write plays that never sell,

And bad sonnets by the passionate pound.

Vote for good guys and wish Boehner to Hell.

Try my best to get Obama recrowned.

I hope that I die before I need nurses,

Having  a few more blessings and curses.

Essay on a day of MS Relapse and Limping On

When I start to worry too much about art and love and politics, I am humbled by the left leg deciding not to wake up in the morning and almost sending me crashing to the ground. It reminds me that I am an American in this hideous time of our history.  Stress feeds Multiple Sclerosis and I have allowed myself to be stressed more than even the world dictates naturally.

Since I’m financially set (Enough for one person only. Gentlemen Looking for Green Cards on Facebook...I can’t afford you even if it would be luxurious by your country’s standards. Please don’t send ‘pretty lady’ messages to me. I’m not that dumb.) I have to worry about my investments and am waiting to find out if I will be getting more payment assistance from the company making the MS medicine that is priced for the rich, which I am not. I am grateful that I am on Medicare, but it still costs around 8 grand a year if you have medicine that eats up the Donut Hole. I’m glad so many young people don’t worry about the Republicans taking away their Social Security and Medicare because it means that they have decided that they will never grow old or lose their jobs. What adorable little shmucks you are! Go on! Eat that McDonald’s burger! It will NEVER affect your health.

I’m finding reality to be quite rewarding. My friends at the Unitarian Church at Montclair are so welcoming. I’m not perfect yet as I have spent my life as an outsider and don’t always know the right thing to say that even the most leftwing and liberal UUer expects. Going to events for the Dramatist Guild and Occupy Montclair. (Yeah, I  know, 10 of us and Montclair didn’t mind, but it’s nearby!) My new Facebook rule is that I can only meet married couples and other women, never another male.

Yeah, that means you, Stress Boy. It was a mistake. And then, I went and started to worry about you. Even pity you, and that was bad. I wasn’t honest about the book or the cartoons…they weren’t that good but I wanted to be encouraging. For some reason, you thought I was lying about never seeing you again. That I wanted something more from someone who was just barely surviving, with few options left. You got the idea I didn’t know I was old and fat or that you are fixated on…well, that would be breaking confidence…but I know that you want what you want at any cost, including yourself. I was trying to be just friends, but there were too many people in the friendship. People that you don’t realize are in love with you and jealous. Still, you do want to censor me and you are extremely judgmental about religion and politics and I’m not the woman to go along with that. And you should be cautious about the ones who do…especially if they dye their hair any color you want. I will never attempt friendship with you again. You make my M.S. worse, but I will always love your genius and mourn your wounded soul.

So, I’m here, dealing with the stress of life alone, but that’s all right. I’m still alive, with enough money to pay for the food for the anti-MS diet. I’ve gotten one HELL of a play out of the last year and I have three more in the pipeline and then, I’ll quit the damned stress-filled life of the theater and maybe find a way to get a degree in Philosophy. Oh, philosophy is not stress, it’s the greatest game of all, but that’s another essay.

Atonement for a Life Misspent

do we fail at life because it’s easier

or is it just a lack of heart and soul

and a need to keep the pity going

to cover our failure to make the goal

i think that success brought my men such guilt

be it in business or even with wife

dad told me that to do better than him

would be a spit on his blue collar life

i sacrificed everything for men

and kept my collar so painfully blue

was i hoping to be a wife and mom

or just an equal and beloved sue?

i got involved with men destroyed by mom

and tried so hard, just to be forgotten

"nothing normal" was their rallying cry

and I ran when the mess got too rotten

while i was distracted, the world went mad

and there’s a chance it will not recover

children and ecology have more need than me

i pray it’s not too late to discover

some ways for the old lady to atone

and contribute more than empty support

to schizophrenic and angry lovers

returning to my friends their sweet comfort

Sonnet XX - Hey! Passion Rhymes With Kardashian!

Rich or poor, East or West, we speak of sex,

The more you have the more you want, so what?

I can’t deny the call of muscled pecs,

Or the allure of a perky young butt.

And, yes, of course, it does feel wonderful.

But, yo! The sneaky advertisers call,

And made us go at it until we were dull.

Allowed them to take our eyes off the ball,

So they can rob us blind as we obsess

About ephemera Kardashian.

The rich get rich and so the poor regress.

Their one release a robotic passion.

Women forced to sell their assets for cash,

And men stumbling blind from come to come.

The child is born into a wild car crash

Where we’re not sure where he or she came from.

Grandma knows sex can be so wonderful,

Try to learn what lies between love and bull.

Another Random Thoughts...The Poetic Well is Dry Today

As I read through the Facebook postings I'm starting to see that it's not a 1% v 99% separation so much as it is an employed/unemployed break. People with jobs are sure they will never EVER lose them, mostly out of terror of losing them and feel that their bosses want them lined up against the Occupied movement. No one is asking for a handout. It is about jobs and making it illegal to steal money and cheat the populace. I worry that some of the employed don't understand that the paths to survival are being cut off.

It shouldn't be this difficult.

I know it's because of my connection to so many editorial cartoonists, but I was rather astounded to find that, on Facebook, Occupy Atlanta had subscribed to ME! I am humbled.

My track record is scraps of paper stained with tears & coffee. Of all women on Earth, I have the worst taste in men. Mea culpa all the way.

I've found the Wahls diet to stop MS and it would mean no bread or milk, both of which I JUST BOUGHT and 9 cups of fruit and vegetables a day. We will try it. It is not vegetarian, however. SIGH!

I cleaned up and rearranged the Tupperware cupboard. I must be getting back to normal. Three friends having crises. Count my blessings. And the burp lids.

Pearl Harbor day. My father turned 18 in 1942 (see picture above) and signed up expecting to die in battle. They sent him to Honolulu as a driver (he had never set foot in a car) for officers on R&R for 3 years. He saw the immediate aftermath of Pearl Harbor but boy...did he luck out!

SONNET XVIII – Inspire Me, Big Boy

SONNET XVIII – Inspire Me, Big Boy

 

All of my words are just wind in the trees

Without someone to give inspiration.

I need a man make me weak in the knees

To give me my proper motivation.

It’s easier to find a unicorn

At my age than to attract a good male.

One that is not so addicted to porn

Or looking for hot young pieces of tail.

I laugh to see that you have the same woe,

Art is no fun without tall pretty models

And my adjectives simply do not glow,

And the rhyme is weak and almost toddles.

May God send to you a lovely Venus.

And me a man with a working penis.

Knitting Verses Out of Words

Forgive me for wanting the blizzard

Or the terror of the hurricane

To give my life a pop.

Maybe that’s the wild call of romance

It gives me a to-do list every day

Not one of which matters.

Facebook has fifty tons of poems

Each single day, each one critical

To the writer’s being.

Sometimes, I get lost in all the words

Miss the rhythms and the inner pain

That caused the pen to lift.

Too old to get juicy over sex

And the thrill of orgasm has dimmed

In my ache for mere touch.

This is nine and nine and six no rhyme

Which may make it a sheer waste of time

But it’s something to do

On a cold and rainy East Coast morn

For an ailing and unemployed broad:

Knitting verses out of words.

Sonnet XVII – Oh, Crap!

Sonnet XVII – Oh, Crap!

Sometimes the words are elusive as Hell,

Oh, it’s high time to admit I was wrong,

And eat  my humble pie on the half shell.

I can’t keep buying the old dance and song.

These fifty-eight years of daydreams get stale.

I need normal but the world is insane.

Nobody cares that I’m getting more frail,

I can’t put myself through this shit again.

I’m tired of whining and too old to wail.

Now is the time to become the Grand Dame.

And read all these books while my eyes still work.

Return to being a theater ham.

And haul my ass into nearby New York.

With no time on my clock, I’ll wait for Love.

But please, could someone give Cupid a shove?

But Enough About You...A Collection of my Random Thoughts

When a woman reaches a certain age, it does not matter how good a lay she was in her youth. She must change the subject.

What’s worse…realizing that there’s nothing left to say or realizing that there was nothing to say in the first place?

Thecrazyisasaddictiveasboozeordrugs.

I had doctor bills. Medicare paid them.

I’m not sure what to do with my hands.

They are temporarily out of changes for Facebook, so the Web Masters “improved” YouTube. Actually, it is an improvement. Next for Facebook, something they’re doing in Europe…announcing who you are chatting with. Divorce Lawyers order their new Maseratis in droves.

An aged, modern, cautionary tale.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses dropped by our house every Saturday morning and this drove my mother nuts, so one morning, she just answered the door stark naked. They never returned.

Question: Do you ever wear a tiara? Answer: Only to do the laundry.

Once more we have proved true the adage: “If a man is available at the age of fifty, there’s usually a damned good reason.”

I miss being abused by cats.

Whenever I’m feeling down and hopeless, I remind myself that there is bleu cheese and my spirits brighten.

Chrissie Finally Writes a Poem From the new draft of Amour Americaine

Who is Doctor Siriana Bergmann?

Poet, sister, friend and inspiration.

No one can dare say that you ever ran

Or retreated from where you should have been.

But it’s too late to start over again.

Not to take your reward would be such a sin.

Lee is part of your world and a good man.

Roxy knows that he could never fit in.

Think of your students and reality

And replace bad romance with sanity.