Sonnet 65 -- No Cure for the Summertime Blues

I’m drained and tired, waiting for the Fall

The heat of summer and elections drain

Me of the urge to move or make a call

This sonnet keenly shows my lack of brain

Why is it that those who criticize me

Are stronger voices than the mass who care

I know all of each one’s insanity

And yet I give these nuts the larger share

At least I know that they’re just like my Mom

Who got my service by bringing me down

And years of shrinks gave me some dear freedom

From binding my heart to the clever clown

But now it’s time to live by the lesson

And don’t get involved in what they mess in

Free Verse Friday

Friday night with the air conditioner

I can’t give you want you need

You can’t give me what I want

And I’m starting to use the cane indoors

Thinking about managed care

Too independent  to ask

I am comfortable, compared to most

It’s not enough for my soul

To be paid now for past work

Freedom’s just another word for nothing

But it’s better than a debt

Or a man sucking you dry

Anybody Ever Write A Poem About You

Has anyone ever written a poem about you?

Was asked today by a Facebook friend.

No.

I may pay all the bills and clean the house

But it wasn’t worth a line or two to them

Laugh.

Poems are written for dreamlike girls

Not for short and clunky German broads

Sigh.

All your inspiring memes are full of crap

Because what matters is a woman’s looks

Fact.

No one has written an ode to Maya Angelou

No matter how strong, pure and proud she is

Word.

The men to whom I have dedicated poems

Proudly never acknowledge or comment

Sure.

This is unequivocally proving to me….

Something…that I never figured out.

But

A woman can’t be Pablo Neruda or Picasso

Collette was pitied for buying her young men

Girls

Are expected to be for sale to rich old men

Especially among the rich and famous

Love

I fear, only exists between the legs

And has nothing to do with the mind

Sonnett 64 -- I HATE COMPUTERS!

Shakespeare never spent a day playing with wire

Assuring all routers were reset fast

And wee Mousie wasn’t moving sans fire

Wishing said problem was all of Comcast

Alas, there is no strapping male to help

I will not call out to Xfinity

Moments I wish to throw MAC to the kelp

I lost my programming divinity!

Fie on thee, box of flashing disco light

And bitch, tell me not that there’s no outage

Customer Service abandons the fight

Abandons me to jiggle my outrage

I finally miss that UME perk

To call MIS, let them make it work

I'm a Lousy Feminist

It just dawned on me this morning, as I accept that I've reached the age of no return, that I am a lousy Feminist and always have been. Oh, I made all the right noises about equality, but my Mother's dictum that "A woman needs a husband." has always been etched on my brain. I'm not as bad as Mom, who won't even drive a car, but I still feel her sense that I'm a failure without a man. Now, even SHE knew both my husbands were mistakes, but I was desperately grabbing at anything male and I always went straight for the ones I thought were so weird no one else would take them. I paid no attention to my education or accomplishments and just went through the motions, even unto a Broadway audition for one of my scripts, it was more about the man and not me. I paid their bills and cooked and cleaned and they made sure that it was never enough, so that I worked harder. When I realized that they were pursuing other women, I left but went on looking for some other Dream Prince Charming, whose numbers got smaller and smaller as I aged. And, here I am, admitting that I always put myself in second place, looking for that masterful man. Oh, I would do my little writing thing, I would finish my degree, but he was more important. None of us, not me or my men did much of anything, although number one produced 4 amazing liberated Feminist daughters with his second wife. I'm pretty damned proud of them. And it may be too late for me now. The romance part, big time, but the writing as well. With MS, I don't have the energy to pursue the dream, and on stage, that's 18 hours a day, six days a week. I confess that I am not a big reader of books and poetry. I'm too busy doing and my illiteracy doesn't help. I can't sit and read because I'm supposed to be serving somebody else's dream. Well, all we have is today, so I think now, at nearly 63, I'm going to try to be a Feminist and I'm also going to try to clean up and dress up a bit and be a bit more female. What the Hell...I only have myself to please.

It's Too Soon to Write About Aurora

The ego of the writer whispers that a statement must come forth tonight, on today’s events, for tomorrow’s digestion. All the reportage is well and good…but how does the tragedy affect moi?

It doesn’t, Bitch.

I was 2,000 miles away, snoring on the couch. No bullets ripped through my flesh, no children died in my arms. I was not having an innocent night of giggling with friends, lips stained with Jujubes and the yellow liquid they put on popcorn. My easy desert world was not shattered in ten horrifying minutes.

It’s not about us.

Oh, we will debate forcefully with our friends of the liberal and conservative bents and come up with an absolute solution to the handgun problem, but without millions in lobbying money, there won’t be much we can actually do. I have already watched hours and hours of televised coverage and all the reports in the newspapers.

But listen, we must.

The people who suffered this are our teachers and our guides, and they will have to tell the story over and over to get it straight in their minds. And we have an educated and articulate President who knows how to speak to them and to us. So, sorry if I haven’t produced the perfect poem or essay, but it’s not my story to tell.

Forget the film.

God knows, the people in that nightmare already have, because the killer didn’t really care about scenarios and dramatic arcs or even the current film in front of him. He revived the dead corpse of the last villain, with none of Heath’s class or pain. It was just a performance, you jerk. Maybe the greatest performance in the history of film, but you had no right to try to dishonor it in this way.

Yeah, like  he cares.

Anyway, like “The Charge of the Light Brigade”, we can’t write this poem in twenty-four hours. It takes time and thought and insight. It takes a master’s hand to realize the sound of horses galloping sounds in the words “Half a league, half a League, half a league, onward…” And don’t count on me having the best poem. I’m too busy trying to get people to donate blood in Aurora, Colorado. Which one is more important?

I Entered This Sonnet in a Poetry Contest

A part I am of all the stars and heavens,
And like the Eagle, I am pure as light.
My true heart is broken into sevens
One for every Ocean, blue and white.
Amusing now that Death is my dear friend.
Never far…waiting to fulfill his task.
I will be joyful to see journey’s end.
And drop away this sinful being’s mask.
I’ve seen too much of hunger and of want
Folks with no blanket sleeping on the ground
Desperate as animals on the hunt.
Praying that Jesus’s mercy is found.
Yet, I’m content living among those fools.
Who are, in Heaven’s eyes, the precious jewels.

Why Don't You Take a Picture?

Sonnet 63 – Wake Up and Smell the Geritol

Sonnet 63 – Wake Up and Smell the Geritol

My mother swore that I was unlovable

And thus she guaranteed that it would be

My aging body grows unmovable

Fat and spotted, with boobs down to the knee

Intelligence counts if the bod is right

Picasso and Neruda get the girls

And so did Gertrude Stein, to her delight

But cursed I am wanting masculine pearls

Racism, pollution and hatred rage

This is not the time for hearts and roses

Idiots turns back society’s page

Too dumb to know they cut their own noses

No fantasy of once more being young

We can’t unring a bell already rung

Essay Time: I'm getting Zen Even if it Kills Me

Essay Time: Until I was laid off in April of 2009, I barely noticed the Internet except for a few news sites and the places United Media forced me to work. All of my bills were paid by check and put into the US Post Office. I didn’t go until Facebook until July of that year. I was on dial up and it took forever to do anything and kept my phone busy. Now, I have a cable connection (OH WHO KNOWS THE TECHNICAL TERM!) and the internet, though faster, is boring. Been there, done that, shared the meme.  Gradually, I started paying all bills on line, driving my small nail into the USPS coffin.  There is little “excitement” going to the mailbox unless I see the words “Great Lakes Office”, meaning my Disability. 

The new fashion among my friends is abandoning Facebook, Twitter and the computer in general: at least till you’re sure everyone has noticed. Are they out suddenly having a full life in reality (in this economy).  Artists and writers don’t want to exercise their art simply for our amusement any more and if they can’t earn a living, are no longer posting. In the case of writers, there are far too many three page long monstrosities to deal with, and I’ll try to keep this brief. Worst of all, you must never, EVER become overinvolved personally. My typing fingers are still burning from that. When your explanations only make it worse, you just have to keep it light and if you’re a 62-year-old woman with MS, you have to give up love and romance forever, especially if you refuse to wear makeup or tell a lie.

Even the political types are churning the same waters. There is NO POINT in running complicated lists of the truth. The right wing hates minorities and that’s all they care about. They don’t care if Mitt Romney slit his mother’s throat and drove around with her on top of the car…he’s white and that’s all that matters. We have got to start writing about how to win this election and stop this left wing choke hold of trying to lay out the facts and get every SINGLE person’s opinion. It’s time to boil down what we want, present it and then go get it. This time is life or death.

So, somehow, despite this endless heat wave I can’t move around in, I have to return to reality, no matter how dull and difficult. No more fantasizing or daydreams. No more trying to control. I'm getting Zen even if it kills me.

Sonnet 62 -- Oh, Lord, She's Back!

Sonnet 62 -- Oh, Lord, She's Back!

I am once more plotzed in reality,

Without a plan save basic survival.

And I must accept what will never be,

What has never lived, can’t have revival.

I fear that only youth is rewarded,

Age receives salute if started young,

Not those souls whose talent was aborted,

And whose foot slipped the first or second rung.

And yet I know to leave the past behind,

And take my joy in watching loved ones love.

My life was not my choice, it was designed,

By greater powers below or above.

We can’t be any more than what we are.

Let’s work on making sure that is a star.