I’m using the end of summer as an excuse to take off from the blog, but really it’s hard to think of poetry right now. I’ll try to do something over the weekend, once the taste of this nasty, racist Republican Convention is replaced by one that is more likely to be telling the truth and more welcoming to women, gays and minorities. I lack inspiration as I’ve realized that my inspiration of late has all been a desperate lie. And the hilarious part is that sitting at the computer, wearing Depends because of MS has left me with my first diaper rash in 62 years. I am writing this wearing only a T-shirt and please, don’t imagine this poor old body. So, if anyone is curious, there you are and here I am. Back by the 4th of September on a regular schedule, I swear.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
Chapter One – Denim, Sweat and Linseed Oil
That’s what how I want my men to remember me. There’s a certain liberation in knowing that the men from your past don’t give a damn about what you think. Not that many men, but enough.
Recovering from Love is not about finding someone else, it’s about finding yourself. It’s a dance, you see. Part Apache and part minuet. Everyone should have a bruise or two, but no one should be injured.
We were the generation that studied the Kama Sutra. We were the generation that memorized Kinsey and The Joy of Sex with those flabby, hairy and eager Hippie drawings that clumsily recreated the poses drawn much more elegantly in the Indian texts, but possessing a happy American spirit buoyed by commitment and rebellion. You wanted to have an Old Man and you wanted to be his Old Lady. Orgies were rare and legendary.
Let me just look at you for one more minute and then I’ll leave. I won’t say a word, I’ll just stand here and breathe in your scent. Some women might say that you smell unwashed but it doesn’t strike my nose that way. Because it’s yours. I will remember that forever, the way it touches the back of my nose and fills my mouth with the taste of dried flowers; a blend of denim, sweat and linseed oil.
I remember you as velvet stone. Warm stone, carved by Michaelangelo. A strong back, wide at the shoulders, wet from the shower, head thrown back and water running down the curves of your back and over your strong bottom, dripping down your long, muscled legs.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
By Susan B. Reinhard
"I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength,
who makes enormous demands on me,
who does not doubt my courage or my toughness,
who does not believe me naïve or innocent,
who has the courage to treat me like a woman."
— Anaïs Nin
— Anaïs Nin
She was not a person who wrote about sex. She believed that humans should simply do it. She did not need pictures or lace or leather or “dirty” words. She was a gray-haired older woman with her hair in a bun and she was speaking of long ago, but vivid memories. “You know from his touch. You know from his scent. This is my male. I want to mate with this one.” Susan lowered her coffee cup and asked rhetorically: “Does the Wolf in the forest know the age of his female? Does he check her over from head to toe and reject her for an asymmetrical paw or ragged patch of her fur? No. The Wolf has never seen a commercial or read a book. His mind is completely free of all the noises that infect that of the modern human male. They sniff. They mate. Then, trot off to live together forever.”
Velda and Brigltte exchanged the tiniest of quick glances, praying no one in the crowed atrium restaurant could hear. They were holding their breaths, praying that Susan’s lecture would not demand any audience participation. Velda, the redhead, and the taller of the two, raised her hands and mimed writing on a pad, the universal gesture for “bring the check.” Brigette, the tiny blonde her purse up from the floor and began looking for something, anything, to change the subject.
Back in the 1960’s, you didn’t need anything but a naked body. Maybe because it wasn’t a world of television and commercials and the internet, people weren’t seduced into thinking that they could have the movie star…that they DESERVED the movie star and would get him if they just bought this product or that service.
There is a sterile scent to sex nowadays. It is perfume, not scent. There is a shiny paper, computer screen indulgence that lets you have anyone, take anyone in your imagination. Worse of all, there are prices for services and not just from prostitutes. The best women, meaning most sexual, will get the best men, meaning most salaried. She will close her eyes and dreams of his checkbook will inspire her to act out whatever climax he needs.
But women are are only permitted to select if she is young and beautiful. One wonders if animals need anything other than health and strength If we had not gotten so far from our animal instincts, we would not need pornography. We would know what the word “satisfaction” means.
So who am I writing this for?
Am I writing it for the women of the harem or the Prince who is peeking in through a crack in the wall, silently praying for a flash of flesh? Would that I had a way to secretly glimpse at him asleep in his bed, his broad shoulders bare. The throat flowing into clavicles like graceful bows of bone that lead to strong arms which end in those amazing long and tapered hands that we would happily fill with our velvet breasts.
But he is not a Prince and American women do not live in harems. American women don’t want to dwell in Harems, even though it would mean we would have a sisterhood of enslavement. No. We want to be free. We want to be the only woman in his life. We want to be enough.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Why look for Love when all the world’s aflame
By now we know we are the fools of dreams
Our sires, our luck, our blindness are to blame
Despite the bromides of rife Facebook memes
Our faces are wrinkled, our boobs doth sag
We will remain unfamous and dirt poor
I am naught but an aging rhyming hag
A good twenty years past a saucy whore
No longer can I await Prince Charming
Nor you for a witty and brilliant slut
Age has a way of neatly disarming
And kicking our fantasies in the gut
Today, today is our only pleasure
Let me learn at last to savor leisure
Sunday, August 12, 2012
We daydreamers will never touch the ground
Because the shambles of our lives are sharp
Music in our heads blocks the ragged sound
Of time’s endless march and Death Angel’s harp
we don’t know
what normal is
we escaped into
thinking of a mountaintop
green and blue and you
Friday, August 10, 2012
Essay While My Hair Dries
Once more, I’m starting over with a clean slate. The heat wave continues and the Mississippi River is down to 9 feet deep and barges are grounding. Racism is rampant in the United States and if you just can’t get why that’s wrong on your own, I probably can’t teach you. I wish men could understand that there is nothing better and more empowering than losing your sex drive. The only problem is that I still have a Love drive and I can’t get that from a man without sex. It’s so wonderful facing my retirement knowing that the entire Republican Party doesn’t think I deserve the Social Security and Medicare I paid for and want to take it away. Eight hundred and fifty people on Facebook can tell me I’m wonderful, but if one person says I LIKE too much, I’m shattered. I know I have written many truly great plays, but they will never be produced or printed because every theater is buried under scripts and use any reason to toss submissions into the trash. It’s the old merry-go-round…can’t get a production without an agent and can’t get an agent without a production. I have never, in one moment of a relationship, been looking at the man I was with. I always was daydreaming of someone better but instead of looking for for the right man, stayed until I was forced to leave. 63 years old with MS. Game over. Hair is almost dry and I must think about going to the gym. Think about it. The next step is getting my fat ass in there. Later, with more amusement.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Sonnet 67 -- The Heat Driveth Me To Yon Facebook
What is this thing you call “reality?”
I fear I cannot breathe your atmosphere
On my planet, we live in a city
In which our brains and ears are never clear
Music and words and photographs explode
From strangers hiding from the prying eyes
Our frail brains boil in constant overload
Commenting on the posts of all youse guys
Outdoors today, all I met were cheerful
Gave me a smile and wave and happy “Hi!”
I doth wondered why no one was fearful
Did things different in the water lie?
Facebook I must flee to write my poem
But what better place there be to throw 'em?
Monday, August 6, 2012
I removed all the lies
And self delusions
Now, the well is empty
First in fifty years
Not in love with anyone
Not in love with anyone
All my crutches fall away save the cane
Tinting Depends lavender doesn’t help
My men, like my Mother, were all insane
Heat and humidity melt me like wax
Better to be never was than has been
Retired with disease is not leisure
Happy that I’m not addicted to sin
Poetry makes you like the Yoda speak
dumped naked like the terminator
in a foreign world
i have no programming to tell me
what my mission is
Sunday, August 5, 2012
William Shakespeare - Sonnet #29
When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least, Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Sonnet 66 – Oh, oh, Brown-Eyed Boy
And Death has outranked Love inside my mind
Oh, Lord, I do not want to be retired
The hair is white, skin now a wrinkled rind
I need a brown-eyed boy to be inspired
Of course, I never had the skill of paint
And hated high heeled shoes and skinny skirts
No man has ever seen me swoon and faint
Pumpkin-headed women cannot be flirts
We writers feign that personality
Is so much more important than the looks
Real men have smote me with reality
They don’t care if I wrote a hundred books
It’s time, at last, to admit to you all
At heart, I’m a male homosexual