Sonnet XXXII -- It Took Me Long Enough

thirty-seven years old and newly free

no longer servant to parent or man

up the American financial tree

and chained to a job, doing what I can

should have gone on alone at twenty-three

not slave to any man who looked my way

lacking the courage and the means to flee

my looks and i.q. couldn’t carry the day

caught between suburbanite and hippie

trapped by my husbands’ sad hermitic lives

schizophrenia outsiders couldn’t see

turning to hell for unfortunate wives

prosperous alone for twenty-five years

at last free at last from insults and tears

A Tossed Salad of Small Poems

1.

i can’t give myself what you need

wouldn’t even know where to start

damned stigmata refuse to bleed

can’t find the poison in my heart

an aging useless shikse girl

who doesn’t want to play no more

can’t have sex on a tilt-a-whirl

doesn’t care if you slam the door

2.

January air is still and stealthy

People would say that it isn’t healthy

It teases chilled humans with thoughts of snow

Before the winds have decided to blow

Nothing good is started in winter time

Not even a smallish and piquent rhyme

3.

lost words

karaoke without music

conversation on the run

4.

be so wrapped

in today’s work

that yesterday’s

failures

are forgotten

Sonnet XXXI – Do I Smell a Draft of Amour?

Deep in the nuts and bolts of creation,

I run the spell check and contact actors.

Somehow clinging to my inspiration,

Trying to organize all the factors,

Which twist a mass of words into a play,

A script, an event, a night of drama

That gets a paying audience to stay

And listen to pentameter Mama

Let’s pretend that we’re young and beautiful,

With all the riches that fantasy brings.

Respected, sought after and dutiful,

All of the typical successful things.

Dance and dally with scenes of comedy

End with inevitable tragedy.

Sonnet XXX -- Frankly, my Dear, You're Boring

At some point you must log off of Facebook,

Make chat rooms and telephones go silent.

Just sit and force yourself to take a hard look

At your life, though it may make you violent.

Our parents didn’t train us to survive.

Made us into Princes or Princesses,

Or a shy Cinderella, half alive.

Guaranteed we wouldn’t be successes.

We cannot soothe ourselves with fantasy,

Dreaming success only in our minds,

Where we are rich and sexy and sassy,

Beloved of all desirable kinds.

Sixty two years is long enough for lies

I want to see myself with open eyes.

Sonnet XXIX -- Enough Already, Let It Go!

Why is the only inspiration Love?

The world is full of horror and beauty,

That should make us cry to the Gods above,

And fulfill artistic holy duty.

For all my plays and your masterful art,

How did we end up in hate and alone?

You look for a girl to enact a part,

And I for a male to throw me a bone.

We both could make a shrink really wealthy,

Trying to find happiness at our age.

We’ve never had a romance that’s healthy,

And didn’t die in disappointed rage.

I hope these are the last lines you inspire,

And we find new Muses to light our fire.

Pornographic Addiction -- Adults Only

Do you want white lace or black lace

Wedding gown or bustier

Do you want a sweet virgin’s face,

Or “Hey, Big Boy whaddayasay”

Reduce love to lubrication

And banging all the hot night long

Aiming for ejaculation

The G spot’s overwhelming song

When does it become addiction

Overwhelming all of your sense

When does it become affliction

Leaving you trapped inside a fence

So many websites on the Net

Full of faceless women and men

Masturbation all warm and wet

Over and over and again

There is no career or marriage

More important than the sickness

Of living on an unknown edge

Bragging of your length or thickness

Without the burden of the truth

A costumed teenage fantasy

No demands for us, forsooth

No nasty responsibility

Call the phone women feminists

By a very male definition

Pretend you’re not recidivists

Free from any dull thought of sin

Something happened to cause this mess

That excited and disturbed you

Repeat it with numbing sameness

Try to find a way to get through

Your talent and your brain are starved

This artificial Web of sex

Your children unborn, your Love carved

Into pieces of arms and legs and pecs

It’s impossible to cure, I fear

Once hooked by the Dominatrix

It continues year after year

The only way to get your kicks

I know the sweet release you seek

When the leather bond chokes your breath

To stop the mem’ry of being weak

With the blessed kisses of death

Sonnet XXVIII -- Santa Baby

I say “enough!” to pointless dreams of Love

The vaunted possibilities of Sex

The Gods won’t pour happiness from above

At our age a harness could break our necks

Our health and money must take precedence

I leave younger folks to pay for dinner

And do romantic things that make no sense

And pretend that they are a careless sinner

You can’t return to being a young swain

I will no more be a choice piece of ass

You’re going to have to earn it for your brain

Accept that rich men will buy the hot lass

As for me, covered with sags and wrinkles

Accept the men who look like Kris Kringles

Sonnet XXVII - One is the Cheapest Number

Sometimes I wish the fairy tales were true

Where I’d be tatting a bit of lace

And watching as my perfect children grew

And gazing at my perfect husband’s face

He would be in charge of silly finance

While I would arrange dinner with the staff

Amuse him with a pretty little dance

Greet his pronouncements with a girlish laugh

Not one of my men could balance checkbooks

I had to earn the rent and clean the house

And they all told me they hated my looks

Skulked off with other women like a louse

Thank God I’ve been alone for thirty years

And freed myself of all their sorry rears

The Moving Finger Moves On, Flipping Us Off

we’re not what we thought we would be

are we, kiddo?

i’ll bet a lot of people thought

we’d end up here.

alone and childless, living on the web,

family far,

wonderful friends but too busy

to be around.

this is the life we have in age

time to see it,

i never got into battle.

you ran away.

maybe since I’m older and lame

it’s easy now

to learn to live simply retired

and stop fighting

could have done it differently

but it’s too late

and there’s no point in worrying

about the past

the moving finger having writ

moves on blindly

what’s done is done and set in stone

our history

so i do bad poems and plays

and try to laugh

and sing in church in the wrong key

try to protest

there will be no love to rescue

either of us

unless we stop daydreaming the plot

and take what comes

alas i’m in a better place

not addicted

to yesterday’s wild adventures

with teenaged boys

i want to be mature enough

for good old men

who’ve loved and lost and lived to tell

me their story

maybe help to push the country

back to goodness

and help the next lost generation

to have a life

better than ours

Sonnett XXVI My Lady Doth Have An Crappy Mood

I’m bored and tired of mere survival.

There is little more than social chatter,

And waiting for the mail’s dull arrival.

I even question the things that matter.

What value is Art if it’s all just lost?

Politics is a futile petition,

To politicians who don’t know the cost,

Of leaving us in a prone position.

I must remember the ride is too short,

And not one of us knows all the answers.

We are expected to hold down the fort,

Till we end in accidents or cancers.

Sick of listening to my whining voice,

But, sigh, I guess that I got no damned choice.

Sonnet XXV -- A Little Less Conversation A Little More Action

In the underwear of faceless women

Lays a secret passage to paradise

A whirligig dream of bliss and semen

Where copulation is never a vice

If you play your lust in daydream theater

Without the mess of a breathing woman

You won’t be called a bastard or cheater

Or a rat or skunk or other vermin

But is sex by telephone worth the dime

Or doesn’t that matter after a while

Is it hotter if it feels like a crime

You get no closer than the keypad dial

I prefer the memory of naked love

The feel of skin as he crouches above

Aging with a Final Laugh

Aging with a Final Laugh

By Susan B. Reinhard, Copyright 2012

A man and a woman can make a child

By dropping into bed

Remembering how humans once were wild

Sans the use of the head

I’ve reached the age where I am free of sex

A woman has no choice

Lucky I had one spectacular ex

No, I won’t hush my voice

To any of my wants and lusts and needs

Even a Facebook poke

Is wrong because my garden has no seeds

A Playboy Grandma joke

But thank you for showing me sex’s slaves

Who think of little more

Than turning their beds into joyless graves

Where it all seems a bore

I know that wounds caused this situation

And they are not to blame

But let me find other inspiration

And Arts to fire my flame

Think first of the Earth and starving children

Put my life in order

Think hard on this pivotal election

Don’t be such a hoarder

Refuse to waste money on makeup and dye

Don’t waste money on rags

Don’t attempt to catch a man with a lie

Laugh at the lines and sags

Fat old redheads without money or height

Can somehow be a Queen

And thrive alone with just one simple rule:

“Replace man with machine”

Getting My Ducks in A Row (Stop Quacking!)

Blueberries, strawberries,

Bananas, raspberries

And pineapple

Blend it with bran

And fruit juice

And freeze in half cups

Take the grass fed beef

And free range chicken

And divide it up

4 ounces per day

Make three different soups

Of beans and vegetables.

My freezer is full now

I have all that I need

The blizzard chest

Is full of canned food

And boxed soy

And rice milk

I have dish soap

And laundry soap

And shampoo

And batteries

And toothpaste

All of it low fat

And low salt

And without wheat.

My life is

Perfectly

Under
Control

And perfectly boring

Even with the theater

Even with the gym

Even with church

Even with my friends

Even with the politics

I would rather

Be young

And dance

And make love

And drink

Diet Coke

But

I will finally

Clean the apartment

And watch the news

And

Read these

Bloody books

Sonnet XXIV – That’s Me On The YouTube

Sonnet XXIV – That’s Me On The YouTube

Haven’t yet made it to The Spotlight News.

Despite raw and shameless solipcism.

I’m pleased to see that I am getting views

Though I haven’t quite lost my religion.

Do you consider this face as subtext?

And would you if I were a male poet?

I pray my white head doesn’t leave you vexed

And the sag of my chin doesn’t blow it.

Yes, I said “Blow it”, you now may chuckle.

Like the Zen masters Butthead and Beavis.

Shakespeare would say til thine knees doth buckle.

I should end this before senses leave us.

I have joined the age of the video

One more clown in digital rodeo.

Late Night Videos

A black and white

Image

On color stock.

Shades of gray ripple

Your ashen face

Deep worry lines over

Dark darting eyes

You want me to see it

You make sure

I do.

Understand

That if I touch

The screen

We are

Not female

We are

Not male

All I ask is

That

You survive.

We

Live

On opposite sides

Of the World

You talking and talking

About the past

About yesterday

Me silent

Gently

Imagining

Placing my fingers

On your lips

Stroking your

Snowy Hair

Saying “Hush,

My Darling,

Sleep

Let the past go

Think of today

Free yourself

Let it go

Take the burden

Off your back

Before it

Kills you.

Before you

Disappear

And leave

No image

Behind.

Understand

All I ask is

That

You survive.

Too Late for You, But Not for Me

Living without fantasies

Is like living on thin air

Fainting from the lack of breath

The chocolate of the mind

Has kept us from seeking truth

And made our lives a slow death

I awake my throat is dry

At least I am all alone

Without the extra onus

Of dead and dying lovers

From whom smart women have run

But I regard as bonus

The world lives on fumes and lies

And might not make tomorrow

Madness lives in the water

Children and the elderly

Slated for destruction as

Politicians’ fodder

Old and fat with silver hair

There is no time for dreaming

But only desperate actions

The bigots want to kill a race

Leave the rest to slavery

Divided into factions

I am useful on the ground

There is no retirement

Seven miles from Newark

Sanity is demanded

In the here and now today

Everyone must do work

So save yourself, aging boy

Stop whining about the past

You screwed the pooch, my Dear

Get off your damned pedestal

Join the masses in reality

And redeem your skinny rear