Madly in love with Steven Tyler all over again (aka still) after hearing his new Country single.
National Poetry Month will be over Thursday. I got a lot done, had some fun, and am very tired. 3 more books to pump out this year? We’ll see. The ol’ back doesn’t love sitting at a table on a hard chair typing for hours.
For anybody who was reading, I stopped posting the 30/30 because the double-spacing was driving me batty. I need to get back into the habit of submitting. Lots to do now that my computer is broken, but not impossible. Scale back, and steam ahead!
Everybody Has to Stand for Something.
An older lady on a bus. A pledge.
A judge. Let’s boycott turkeys trussed.
No one has the right to bind our breasts!
Yet, “We must, we must, we must increase
our bust.” Since the seventies: Don’t love
too hard or trust. Oh, give tirades a rest!
Campaigning for you, not US.
The Last Brunch
There are four sisters, or maybe three,
in my apartment on Center in J.P.*
Yet here we are for “Girls’ Day” of fun.
Just Momma and I in 1991.
[Prompt: Ekphrastic poem. On a photo, in this case.]
The Drone of Spring
Automatically, a squirrel chases another up an oak,
but he’s a New England squirrel, still a bit confused
by the snow piles with chirping robins hopping by
to the same drumbeat that a white rabbit seems to be
following, though the silly animal is behind glass with
neon plastic eggs being cracked by sticky miniature
humans whose hard-heeled shoes shine in the sun,
the sun that reveals a primlipped grandmamah
who lacks the lexicon to politely note how the bright
rays reveal what the daughter-in-law neglected to dust.
[Prompt: drone, lexicon, animal, crack, shine. Note that I changed tense or number, etc. so it’s not a proper word poem.]
A Woman with Nothing to Hide
Suffering is welcome, as long as it’s kept in a cool, dark place.
Ditto for complaint-free decomposition, with extra credit
for photos of you, waterside in seafoam gauze, kicking
a seersuckered calf at oncoming waves. Anger sears.
There will be none of that. Bliss is all men ask for
in a lover. It is mostly what regular women crave from
their friends. Yes, there are pockets of counterculture
yahoos flying black freak flags. Crazy is cool unless one
seeks employment or cruises the personals fantasizing
about a man on Sag Harbor who doesn’t crave mystery.
[Prompt: Mental Health and society’s views, etc.]
When every feeling has been defined for us,
and The Group has a mantra that ails creativity,
it might be time for a change. Of scenery.
Of goals. Of venues. Maybe even, of groups.
How much can it matter if we misstep old reels,
sighing the body electrified by the heart’s need
to catch its breath, try not to skip too many beats,
resurrecting the spirit to sacrifice who gets to lead?
Revenge of the 21st-Century Bard
It doesn’t cost a cent, unless one is
particularly determined or profoundly
disturbed And we were all raised better.
But every now and again it thrills to give
a trespasser against the spirit his or her
comeuppance, even if only for the the thrill
of having tracked down the scent of reason.
Reasons to write “comeuppance” are rare.