Poetry month #6: Cult queen at the grocery store

I can’t boil water
‘Cause I haven’t got a pot
I’m really that much better
Hiding bodies in a plot
But the economy’s in downturn
And supply exceeds demand
No one needs a priestess to
Divine their dark commands

Get some bananas and a loaf of bread
Some milk and maybe eggs
A good sharp knife will do the job —
Oh you meant chicken legs
I think there is a special on
Olives down in aisle four
But don’t forget the psychopath
Who’s waiting at the door


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Poetry month #5: Midlife crisis

Should I buy a

Little red convertible,
Little red convertible,
Little red convertible
Will you sell it in reversible
In case I feel like black today

Got the mortgage and children
Was the pick and was the pan
Got myself a chart of gold stars
And a very solid man
Seen the sun rise with a newborn
Seen the sun set for a friend
The only thing I haven’t found
Is who it is that has

Little red convertible,
Little red convertible,
Little red convertible
Will you sell it in reversible
In case I feel like black today


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Poetry month #4: The post-divorce prose poem

I had it on a t-shirt back when Beat It was new, and I was ready to wear, if not my heart, then at least my slogan on my sleeve. Rainbows and unicorns: If you love something, set it free…

It wasn’t free, our divorce. It cost me in self-respect. It cost my ego more; the end of perfect love, the end of imperfect love, the end. The end. I packed. I started with a new set of sheets, and then the sheets needed a bed, and the bed needed a home. I talked to our children as I had not, when there was less explaining to do.

Then you came back, free, of me. And I free of you. And free of the old, we care not just for each other but for ourselves. No battering rams against doors that gave way before; a knock. A calling-card. I like your card; the edges sometimes ragged, the black band, the new address. Your name gives me the thrill it ever did. A calling card in this electronic age. Is commitment a vestigial organ?

If it comes back to you it is yours. But isn’t that what we said the first time? Well, I don’t care. I may no longer wear slogans on my sleeve but I will wear you on my arm for this encore.

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Poetry month #3: 2 o’clock

It’s the call.
The naked part that watches for the tiger sits up:
That catch in the voice at the other end speaks
A frailty:
Magdalynn? Lynn? George?
There’s been —
Something’s happened —
I don’t know how to say this —
I’m sorry to have to —
Before it was the 2 o’clock this,
The 4:30 that but now, even cancelling
(Because people do cancel; we are considerate like that)
There is then then,
But now there is only the now.
I’m coming.
I’m here,
What did they say —
What happened —
Tell me —
(Oh god, don’t tell me. Just – don’t.)
One day, perhaps, there will be a 2 o’clock again.
At least for some.
Let it be for mine.

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Poetry month #2: Cleopatra’s enlightenment

Cleopatra’s enlightenment

Antony’s dead; what’s a single mother to do?
Caesarion thinks he’s a pharaoh —
The twins are driving me crazy and
Ptolemy’s outgrown his shoes again

Oh yes, I thought about the asp,
Staring down the price of figs
But though I would lose Egypt to roam
This word gave me pause: Stepmother.

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Poetry month: Do this

I have been silent. But it is poetry month so I will write 30 very poor poems, or drafts, or what have you.

Do this

Do this, do this, do this
At work and stop for gas
The slow pump; the authorization
Crawling, the hissing,
Kneeling bus in my lane and
An old lady doing a waltz
To cross; lost the light.
The light fades with the
Car door; a slam more than
Is absolutely — garbage cans
Out again why hello to you too
How are…the weather’s…have
to run.
Running down the hall comes the
Toddler, a boo-boo, a boo-boo mummy,
And his brother one wrong on the spelling —
Ham! Daddy made ham! And peas and rice
And — don’t flick that — spill that —
Talk to your brother that —
Did he get his milk? What did you do
Today — look at the time.
Yes you may have a cookie.
No, brush your teeth.
Yes, time for a story
If it is short — I like this one,
The end.
The end.
Hugs. Kisses.
One more kiss.
For me.
Tuck. in.
Do this.

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It seems I should write

There is at once much to say, and very little. San and I attempt to be friends, crossing rushing water on slippery rock, I would say, except I am not certain there is another shore. As for the water, I do not step and yet I step.

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