Ode to Being Regular
Ode to being regular. For I chant in the shower My favorite song from Disney - “Written in these walls are the stories that I can't explain I leave my heart open but it stays right here empty for days" Eating lattes on the run, And Breathing work between sips of wine, I tear the pages of my mind and share them only with my kind It doesn’t have to make sense The situation isn’t that intense. Ode to being regular. Piano lessons since five. I trim my bangs with those same fingers! I use the mute button on the TV remote - I silence the competition From my thoughts. Gimme something more. And by the way… Ode to being regular. Tell me out loud - That I am worth something. That piano lessons Make a difference, Or that my bangs Give me an appeal - Appeal like Marilyn Monroe had. She’s a has been. I’m here. Can you see my frustration? Who made it popular To be fabulous? Normal used to be a thing. A thing guys liked. A reason to breathe. So anyway... I’m going for it. Ode to being regular. She Wears Black Well She wears black well. Everyday, black. She offers a smile whenever someone sees her eye to eye. Her mouth wears staying lipstick Of deep color. Her interest is not only in herself But in others. Her soul is not offensive. Her voice is assured, never trembling. She seems clever, enchanted, attached. And she wears black well. Everyday, black. With flowers in her hair. Optimism on her breath. Work upon her hands. And darkness in her character. For she wears black well. Everyday, black. Toast to that Just Right Lipstick Red nail polish that also sparkles And that just right lipstick - They stand out just enough And pretty too Like my hips The ones he holds onto When we’re making love. Women do many things men do But they do their own things Some dive into books Playing part in solving mysteries And undergoing dramas Of injustice. I love to love and get love back I want his attention All over my shape My hurts and wounds And spending time making me laugh. Drama muds through my veins - Part of the core of who I am Slow-going and thick Like a hot summer day So she makes iced tea Or strawberry lemonade With fresh fruit To make things more acceptable. Women tell things Some bare all Others keep secrets Still others hide altogether. Life is a maze It's interesting that way “Okay” we tell ourselves Everything is okay With yesterday and today It’s all spilt milk - That part that wasn’t a success That part where I got lost So she raises her glass And toasts the womanhood within herself. Tambourine Girl She was free So she banged her hips against the air With the tambourine at her side. Toe tapping mattered, her wrists too. My heart and Her gut were in rhythm. Her movement mattered. I loved her wild. I loved because of her. Her Anger Poison in her words Helps the woman inside her Overcome She sips on the fine brandy And takes a fork to her heart To achieve no feeling The curls flow down To her nape Singing beauty on a black heart She punches the ceiling Making her way To the top The screams murmur Inside her head It gets unusually quiet for her. |
Dreaming of Blueberries
She wrinkles her lips dreaming of blueberries How does one dream of blueberries when a babe? Only knowing of the suckling of the breast, And the warm pure mama’s milk, summery, gold. She dabbles in the dreams of her ancestors, Her mother, her father, her Italian greats and English roots. She dreams of cinnamon sticks and galloping horses, Windy days and stormy rains, meadows and great big oak trees. All the things we would like to see in Heaven. Dream on, dream until your dreams come true. As we age a little, we have freedom and duty, We wake up for life with a readiness about us, While we sleep – we plan, we pine, we heal. Sleeping beauty, she schemes and projects, Onto a radiant platform left by her forefathers. Kissing the blossoms, batting the eyelashes, With no fear, she is soon ready to wake and triumph. A Quilt for My Mother When I learn to sew I will make My mother a quilt For she is a quilter Making everyone else quilts She deserves one made for her With love. I’ll scan photos Of her favorite people Into fabric and stitch them in, Her daughters And husband passed, Her sis, Her bro, Her dad Her mother passed, Grandkids Olive And Oscar, Her walking friends Her sewing friends, People are the fabric of her life. But mostly vibrant colors With a splash of black and white Maybe something muted, All in good taste Because she has good taste, She always knows what she wants She’s a decision maker And I’ll stitch that too Somehow or another Into her good quilt. Stitches to piece together hardship - An overcoming thread for that, Stitches to piece together loss - A thread of laughter and fun for that, Stitches, stitches, stitches Because mom always makes life fit, And there’s a patch for this and a patch for that, And she passes that onto others, Now I’ll patch her right back. When I learn to sew I will make My mother a quilt For she is a quilter Making everyone else quilts She deserves one made for her With love. She Likes Audrey Hepburn She likes Audrey Hepburn, Miss Stephanie, And She has the appeal Just like that lady. We always strive to be the things we like And all I can say is that She has class Like Ms Audrey And her striving is not for naught. For I strive to be like Her, Stephanie, She knows how to serve up a good time With attention to all the finer details She cares. She makes pretty look easy. Style, thick eyebrows Careful dress Italian-English accents. She’s a darling And a carefree laugh with Her Is soul medicine Worth a double order of the finest drink. I know Her Soft but fierce Affected by life But guarding her heart always. Feminine. Strong. Stubborn. Oriented. She likes Audrey Hepburn, Miss Stephanie And She has the appeal Just like that lady. We always strive to be the things we like And all I can say is that She has class Like Ms Audrey And her striving is not for naught. For I strive to be like Her, Stephanie, She knows how to serve up a good time With attention to all the finer details She cares. Pink Galloping Horses Pink galloping horses of innocence Blue willow trees stand upright in the wind The air moved around her at warp speed As she experienced the different dimensions They risked their lives with one another During the whole experience Because it was required for changing direction For justification of each other Whilst an invisible war went underway Changing one aura to another. |
Curly Headed Madams
It swirls out of my head, Down passed my nape, Frizz and soft-tempered curls, In a world of their own, They cast the die. There are men who love, And men who love tresses, They are not the same, A wild mane plays a lovers game - Curly Haired Devotion. I am having an affair with Frizz and soft-tempered curls, In a class of their own, Ginger curls, Gray curls, Blond curls, Brunette curls, Black curls, Whole Curly-headed madams. "Madam?" "Holla my lady!" "Hey woman!" "Love your curls!" "Madam?" In a class of their own, Ginger curls, Gray curls, Blond curls, Brunette curls, Black curls, Whole Curly-headed madams. Something Outside of Myself I get my typewriter out And it says to me, “Push my buttons.” This is what I type: Psychosis wipes away the tears Of frozen words. You say, “She’s possessed!” But that does not capture the meaning. Words are spectrums - Not concrete shapes. I say, “She’s also on the spectrum Of inspired - Something outside of herself causes Her to dance, to tick. "If it’s not black or white, Then it’s gray?” No! What we’re talking about Isn't even colors. It’s shades - or shadows really And how they appear And disappear. Mental illness is a bad choice of terms. I got issues - you got issues. That’s it! And hell no! - I don’t want Your issues instead of mine. I have abstract thoughts That have broken me from the Wrist ties that keep us locked away, And from reasoning and speaking. I’ve slipped away enough times To know I don’t do any kind of Cocktail that will make me slip again. It’s a question I’ve faced - Whether to have a daughter that Might be a duplicate of me. I would protect her. Oh glorious! I’ve climbed a mountain Before and given a speech to no one. Oh dreadful! I’ve nailed a semi-truck And only by God’s grace stand here now. Oh police! Oh naked in terror Running down the street. Sheer terror makes my rides Not worth any set of dollar bills. I am older than I look. I’ve been possessed and inspired! At war and brought about peace! I am known in the spirit world And I have been anointed. Oil has glazed down my head - my crown. I put the typewriter down and speak. I said psychosis wipes away the tears of frozen words. That cocktails can free us from our prisons. If you zero in on thousands of years what are ladies still talking about? The glorious, the dreadful, and the police. Inspiration, war and peace. Cocktails, the spirit world, my issues - her issues. Protecting their daughters. The woman’s shadow has always been there, it never disappears. But almost all shadows are worth chasing after. Something outside of herself causes Her to dance, to tick. "If it’s not black or white, Then it’s gray?” No! What we’re talking about Isn't even colors. It’s shades - or shadows really And how they appear And disappear. Michelle, Lady Goddess Insanity slapped her When love was not enough for her To handle the tide Of the black ocean. Her blood pumped in rage And the plot opened To her vision. Hallucination wrapped up In all ten senses oddly, The hallucination unwrapped Onto poetry and Words of peacemaking. With mania in her vulva She made vicious sex A liquid exchange of love with her lover His love unwrapping all the visions. She ate her heart madly Not caring over the bloody water Swimming in the shadows Insane for a moment Over the state of the union Over an ax to her neck After her private parts were taken again Over rape Over torture. The people who were once visionaries became dead like mud Sick they became, She Joined the all-seeing eye Injecting her bipolar into her vulva For vicious sex A liquid exchange of love with her lover To starve off unreality. She's down in the gully You’ll find her there Talking to the eagles headed out for the hunt. Strictly speaking her tongue never twists Her light energy heals, her dark energy awakens the senses She mourns so much it’s given over to another, God, Aphrodite too. Numbing elixir Even numb, she drew a dark picture for them So they embraced the light They heeded So much blood in the water it's black The lake must turn blue, again they will fight for it. A liquid exchange of love with her lover For blood spilt The black water made its way Onto her crown Anointed Noble spirit Risen again to the gully The eagles fly for her Not dead to substrate reality But alive in love. She is a maker of Words of peace An old form of intelligent energy, a lady god, A reflection of her past self is on the blue ocean now Her manic-depressive part is in her vulva So she’s in love — her antidote. |