StarPoet Newsletter Vol. X, No. XLVII

Eyes closing,
Propped up by force of will,
Sinuses blocked, vile thickness
Nasal dripping;

The world outside passses by
Until my body reclaims its usefulness,
My mind clears, my life returns,
And the words fall trippingly
Once more from my tongue.

If I die before I sneeze,
I want a corpse with clear sinus
And a nose that's not red;
Please tidy up my eyebrows
And blush my high cheekbones,
Tint my lips a breathing pink
And lightly powder my skin;
Then after all the words are said,
You may burn this traitorous flesh.

When I was young,
Strangers would come by my carriage,
Pause, and tell my mother
What a beautiful baby girl I was;
A few years later,
In a stroller with my brother,
They would tell Mom how lucky she was
To have a daughter who could help care
For her younger brother
And babysit when she got older.

I'm not sure how my mother took all of this,
Surely she must have suspected something was afoot,
But despite all her attempts to keep my curly hair in line,
The world always thought I made a pretty girl,
Culminating in my 14th year, when, walking back from high school,
Dressed appropriately in Christian Brothers' approved boy clothes,
A seven or eight year old boy stopped me on the sidewalk
And asked me if I were a girl or a boy.

If only I had told everyone
-- The young boy, my parents, even the Christian Brothers --
How much more ordinary my life would have been,
Married well after college, cooking and keeping house,
And sending my own two kids off to school each day
(Or a pair of girls and boy, the baby of our family).

Into the great coughing abyss
The chill damp November
Festers leaf from tree
And fills our breath
With cold anticipation.

Tomorrow's slow creep tidals over
Any thoughts of future springs,
Winter is upon us and all the President's words,
And all his bright bright young men,
Can't put America back to work again.

Four way stop clusterfuck,
Three deep in each direction,
Each auto feigning polite behavior
As they rush to their destination.

Nary a gun or knife is drawn,
Not a drop of blood is spilled,
The world is orderly, God, in his heaven,
But the Devil is still in the details

I seem to be walking hand in hand with Whitman,
Treading on the grass he so carefully laid,
Adding new leaves, new varieties of seed.
Our sensibilities are different, as you would expect,
His so very male, a war veteran and gay,
Mine, a woman's, a lyricist with a twist of romance.
I am certain he would know me as his granddaughter
-- Shakespeare overrims both our bloodlines --
And understand our differences are a matter of place and time.
I'm not sure how well he knew Sappho
-- A handful of fragments at most I suspect --
But he would recognize my Grandmother's presence
In my rhythms and the many lines in my poems.
Grandfather, behold your child, I honor you
And the country that gave birth to us both,
True American Poets whose veins pulse full
With the impassioned blood of Democracy.

Take my garlicked, artichoke heart:
It's yours until the oregeno don't grow,
The basil don't dry,
And the pasta is all gray and moldy.

As long as tomatoes are deep sugar red
And Sangiovese grows freely on the hillside,
I am your wife, your Sicilian canoli,
Your antipasto and your just dessert,
Not to mention your all you can eat,
large combination, thick crusted pizza
Complete with anchovy.

2 A. M.,  no sign of sleep,
Brain fulll throttle, lungs still coughing,
Dishes washing in the kitchen.
I write, waiting for my body,
One way or the other,
To send poet and her blotted pen
To sleep, to bed,
Or just to Sunday's breakfast.

For what am I thankful
This weekend before Thanksgiving?
That I am alive is self-evident
And if I were not, I would not complain.

Shall I give thanks for the food I eat?
If I knew the man who grew these tasty animals,
Who raised these many healthful vegetables,
I would do so -- but alas! I live in the city
And he or she does not.

Should I be thankful for having a job?
I can suppose that, but then
Should not my employer be equally thankful
For having me?

But I am eternally grateful for my wife and partner
And each day we spend in each other's company.
Thank you, Sharon, from your poet.

Leaping along time with Star Trek,
Watching Kirk across the decades,
A skinny Scotty, a sexy Spock,
Uhura on either side of menopause,
Bones cantankerous, young or old.

Three children ago, the voyage began
And now continues reborn again,
Captain, Science Officer, Engineer and Doctor,
New Faces, new stories, but still the Enterprise,
Once more asail for all mankind
With our soul still firmly in her hold.