StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XII, No. XLII

They look at her
As if she were Grace Hopper,
-- Half in admiration,
       Half in awe --
Wondering how many of those
Stories can possibly be true
And how many are myth,
Embroidered by the passing years
Into deeds no mortal woman
Could possible have ever done,
Assuming, of course,
That Grace had originally
Earned her bones
At Hue, Khe Sanh,
And the Plain of Jars
Before constructing the internet
And performing other
Unmentionable adventures.

White, gray and beige townhouses
Set apart in threes and fours,
Black shingle roofs shadowing
Carefully chosen green trees,
Each one exactly the same height;
Behind the development,
In the opposite direction
From the broadcast satellite,
Grow trees twice as tall as the roofs,
Camouflaging the high power lines,
Cell phone towers and high speed
Rail commuter tracks.

How many people do you think I've killed?
-- I've been doing this, after all, since 1972 --
Not directly, of course, but I work hard
To make the world safer for American soldiers,
Provide them more efficient ways to doing
Their job without being killed or maimed
And to keep on doing that job until
The mission is successfully completed;
Others have died (I freely admit that)
But if my efforts saved one American life
-- And they have obviously --
I sleep peacefully at night,
As do you, my fellow Americans.

I have lost track of the number of candles I have lit,
Or the number of First Fridays I made in grammar school
-- Well more than two hands but less than say one hundred --
But when I was quite young, I played by the rules,
Checked off the various theological regulations one by one,
Did all those things a good Catholic child does to please the nuns
And an aging Monsignor from the Irish Republic;
At some point they looked at me and were quite pleased
By the young Catholic woman they had created. I imagine
They anticipated a large family of next generation
Catholic children to fill their schools and churches but life seldom
Conforms to approved OPlans and carefully constructed directions.

I have seldom found a reason to even admit there are lines to draw in,
Children are one thing, orders another, and an attention deficited poet
Oft times is distracted by a shiny idea or the beginning lines
To a new poem that suddenly appeared full formed in her head;
Although I have had grand discussions with priestly philosophers
--We who believe that no question should go unasked --
The church and I have parted ways after she refused to provide
Rational responses to the honest lines of inquiry I raised,
I admit they were men and I, a woman, who should at all times
Be aware of my place in God's plan, but they took in the girl
And gave the world back a true disbeliever who rather prefers
The reality of hard science to her memories of sweet incense.

The kids will be over in a couple of hours,
Sharon's working on stuffed pork loin
And a three bean and rice side dish,
I've prepared a Californiesque green salad
With every appropriate fresh vegetable
(I'm letting Newman do the balsamic dressing),
Hummus and fresh salsa and Greek Tzatziki
Will serve as our cross cultural appetizers,
Salted and fried American potato chips
As our politically incorrect dippers.
All we need now is the kids, who, I'm told,
Are bringing a bottle or two of drinkable wine.

Damn it was dark this morning,
Autumn is settling in,
The bus has to guess where
The passengers are waiting,
Dodging early school buses
Scooping up their kids;
Everyone seems to have
Gotten everywhere:
I made it to work on time,
If not early,
And the high school kids
Could have cared less
Whether they made it to class
Or not -- Their social day
Was well underway,
School and sunlight
Not withstanding.

Last Night I Dreamed I Saw Steve Jobs


Last night I dreamed I saw Steve Jobs,
Alive as you or me, tearing through
These quarters with a new iPhone in his hand,
An iPad underneath his arm and a coat of solid gold,
Searching for the fanboys he'd already sold.

"Arise," he cried, "I'm Steven Jobs,"
In a voice with little restraint.
"Come out, come out and buy my stuff
And hear my heartfelt complaints.
There is no prophet among ye now
Who you can call your own.
So pray to me and go your way
And know you're not alone.