StarPoet Newsletter Vol. X, No. XLII

A gray humid holiday to end the summer,
The tourists go home, the beaches are empty,
The museums even have room to walk.
Now would be a good time to go to the zoo,
Zip over to the Renaissance Festival
And make pretence I was was some courtly lady
Who slips poetry to Shakespeare when he's blocked.
I would not be his dark lady, for that role
Is already goodly documented and taken,
But perhaps one of his favorite country diversions
When the usual suspects were not available.
Not that I know I would be near his type
-- I am no Portia or Rosalind --
The poet may prefer fuller breasts or none,
But I do think he would enjoy the goodliness of my wit
And the pleasures I have well studied
To please both woman or man.

I don't want to die,
Or even worse, grow old,
My words blocked up, both in and out,
Helpless to end this final travesty,
Unable even to care for myself.

Not that I would want to die,
I just would not want to live
In a world that could offer me
Little more than oxygen
While I'm trapped inside my head.

Give me a month, thirty or forty days,
And if I've not returned to you by then,
Take a hint, pull the god damned plug,
And go find the fine epitaph I wrote
When I could still hold a pen in my hand.

Repeat after me,
He's not my king, my God,
Or even my eighth grade nun;
He's good looking,
Some would say articulate even,
But he's simply not the one
To lead us to the promised land.

He seems to have somewhat less
Than a world class brain
Behind that ready smile;
No one fears his pretty words,
No one would ever pick him
To win a bar fight,
And he seems almost unwilling
To get his hands all dirty
Down in the trenches
Where the body work of politics
Actually occurs.

I was checked out this morning
By a pick-up truck on their way to work;
I caught a few phrases of Spanish and English
That I hadn't heard for more than a while.

I can only attribute it
To the early hour and rosy lighting,
But perhaps my red blouse and my short linen skirt
Had something to do with their enthusiasm.

Let us go then, you and I,
Beneath this angry, misty sky,
Down to the corner to have a cup,
A piece of pie, a bit of luck.

Perhaps we all can work this out
-- I'd rather talk than see us walk --
You know we don't want to end like this,
All full of words we both regret.

So stay with me 'til the storm has passed
And maybe this day won't be our last,
We've been together for far too long
To let this storm wash away our love.

Black crow soaring above the tree line,
A squadron of mockingbirds in hot pursuit
Swooping down from out of the sunshine
To terminate the crow's early constitutional.

Raven bird settles on a distant roof peak
Far from the mockingbirds' territory,
The property discussion continues all summer
With neither species owning exclusive air rights.

I've just been greeted by a "How ya doing"
From a middle aged Army officer
With a black and white brush cut
Who I haven't the faintest clue of knowing.

He seemed to know me and was happy to see me
Wandering my way out at the end of the day,
But I no more know who he is than I know the astronauts
If I ever met one without their blue uniforms and name tags.

Still, if he had offered to by me a cup of coffee,
He was cute enough to pretend I remembered him.

Moon, Venus, joggers on the roadway,
Traintrucks rattle in the distance;
Low river of autos on the interstate,
Rushng to work before the traffic jams.

Overhead a helicopter patrols,
Reporting on an accident down below;
Riders gather, nod their greetings,
Speculate where the bus might be.

The earth revolves, the heavens fade,
All but the moon succumbs;
The bus approaches, the traffic lights change,
Night, at last, dissolves.

Superman committed suicide,
Superman broke his back,
That's the story of existence,
All the heroes are always dying;

And we, alone, remain
To continue the daily struggle,
Winning, losing, sometimes not moving,
Birth to death to nothingness.

We fill our days with sport and fashion,
Arguing the definities of style and taste;
Children die in the shadows around us,
Not mine, not yours, out of sight.

Some of us are warriors, some are poets,
Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers,
Lost in our worlds of personal importance,
Growing old before we grow wise,

Choosing the best accessories
To ornament our lives.

I know I should have a pair of statement shoes
-- A Nicholas Kirkwood, a Vera Wong,
       Perhaps even a Jimmy Choo,
Something in python embossed fine leather,
    An edgy cage design,
Complete with curved cutouts,
    Peep toe, and ankle strap,
All balanced precariously on a four inch heel,
Even a pair of thigh grazing boots
    Made from the finest Ostrich leather --

But my statement is coloured
    By the cement floors of the original Pentagon
       That lurk beneath its recent glossy reinvention
And the half mile twice daily walk
    From the metro bus station to my office.
 
Sometimes rationality must win out over fashion,
    Even at the expense of cutting edge sexuality.