StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XI, No. XXIX

Four crows on a roof beam,
Cawing in chorus,
Arguing whatever crows argue.

They drown out the chorale
Of mockingbirds and cardinals,
Claiming the center ring for themselves.

A handful of sparrows
Search for breakfast on the ground,
Ignoring the commotion high above them.

The sun, lately risen,
Burns away the lingering mist,
Forshadowing the close breath of afternoon.

Away, away, bus after bus,
Into the express lanes,
One after another.
Be gone, be off, be on our way
While the single autos suffer
Bumper to bumper to bumper
All the way home.

My lungs surrender before I do,
Erupting in great hacks
That shake building and body,
Rumbling through the hallways
Like some jet airliner
Attempting to recrash me.

To cough, to wheeze,
But not to sleep,
This noisy roil
Has murdered sleep,
A daggered villain
Lurking in the wings
Who would make dear
Calamity of my scene.

My hour has not yet come
When I must render up,
The serpent has not yet stung;
That is a lark I hear,
Not yet the nightingale.

Day has broke and I am weary.

My ancestors,
The ones who did not realize that someday
They would be Native Americans,
Were known simple as The People,

Or more specifically,
To  distinguish them from their enemies,
And they were particularly good at picking enemies,
The People of the Long House,

An imperial, blood thirsty lot
Who, best can be said, loved a good fight,
Especially if they were the ones kicking butt;
Not that my Roman grandparents were any better,
Or the British ones, for that matter,
Or the Mores or the Carthaginians.

I carry the genes of a hundred generations
Who fought the good fight
And won much more often than they lost;
I would thank them
For their skill and determination,
And the luck of the draw that they did not die
Before continuing the bloodline
That results in a poet
Very much aware of their sacrifices
And her continued good fortune.

When I was young
The Iron Lung
Was very much
A possibility;

If Polio would strike,
Your body might quit
And your life,
Such as it would be,
Might be spent out
Unable to breathe
Without the iron monster.

I lucked out,
Polio didn't freeze
My muscle or my life;
The Russians
Withdrew their missiles
From Cuba;
The Nuclear Holocaust
Never happened.

Even if the Kennedys died
And Martin Luther King,
I survived the sixties,
The drugs, demonstrations
And the war, Our War,
Not our fathers'
Or our grandfathers';
Other's died,
Friends, rock stars,
And distant relatives
But I did not,
Always side slipping
What one day will be
Inevitable.

The life we lead
Is unfathomable
To most everyone,
Two aging polymaths
Who refuse to surrender
To time's arbitrary demands;
Two lovers who found each other
After decades in the wilderness,
Two hearts that beat as one
Even as we argue about world events,
And my latest seemingly random choice in music,
Discuss which Clint Eastwood movie is best
Or which one of us will be cooking dinner tonight.

At the end of my days,
When all is said and done,
I will still be a lyric poet,
A daughter of Sappho
With a touch of Whitman
And Shakespeare.

People will ask,
Have you ever read Lisa Jain?
And you will nod, and say,
Yes I have,
When she was still alive,
Back before the critics
Made all that fuss.

Too bad she isn't here
To enjoy her success.

I am not Emily Dickinson,
I do not secrete my poetry;
And I certainly am not Sylvia Plath,
I have no desire to become a saint;
But I am a better poet than one of them,
And arguably better than both.

I hope that does mean that I
Will someday be required reading
In some Introduction to Poetry class
Taught by some overworked post-doc
Desperately trying to earn his tenure:
I deserve better than that.

In the first few fingers of the current migraine,
And before the meds take hold,
I neither float nor feel sharp pain,
Although the aura seems to be slowly spreading.

I would not be here to record this
If any reasonable alternatives existed,
But as I am, the muse demands
That I attempt to write something poetical
That will convey my growing discomfort
And kill the minutes until the drugs kick in.

If we could live but long enough
To see the galaxies spin,
Watch Andromeda merge with the Milky Way,
Our sun grow red and dim;
How different must the universe seem
To someone who outlasts the ages.