StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XI, No. XXXVI

Babies don't always come when it's sensible,
But that doesn't mean you shouldn't do you best
To discourage them until you are ready.
Sex is sex, orgasms are good,
And hormones are geared to reproduce,
But a baby is thirty years, and often a lifetime
Of work, and worry, and love, of course,
Always love, even if it's not returned
-- Doesn't mean you need to start one
Tonight or even tomorrow, no matter
How appealing sour milk and dirty diapers
May be to you.

No drugs, no drinking,
No boys staying over,
Parents' universal lecture
Echoing in your head
Decades into adulthood,
Years after they've passed;
Always the child somewhere inside,
Waiting for your father's voice
As you avoid your mother's
Disapproving stare;

Call if you'll be late,
Don't even think about sex,
But if you ever do
Make sure that it's safe;
Have fun, be careful,
And no wild parties,
You aren't wearing that
Out on your date:
Wherever you go
Your parents are there,
Along with that nun
From the seventh & eighth grade.

I don't wrap myself in the Stars and Stripes
Or take to the streets hurling rocks and obscenities;
You won't find me in front of some grand church
Loudly proclaiming my love for Jesus
Or blindly following this leader or that.

I am a true child of the Sixties four decades well past
Their expiration date, schooled by a classical private education
To pick and choose the time and space for my rebellions,
Knowing that actual revolutionairies seldom end up
In charge once the revolution is over.

I'd rather be rhythm guitarist adding the high harmony
Than the slick pop star shimmying across her stage,
I'm the poet behind the curtain who writes the lyrics
And constructs the melodies you can't quite pin down but think
You've heard somewhere, some time, a bar or two before.

I don't want to have your babies, honey,
At least not now or anytime soon,
And I'm not sure I will every marry you
But we have time to do so if we choose.

For now, at least, we have the weekend,
The ocean breeze, and a cabin on the beach,
And if you get around to finally making love to me,
I suspect we will have something we both will enjoy.

So make like you've known me for weeks on end
And this moment is the fading light of our wedding,
Make love like tomorrow you're off to join your buddies
And tonight might well be your last one on this earth.

Crawl, walk, run, sprint,
Stumble, fall and pull a hamstring;
Regroup, stand-up, begin again,
Proceed at a deliberate walk;
Get a good job, pay for insurance,
See a practitioner, have a check-up,
Take some meds, draw some blood,
Remove your gallbladder, pay the doc;
Reqroup, stand-up, begin again,
Crawl, walk, run, et cetera
And then you're dead.

I am an older woman, how old is not important,
But let's just say I prefer George Clooney
To the adolescent twerps in the Twilight movies;
If I were to be pregnant you would read about it
On the front page of the Washington Post,
I would be a facebooktwitteryoutube viral sensation
For at least a week or two, especially after I leak
To People magazine that Gregory House is the father.

The blood of my relatives
Flowed on the streets of Chicago,
Port of Entry for Sicilians to the States,
Uncles, cousins, and the occasional aunt,
Given over the struggle until we
Became white enough for America
And switched to baseball and pizza
As our weapons of choice.

The night is dark,
The morning's purple blue,
The late August moon
Hangs full in the sky;
Venus and Jupiter
Linger in the heavens
While a storm forms west
Of the ancient Shenandoah
And spirits gather to celebrate
Above Massanutten.

I have worked washing dishes,
Waiting tables, sweeping floors,
Discovered I was a lousy file clerk
But a fair to middlin' delivery driver,
Conducted driving tests, placed encyclopedias,
Trained as an apprentice pressman,
Even taught school for a couple of years
With equal parts brilliance and disaster:
All the while I have been a poet,
A writer of lyrics, daughter of the muse,
But if I had depended on these artful words
To put food on my dining room table,
I would have starved long ago,
Years before I learned my craft,
And be just another failed pop star
Who hurled her metaphors off the drunk boat.

I have not visited the Pentagon Memorial
'Though I work a few hundred feet inside,
I have too many memories lost inside the wall
To count all the benches and reflecting pools.
I will not be here next year on the decade,
Nor will I light any candles or sing reverent hymns,
I will sidestep the preacher, the Rabbi, and the Mullah
Who will tell me it's God's Plan and Allah's will.
They can show me no heaven but that of Earth,
No evidence of existence but the one that breathes,
I do not need platitudes and assurances of future happiness,
I need my friends and a Pentagon free of monuments.