A Farce of nature.
Irony
1
Monthly Archives: May 2017
How long can I wait?
“A Man in Italy”
I stand here,
waiting,
hoping you will forgive me.
Berating, debating
This feeling, castrating.
(words and painting by CD-W)
Do you see me?
Do you see me?
Truly see me?
Through this canvas, through this paint?
Of course I posed,
And then I smiled,
But, dear, I am no saint.
(poem and art by my CD-W)
A Poet’s Hands
Hands.
Mine only hold this journal. Only the extremities of an invisible will turn the pages, a wind blowing each folio to the next, unaware of the marks of my pen.
Knowing this, frees me.
The apparition will lurk in the abyss, or stand on the Precipice, hovering close by yet not close enough to dissuade me from this writing. My right hand writes as my left holds the open book.
Hands. Hands of a father’s so calloused from farm work, yet so gentle, reassuring and kind. Hands that held me when I cried, hugged me in pride, sheltered me when anything bad happened.
Papa’s hands, so stiff and cold I could feel my guilt when I touched them.
I could not go with him beneath our Texas soil. Instead, I had to swallow the bitter taste of a life void of his teachings and wisdom.
Hands of a clock that have ticked forward four years.
Hands. My own forming into fists. A change of course is overdue.
Is the third time a charm?
What words then do I write
When the ink is not to trust?
A plethora of letters yes!
The thoughts, themselves, disgust.
Do I have words left to say
That will not cause alarm?
Can I wake and try again
The third, perhaps, a charm?
(poem and art by me, CD-W)
You know how they say …
Well, I say:
Keep
Qualm
and
write
poetry
because for me, many of the best poems stem from self-doubt, worry, and unease.
Here’s one I memorized in the 70’s because I loved Rod McKuen’s poetry.
Clouds are not
the cheeks of angels
you know
they’re only clouds.
Friendly sometimes,
but you can never be sure.
If I had longer arms
I’d push the clouds away
or make them hang
above the water
somewhere else,
but I’m just a man
who needs and wants,
mostly things he’ll never have.
Looking for that thing
that’s hardest to find…
himself.
I’ve been going
a long time now
along the way
I’ve learned some things.
You have to make the good times yourself
take the little times
and make them into big times
and save the times
that are alright
for the ones
that aren’t so good.
I’ve never been able
to push the clouds away
by myself.
Help me.
Please.
Rod McKuen 1967
Collaboration
with style and grace.
Not so much here but you have to admire a man who could care less what he looked like at a Trump inauguration.
Daily word prompt: Collaboration
When life doesn’t listen, don’t give up – a personal story
A long time ago, when I wore these tiny boots, I didn’t know who or what I would grow up to be.
What I did visualize at a young age, was that, no matter what, I would be a mother.
But life doesn’t always listen to the script you write in your head. It teases you, tricks you, and leads you astray.
I fought hard for my babies. Basil thermometers, weekly blood tests, in vitro fertilization, the drug, Clomid, that gave me a cyst on an ovary. And on it went. Each time I left the doctor’s office, I cried.
At the age of 32, after a long, painful struggle, I received a phone call. “How does a boy sound?”
We picked up our son when he was five days old. My life was complete, joyous, perfect. My son taught me how to be a mother, and, for that I will be eternally grateful.
And then? Four years later, my infant daughter filled my arms.
Now? Both of my children have given me a grandchild. And, on May 18th, I will have my third. I feel like the luckiest mom in the world.
Life is a beautiful, wonderful mystery. Don’t give up on it. Just stay tuned for the magic that will happen.
Mothers or Not
Today, mothers must dance. And, if you are not a mother, dance with them.
by CD-W
Fighting for rights
A man, close to the front, pumped his fist. “My wife don’t have time for more learning. We got six kids needing supper on the table.”
A melee of querulous male voices erupted from the crowd.
“Why do women prostitute themselves to the abnormal passion of man?” Miss Fisher continued. “Because they are poverty-stricken, destitute above temptation and driven by necessity. They sell themselves, in marriage or out, for bread and shelter, for the necessities of life. How can we blame them? They have no other recourse but to live in a society that dictates what they, we, can and cannot do. To solve this problem, we demand that women be allowed to exercise their inherent, personal, citizen’s right to be a voice in the government, municipal, state, and national. Then, women will have the power to protect themselves.”
“We men protect our women just fine,” a voice shouted. Other men shouted their agreement.
Mayor Hicks stepped to the podium, his lips pursed. “Enough of your heckling. Save your disagreements for editorials in the newspapers. She has a right to free speech.”
“So do we,” someone boomed back.
The mayor banged a fist on the podium. “These women are invited guests. By God, we will show them our southern Hospitality.”
The raw egg came from nowhere. It narrowly missed the Mayor’s head before landing on the bandstand floor. He squinted, searching the crowd.
Poor Mrs. Fenwick held a shaky hand over her mouth.
Miss Fisher reached below the dais and pulled out a speaking trumpet. “The true relation of the sexes can never be attained until women are free and equal with man,” she continued, her determination thundering above the chaos.
The second egg hit the podium dead center.
Excerpt from The Last Bordello
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 