Mouse's Song

You don't actually realize how bad my poetry can be. To give you an example, the "song" I "wrote" for Mouse during tonight's car ride. It's better set to music, believe me.

Mousey Dousey
Mousey Dousey
Mamma's good boy
Mamma's good boy-ee-oo

Mousey Dousey
Mousey Dousey
Pretty boy
Pretty boy

Good boy-ee-oo
Pretty boy-ee-ooooo
Ride in the car
Mousey Dousey boy!

State of the World

This isn't saying all I want it to, but I am already behind in my poetry production, so I wanted to get back on track.

Sadly, and happily, a true story.

"State of the World"

This morning, before breakfast,

I learned that gays were being tortured in Chechnya,

poor women are now legally denied preventative health care,

and a doctor in America was performing FGM on 7 year olds.

All this inside my head before I even got out of bed.

But then this morning before breakfast,

I sat on the ground in the warm sun with my dog,

and listened to the birds in the trees all around us;

smelt the new growth as spring starts its yearly arrival,

then gazed on the violets and dandelions dotting the

grass in a riot of contrasting colors.

The world around me is a constant source of grief:

tragedies, injustice, cruelty and stupidity

vying for my attention, clamoring for me to do

something to make things better. At times I think

I can take no more. The insanity has gone too far

and all hope is gone.

But then the earth itself reaches out—

A dog’s love and affection given freely;

Birds careless of human strife.

Renewal, fertility, the cycle never ending.

This is why humans have always celebrated

the arrival of spring—a healing so powerful that it

has been a goddess or the dying god returned.

Has there ever been a time when humans did not

rue the state of the world? Did not know, instinctively,

that both nature and humans are

tragic, unjust, cruel and stupid?

Life is uncertain, so the only sane response

is to love and be loved,

and rejoice in the power of renewal.

A Poem in Honor of New Supreme Court Justice Gorsuch* (SATIRE)

A Poem in Honor of New Supreme Court Justice Gorsuch*

*in imitation of his style

_THE LARK, while she her Gratitude to prove,

Lauds with her sprightly Notes, immortal Jov

Shuts not his Ear against the SPARROWS Lays;

Whose tuneless Pipe can only chirp his Praise.

Thus I, tho' Learned Bards before have strung

Their sounding Lyres, and most divinely Sung,

Fear not the Dictates of my Soul to own;

The less of Art, the more of Love is shown:

Vouchsafe, Great Justice, to hear my humble Muse,

And let my Zeal my Want of Skill excuse.

HAIL! Hero born to rule, and reconcile

The fatal Discords of our American Law!

When round the Continent the Trump of Fame

Did America's Glory in your Right proclaim,

Tyrannick Democrats, as with Thunder scar'd,

Sent up their Prayers impending Fates to ward;

Whilst RUSSIA's LION brav'd his threaten'd Chain,

Rowl'd his Glad Eyes, and stretch'd his Paws again.

BY your fam'd Justice, and your prudent Sway,

WOMEN shall be taught to Love, or to Obey.

WELCOME great Guardian of our American Law;

Receive the Court rescu'd by thy Hand.

A wicked Race of Men, for private Ends,

Had rais'd her baffled Foes, and sunk her Friends,

Dispers'd her Strength, and Republicans betray'd:

When Heav'n, in Pity to those suppliant Few,

Who own'd its Power, and kept their Vows to YOU,

Came to our Aid, revers'd our low'ring Fate,

And by thy destin'd ARM retriev'd the State.

Finis

OK, so this entire poem is plagiarized with a few changes of country and so on, from Susanna Centlivre’s poem “A POEM. Humbly Presented to His most Sacred Majesty” written for George I in 1714.

Not that I’m making a political statement. Nope.

I’m just too lazy to write my own poem today. And the overblown style of this one just matches my feelings so well. And it has the word Trump in it, already capitalized. I mean, kismet.

Wait, plagiarism is wrong? Who knew?

“Ah, Bartelby! Ah, humanity!”

“Ah, Bartelby! Ah, humanity!”

“I would prefer not to,” said Bartelby,

much to the despair of the Lawyer.

But I can tell you, those are some of

the best words in literature.

I would prefer not to much of the time.

Prefer not to be underemployed

Prefer not to grade papers

(I love to read them, but not grade.)

Prefer not to care about the state of politics.

Prefer not to be responsible.

Prefer not to smile in the face of stupidity.

But there are things I would prefer to do.

Prefer to sleep until I wake naturally.

Prefer to snuggle with my cats and read.

Prefer to sit in the sun with my dog.

Prefer to write not just in snatched moments.

Prefer ease and leisure and peace.

But that is not the lot of the common woman,

or man, either, to be strictly fair.

So instead, we prefer not to, but only in our hearts.

And unlike Bartleby, we do, do it all, every day

Because not all of us can turn our

faces to the wall and die.

For that way, madness lies.

Backyard Nemesis

I just couldn't write something sad or political today. I actually didn't think I'd be able to write anything but I managed to get some words down on paper. That's a win in my book.

"Backyard Nemesis"

Long and sinewy,

winding through underbrush,
hiding, subtle,
catching the unwary
unaware.
 

Grabbing, tearing

clothing or skin
Indiscriminately.
War wounds of
Backyard adventure.

But these aren’t weapons,

But guardians of the precious:
blackberries, roses, firethorn,
bougainvillea, raspberries,
and more.

Is it truly summer without

a run in with a stately or
sneaky or surprising
pricker bush?
Spilling blood, giving to the soil.

#SexualViolenceAwarenessMonth

So today I'm cheating a bit. This isn't my usual style of poetry (believe it or not, I'm working on my poetic voice), but this is a cause close to my heart. I also work for an organization that supports victims. And it is sexual violence awareness month. It's more prevalent than most people expect, and the idealist in me is working for a world in which it doesn't happen.

To the victims:                                                To the perpetrators:

You are not to blame.                                     It was totally your fault.

You are not dirty.                                            You should feel dirty.

You are not shameful.                                    You should be ashamed.

You are beautiful.                                            Apologize.

You are strong.                                               Make reparations.

You are loved.                                                 Be humble.

You are supported.                                         Get counseling.

You are heard.                                                Stop bragging.

You are believed.                                            Stop lying

You are healing.                                              Or you will be damaged forever.

Bombing Syria April 6, 2017

This is a response to something that's happening today, pretty much as I type. My heart is breaking on many levels. But that doesn't mean I know the answers.

Tonight the bombs started in Syria.

Too late? Not enough? A sign that

Trump really isn’t a puppet of Russia?

I don’t know the answer.

All I know is that Syria has suffered

bloodshed and loss for the past six years.

Civil war is never pretty.

Had we and others taken the refugees

we promised to take, how many could

have been saved?

The pitied dead children splashed across

our television screens were feared

as terrorists not two months ago.

Are we so cowardly that we fear babies?.

That we let them die on oceans, in

bombed and gassed cities?

When we know that pediatricians

were killed, hospitals bombed,

targeting children to weaken morale.

Medecins sans Frontieres has told the story.

They are bombed by both sides.

“Accidentally” we are told.

The UN, that toothless watchdog,

Has called Syria “the worst humanitarian disaster

of our time”

Our time.

The worst.

And things are pretty bad when we

look around.

I have nothing to give but

prayers and keening.

My Celtic blood boils in anger

and grief. It bubbles up through

my throat into a wild wail, rivaling

the banshees.

Keening for the dead

Keening for those soon to die

Keening for the death of humanity.