Peephole People

Living in a wheelchair sucked. Her hands hurt, calloused only after months of bleeding. Everything she wanted was out of reach, her husband had not put all she wanted, no, all she needed at a level she was comfortable with. After all, he’d left, having had enough of her fussing, of her constant need of help. Tired of her.

An infection. Something she couldn’t even see had landed her in this rolling hell. Sure she was bitter, angry, upset, resigned. The new bicycle that had hung on the wall, quickly removed, never ridden in the park as planned. Lots of things would never happen as planned she realized long ago.

Furniture moved so she could easily get around the house sat empty now, friends who stopped in came less often, weary of her sour face, sour attitude. Outdoor wheelchair excursions used all her energy. People stared, held doors open with a look of pity she felt she deserved, but hated nonetheless.  If she had been put in the chair because of an accident, it would be so much easier to blame someone else, blame a car, a careless driver; but how do you blame something you can’t see, touch, or really believe exists?

Anger woke with her each morning, stayed for breakfast, left only to be replaced by hate, sorrow, defeat. No stable mental state for her, no sir! Her roller coaster ride made possible with her very own wheels. An artsy friend had come over and painted flowers, and vines along the chair rails, foot rests, and for a while it made her smile, however she soon lost interest with the same view of flowers that never gave off rich aromas, became bored with the same old view out her windows.

Her landlord installed a peephole at her now short eye level. If her doorbell rang, which really didn’t happen often, she was able to see the belly of the offending bell ringer. Much good that did. Ha!

Once, while rolling past her door, she saw movement through the peephole, and stopped to snoop, after all, no one had buzzed her door.

She noticed an entire other world sitting watching her neighbors coming and going. Mornings they seemed chipper, eager to take on the day. She snorted a laugh at that one. She wondered how it was possible to do the same things each day, and be happy about it. Each evening, these same once smiling puppets arrived home, smiles not as shiny, a bit of a slump in their shoulders. That’s more like it she thought. Reality has arrived. Occasionally these drudges put on fancy duds and came home drunk, or with strangers. That made mornings interesting, a stranger tossed into the mix of ordinary.

After this discovery; of life in the hallway, she eagerly arose each morning, and actually looked forward to evenings, when she could sit in her fated chair, and watch her peephole people.

I’d Like to be a Cigarette

She holds me in her slender hand

fingers caress me, fiddle, her energy

transferred to me.

An inhale, simple really; I swirl

in her mouth, down her tender throat

to her lungs where I settle however briefly

then once again find her throat, mouth

to pass through her parted lips graced with

Passion Pink lipstick. A silent O of smoke

floats and dissipates, much the way our love did.

My smoke envelopes her hair, stirring the blonde

tint over her left eyebrow. I play my vapor along

her arm as she reaches for her new man. He

waives me away, annoyed, but pleased she

has taken the seat he reserved for his find of the night.

She coughs, a jarring reminder of what I can do. She

laughs and lights another me. I center my talent in her

lungs, leaving bits in air sacs, leaving bits for doctors

to find.

That nasty thing, cancer. Oh, how I’d like to be

a cigarette.

Don't Sell My Underwear

I love garage, and estate sales; the hunt for the bargain, the unusual. I love to dicker, and try to keep current on what "used stuff" is selling for.

Harriett, a very dear friend with cancer, knowing my penchant for sales, asked me to help her organize her lifetime of stuff.  She wanted to give certain goodies to family members, and friends, and make specific donations. She talked about an estate sale, "Only after I'm gone, dear.", and thought it ought to do well. She had a lot of cookbooks, and beautiful serving pieces that she figured would sell for a tidy sum. We discussed quite a bit that day, and I was feeling a heavy weight in my heart from all this talk of "What to do after I go to see the Lord".

I think my friend sensed this, and our talk went on to other, less heartfelt things. A while later however, she broached the subject again, with a bold, "Don't sell my underwear!" I giggled, then frowned, and asked her to explain. She said to donate all her under-things to a charitable store. She did not want people rummaging through her "unmentionables in my own home” and didn't want men seeing her bras. It would just be too embarrassing. I didn't remind her that she wouldn't be around to witness the sale of her things, but told her I would honor the request.

My friend passed away quietly, donations were made, friends received their due, and her cookbooks sold quickly. As promised, I made sure her unmentionables were given away, never to be pawed or tittered over.

Since then, every time I find potentially embarrassing personal items at a sale, I think of my friend, and hope the owner of the current lot of underwear isn't looking down, mortified by their things being viewed by strangers.   

At a recent estate sale, I came across an interesting looking box with a $5.00 price tag on the lid. I unzipped it, hoping for an exciting find, only to come face to face with a breast. Yes, a breast, which I was sure belonged to the recently departed.

Now, I have a warped sense of humor, and thought of all the jokes and gags I could accomplish with this breast, and as quickly as those thoughts entered my head, they flew out, followed by Harriett's voice scolding me.

I quickly closed the box, zipped it shut, and hid it in the far corner of the closet. I understand the embarrassment in having people seeing your underwear, but I was not even able to fathom the horror, and possibly shame at having such a deeply personal part of you out for all to see. Judging by the clothing styles the woman was elderly, probably from a time when you never even mentioned underwear, much less false body parts.

After another go around the house, looking for missed treasures, I made my way to the cash register, put on my sternest face, told the cashier where I had put the box, and seriously suggested they remove the item from the sale. I could only hope I had made Harriett proud. After all, there are just some things you don't sell.

While I don't plan on leaving this world anytime soon, I have written in bold type, told my children, and their spouses, "Don't sell my underwear!" I suppose now, I need to update my final requests with an emphatic, "Don't sell any false body parts either!" 

Potty Mouth

Relaxing, watching TV, I rise, look at my husband and say

  “I’m going potty.”

He laughs, “Well, go for me too, then I won’t have to get up!”

“I’m going potty.” That could possibly be the most idiotic sentence ever!

Why do we feel the need to announce that we are going to the bathroom? Everybody goes, nobody cares. Yet we whisper, “Excuse me, where is the ladies room?” as though we are ashamed to admit we tinkle, or… when we are out in public, at a party, or in unfamiliar homes.

A male teacher! Horror of all horrors to this fifth grader. I had to ask permission from a male (my father didn’t count, he was Dad) to use the restroom during class. For the first few months of school, I waited, often uncomfortably, for recess so I could go potty. I was mortified when I just had to go, and raised my hand, asking for a hall pass. The teacher didn’t ask why, so no awkward explanations in front of the class. He gave me the pass, I pottied, and felt fewer nerves the next time I raised my hand to be excused.

Why are bodily functions so funny, and why do we announce them?

Pet dogs announce they are going, just by the fact that they go to the door and bark an “I want to go outside” bark (very different from the “someone’s in our yard” bark). Of course pets probably don’t feel shame, what they are doing is natural. Again, we all do it, so what is the big deal?

I understand the embarrassment of rising during a movie, “Excuse me, oh! sorry, didn’t mean to step on your toes, excuse me.” I realize that unless I come back with a soda or popcorn, they will know where I’ve gone. I have interrupted their movie experience to go potty. How rude!

At restaurants, (stupidly so) I feel eyes following me to the restroom, hoping I will emerge with toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Now this has never happened to me, seen a few ladies, and gents with the tell-tale streamer following them back to their table, and laugh, especially when with others, because that is just the kind of evil mind I have. “Thank heavens it’s not me!”

Closer to 60 than 50, I still laugh about farts. So what? Perhaps that means I haven’t grown up all the way, yet, but I don’t care. Laughing keeps me young.

My ten year old granddaughter needed a chaperone for an over-night stay at the zoo. I volunteered, loving school field trips. There were plenty of adults, and kids, all sleeping on the floor of a large room. Tired after an evening spent walking the zoo, seeing what animals do at night, sleep came to all pretty quickly. Coughs and the swish of sleeping bag tossing and turnings soon quieted, and, as was inevitable, someone farted. Kids giggled, a few parent snored, and I had to cover my mouth to keep from cracking up. Why it was so hilarious was beyond me. Maybe the kids giggling added to the mirth that threatened to erupt from deep inside. Hey, it was funny. All was soon still once more, and sleep settled the room.

“Oh! Excuse me!!!!! I farted.” Unless it was within hearing range, why do we again, announce what our body is doing?

What has now become a funny, maybe a bit unfortunate tradition at our house is farting for cake.

Yes, you read that right. Once, long, long ago, a grandchild wanted cake for dessert. Grandpa said “No cake unless you fart.” hoping the child would finish his dinner first, then get a piece of cake. Well, said grandchild took a few more bites of dinner, farted and proudly stated, “I get cake!”

Now, in the middle of dinner someone is more likely than not to pop up with an “I get cake.” Cake being whatever there is for dessert that night, if any. If no dessert that night, the grand kids say they will save that fart for a future slice of cake.

The grand kids also enjoy burping, and that is funny too, especially when they try to croak out an “Excuse me” while they are burping. Granddaughter one, a bit of a tom boy, hangs right in with the boys, matching them burp for burp. Talent is all I can think of, and hope someday she will find a young man who finds face farts and butt burps just as amusing.

My mother-in-law loves the game show The Price is Right. One morning she wondered out-loud if anyone, but especially overweight people spinning the Big Wheel ever farted. We went on to discuss this for several minutes, and decided with all the noise of the stage, no sound would find its way to human ears, however, the show emcee, Drew Carey might smell the faux pas since he stands right next to the person taking a chance on the spin. How mortifying. Funny, but mortifying. I have made a note to myself – if ever on a game show, eat very little, and no foul farting foods the day before my scheduled appearance.

Same mother-in-law, getting a new roof on the house – roofers working away, laying new tiles. My warped mind wondered if, when going to the bathroom, you were supposed to turn on the exhaust fan while the guys were up on the roof. What scents actually come out of the “fart fan”? And who wants to be the one to check it out? I’ll pass.

Reading about customs of other countries I came across the - you must burp after a meal to let your host know you enjoyed it custom. Well, well, well, my family would fit right in there.

We giggle, and snort when we get to laughing too hard, fart when climbing on the tractor, and let the world know that we have to go to the bathroom, what goofs. It all keeps us laughing, a good thing in this politically correct world we are supposed to be living in.

I can see it now, “Excuse me Mr. President, but I do believe I get cake.”

Contractions

Those’ll be the things

that’ll be on my list

of things I really don’t

like.

They’re supposed to make

things shorter, but’ll make ‘em

longer in the long run.

And’ve you seen what

I’d’ve done to those words

that’re on my list?

Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve

done this long ago.

You are correct, if you

think I will remove them

from my writing,

remove them from my

speech.

Remove that mark called

apostrophe and reclaim

entire words.

Oh! The joys of complete

sentences with complete

words complete my day.

Dinner for Two

She is older, a mother
of grown children.
He, a young scamp.
The odd pair - thrown together
they have become companions;
eating, frolicking, sleeping,
their timeless days spent
in the company of each other.
Circling, circling, they turn
clockwise, counter-clockwise,
their blessing patiently given.
Patient as their mistress
fills the crystal bowl, they hold
tails high, a flicked tip as a
thank you.
Ever the gentleman, he
waits as she is sated then waves
her tail in consideration and
wanders off so he may partake.
A once around the room to
confirm the place of new and
old, smells to entertain, frustrate,
then off to bed to consume
hours in blissful slumber,
 nose to nose, paw to
paw.

4th of July Breakup

My heart has broken once again,
another man gone, I'm too much
woman for him I guess.

My face an unattractive mottled red,
nose running, eyes puffy and bloodshot.
I pass the hall mirror ignoring me.

Knuckles white with anger at this latest
desertion. Really? Tonight of all nights!
The table set for six, our collective children
were bringing the wine, ribs and coleslaw.
I've posted a note on the door:
     "Go back home, it's over."
Nothing to explain, mine have heard
it before, not new to this despair.

Saddened by this sudden pain, I sink
into the depths of blue. In bed, I snuggle
into Egyptian cotton sheets. Something
to caress me, something tender.
I now have this space to myself, I can flail
and sob. Have nightmares or dreams
of things left unsaid, and those things
said that should have been silenced.

Fast Approaching

The need to add, subtract and file

Takes my time, I do not smile.

Correlate, amalgamate, oh! Do I hate

Those numbers, lines, and stupid questions

Waiting for answers, gives indigestion.

My papers are ready, files copied and folded

Now off to the tax office, I am beholden,

For they deal with the government, so I am free

To print more paperwork, kill another tree.

The IRS needs copies of all, computer or fax, a real no, no.

My money, their money, who’s to say?

I’ll soon find out, come income tax day.

Procrastination

Procrastination, it takes imagination
to put off needed chores, for something not to bore.
Who said I had to clean the dishes? Let me now, begin my wishes.
Wish I were with a drink in hand, listening to a timpani band.
Cool water, warm beach, happily, easily within my reach.
Now laundry is piling up, let me go refill my cup,
Oh wait! I see a bit of dust, off to clean it, if I must.
The windows filled with streaks and grime,
Easily forgotten when viewing snail slime.
Since I am now outdoors it seems
my wishes have turned into dreams.
For picking up dog mess, turned into much less,
as I pluck flowers from new budded iris.
These things I must do, nothing ever new,
fill my life with mundane and the drab.
Did I hear mention of housewife rehab?
New ways to clean, faster machine
to sweep, iron, and polish. Oh yeah!

My day is done, I'm through with the fun,
or the boring, and stale and dull.
I put off my chores, and while my husband snores,
must plan for tomorrow, with great sorrow,
to fill one day with two days of chores.

Nothing

No thing. Nothing.

Reality TV shows have things going on, always.

But in reality, nothing much goes on.

No drama, no passions every 5 mins.

No thing, to keep me entertained –

          Every second of every day.

Nothing exciting happens, just life.

Normal, run-of-the-mill life.

No thing to keep me up at night,

Crying my eyes out over what I think

Someone did or said.

No thing to threaten someone over,

To create a false argument.

Nothing worth filming day after day.

Hours, minutes, seconds. No thing

To keep the editors snipping and bleeping.

Nothing at all, a happily normal life.

While nothing worth a reality show goes

On in my life, no thing will stand between my

Happiness, my loves, my life and me.

So nothing can stop me, nothing will hinder me.

No thing will hamper my success at life.

How to Read Poetry

I know I get frustrated with poetry that doesn’t make sense. I wonder what I’m missing, so I re-read, and find I’m still at sea, floating in a mess of words I do not understand.

And, after a short time of wondering where my brains went, I realize my confusion is the fault of the poet who did not make the poem clear enough to understand. I do also realize that I may just not be smart enough for that particular poem.

As a poet, I try to be clear. Or at least clear enough to lead the readers mind to intended destinations, sometimes with more than one route. Each person might walk away from a poem with a different thought; culling personal experiences and inserting them into what is read. If the reader cannot relate to the poem, the poem should at least allow the reader to easily step into the poem, be led through the poets thought process. 

A poem should be engaging, thought provoking, stomach churning, funny, deep, and something to make you cry. You may also dislike the poem, too hateful, sad, unkind, disturbing. That is fine, the poem has created feelings in you, the reader. That is good. A poem may also me a non-emotional response poem, an "eh, whatever" poem. Those can be good poems too, just not something that stirs a response.

Not everyone will like every poem, there are as many types and styles of poetry as there are poems, well, almost. One type of poem may be difficult for you to grasp as a reader, one may have too much rhyming, not enough, too many repetitive lines. Find the kind of poem you like, and read that. Stepping out of your poetic comfort zone can be fun, finding something different may open new worlds for your enjoyment.

So, how to read a poem? Sit back and read. Let the poem speak to you. Enjoy the experience, weep with the words, laugh with the language.

For me, as a poet, if my poetry leaves you stumped, I have failed. If I did not get any reaction from you, by the words I put together, then my job of creating needs some serious revamping. 

Freaks

I have posted this before, back in 2010, changed a bit of it, thought I'd repost -

Beard droppings.  A bone of contention between the newlyweds.  “Are all women this messy?” he wondered as he cleaned up around their solitary bathroom sink.

After living as family and traveling with the carnival for thirty plus years along with the other freaks they had grown to know each other well.  However after reaching old age at 45 (for 45 is old for a carney), Reginald the Strong and Barb the Bearded Lady decided to marry and leave the fast paced life behind.

Their carnival friends threw them a party and bid them luck and happiness.  What they hadn’t told them however, was what to expect now that they were married and how to adjust to life outside the carnival. 

Reginald the Strong wasn’t considered to be quite as freakish as the others; most of the stunts performed were really staged.  Now Barb the Bearded Lady was one of the carnivals biggest freaks; she had been born with extra male hormones, her voice a deep alto and a fine beard were her fate in life.  She hated the affliction, rarely spoke and now that she was rid of the carnival, shaved every day.

In many ways they were like a normal couple; Reginald worked at the local gym as a trainer and Barb stayed home to cook and keep their little one bedroom apartment tidy.  She tried to get a job, but employers wanted “qualified people”; being a Bearded Lady didn’t bring many qualifications to a job.  After all, knowing how to pitch a tent and stand up to the jeers of an audience didn’t count for much in the real world.

They found they missed their carney family, but not the frenetic daily life.  They had quiet dinners talking over the day’s events and spent evenings-sitting hand in hand on their postage stamp sized porch.  Life outside the carnival was hard to get accustomed to; being freaks and never living long in one place they didn’t know how to belong, how to be neighbors.

They thought it would be easy, leaving the carnival, but taunts of freak echoed as neighborhood children played.  This hurt Barb the most, as she had been a freak in the carnival, and thought that this ugly name would be left behind; she knew she was different, but not a freak.

Reginald and Barb shopped together and went to late night movies every so often, but they avoided really public places like the park or the mall.  Fewer chances to be ridiculed.  Freak was the most common taunt with weirdo and alien coming in close behind.

They became twitchy living in one place; with neither space to spread out nor any place to get away from each other.  Barb missed the constant hum of carnival life and grew lonely.  Reginald, enjoyed his job, but started to detest coming home to the neediness of Barb; bear droppings littered the counter, and he wondered why she couldn’t get them all picked up.  Reginald took on extra work as a personal trainer and spent several hours each weekend at homes other than his own.

Barb discovered soap operas and lived to watch fictitious families survive, started loving them like her own family.  These people made up for all she lacked in life.  They never called her a freak and accepted her quiet intrusion into their lives.  She soon took on characteristics similar to those she watched and for a time, their married life settled back into one of normalcy.

He began to have hope for their future although Barb still left those damn beard droppings around the sink.  But as weeks went by her shaving became obsessive and she began spending all her time watching her boxed family, completely ignoring the house keeping.

Reginald had had enough and told Barb they needed to talk.  She reluctantly turned off her other life and heard him say he wanted to leave.  She knew he wouldn’t really go and she told him so.  Said he’d never be happy without her.  They went round and round, as Reginald explained that it just wasn’t working, trying to be as nice as he could while he tossed what had been dreams out the window.

Barb just didn’t get it.  He went to their bedroom, packed a bag and walked to the front door.  She laughed her deep throaty laugh, knowing he wouldn’t turn the knob.

He did, and as he walked through the door out into yet another life, he turned to face Barb.  “You know,” he said, “you really are a freak.”

Clowning Around

The prompt for this little bit was - I really shouldn't have been wearing my clown outfit...

Full swing at the party, I was just making rude balloon shapes for the birthday boy who was turning 45, when my cell phone buzzed, tickling me in my green and purple clown skirt. I fumbled around in my pocket passing over limp balloons, fake flowers and a seven foot multicolored handkerchief, finding the offending phone. Peeking at the text message, I found a disturbing 911 with a number I did not recognize.

I excused myself to loud hooting at the bare-chested balloon lady I plunked down in the birthday boy’s lap and headed out back to find a quiet corner. Dialing the number, I tugged on my too tight orange, pink, purple and silver glittered shirt, wondering why I had taken this adult party on. True, I enjoyed the challenge of getting adults to laugh at my clown antics, but sometimes, the outfits and guests were a little hard to handle.

A Sergeant McNally answered my call, and after introductions, calmly said that my husband Josh had been injured in an accident and was at the hospital. He said he would wait for my arrival to give me more details. Assuring him I would be right there, I spoke to the hostess of the party explaining my plight. Jumping into my old VW van, painted a myriad of colors by the neighborhood kids, I sped the few blocks to the hospital.

Parking as close to the emergency room as I could, I ran into the ER lobby, finding a too long line waiting for registration, and information. As I waited for my turn with the receptionist, I garnered snickers, and looks of wonderment at my outfit. The wait gave me much needed time to calm myself down to a not quite so frantic panic. I also thought of the things I could, and should say as I walked into my husband’s room. Knowing Josh, I needed to keep it light and optimistic which is one reason he said, he married a clown.

My turn at last. I was told Sergeant McNally and Josh were in room 4, just down the hall to my left. Donning my squeaky nose, and a dumb smile, I sauntered into room 4. In a clear, take charge voice, I said I heard the patient needed a real cut-up for a doctor, as he’d broken his funny bone. Squeezing my nose and pulling out my handkerchief pretending to make it into a sling, I started toward his bed.

Stalled halfway there by the serious look on the Sergeant’s face and gasps from others in the room, I suddenly felt awkward and very much out of sync with the rest of the hospital.

As I lovingly looked at my dear Josh’s face, I noticed the faint tint of blue to his lips, and noted the lack of blips and hums from the machines attached to his body. McNally rushed over as I fell into a colorful blob onto the hospital floor, starting to cry. Easing me into a chair, he explained it all, and that Josh had passed away saying my name, with a big smile.

Mother, Daughter

Why couldn’t I have been the person I am now, when you were alive?

We fought, a wasp you called me.

Ice and fire. You always seemed cold, I was young; filled with heated passions.

We clashed fiercely. Like wild big horn rams. One victorious. But of what? Emotion? Love? Stupidity?

Why couldn’t I have been patient?

I read your journals – your papers. Found a woman I never knew, would never know.

I regret so much, my impatience, quick anger, the things I did, said, didn’t do, and should have done.

Too much alike?

Too different?

I loved you, unaware of that fact that I may have been. Did I tell you? I hope so.

You pop into my life at odd moments. A phrase or action that is so you. How could I not have been kind enough to let you give me the gifts of you? You taught me well, kindness, and couth, strength. Why could I not see it then, and shown you a kinder me.?

Your New England proper tempered with my southwest ease. Our passions (for you had passion too) created the person I have become, will be.

I regret so much, I see now who you were, just a bit, and see you as a person who formed what, and who I am.

Ice and fire.

Mother and daughter.

New Year

It is time once again to complain about time, or lack there of. Another year gone and none of my check list accomplished.

My check list this year is short - 
  ✔   throw away the list from last year.

I will have accomplished something, simple though it may be.