Category Archives: Poetry

To the Test Cheaters

It used to be that honesty,
And hard work were rewarded.
The cheaters and the liars,
And the charletons were thwarted.
But now it’s all about success.
Honor and integrity, less and less.
Now ambition and a little greed,
Will take you very far, indeed.
The sad fact is the test cheaters,
Become the most successful leaders.
Still, no matter how far you go,
And no matter what you do.
Just know that there’s a special place,
In hell, reserved for you.

IDENTITY

 

We are born with no identity,
Except that bestowed on us by others.
We are somebody’s daughters,
Somebody’s sisters,
Somebody’s sons or brothers.
Somebody’s firstborn, or best hope,
Somebody’s own dream unfulfilled,
Somebody’s religion perhaps, or class,
Someone else’s strong wishes willed.
We grow into these things for a while,
These identity mantles we wear,
They help us define who we are,
Till they get far too heavy to bear.
Then we cast them off, often with struggle,
Throw them to the proverbial floor,
Deny that all these things define us,
For we know deep inside we are more.
So off we head on our own pathways,
On our journeys to find our true self,
To find who we are on our own,
When our history is left on the shelf.
But through troubles and time we discover,
Though we may stand on a distant shore,
We are indeed all those things that defined us,
But we also are more,
So much more.

SQUEEZING THE RUBBER BALL

Very shortly I’ll be off,
To give some blood again,
They’ll ask some questions,
Do some tests,
Stick a needle in my vein,
Then pump and pump,
And pump and pump,
The crimson red shall flow,
I relax and squeeze a rubber ball,
Happy to let it go,
I’ll get a sandwich, juice and gift,
And then be on my way,
In about three months’ time,
I’ll come back another day,
And now they do a new thing,
That had me quite amused,
They send donors out an sms,
When their blood’s been used!

SICK

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/22/nyregion/chefs-butlers-and-marble-baths-not-your-average-hospital-room.html?_r=1&src=me&ref=general

The New York Times Headline catches my eye,
“Chefs, Butlers, Marble Baths: Hospitals Vie for the Affluent”,
Something here seems quite incongruent,
When many can’t afford healthcare,
The elite receive more than their share,
There is no logic there to follow,
It’s a very bitter pill to swallow,
Capitalism truly put to the test,
Survival of the fittest and then screw the rest?
What’s at the heart, what makes this system tick?
It’s an odd thing when a healthcare system is sick.

(written in response to the Poetry Picnic Challenge to write something after a NYT headline)

Gabrielle Giffords Says She’s Leaving the House

That day when you were shot,
Is a day we’ll forget not,
And of course neither will you,
Nor your husband, the astronaut.
Meeting people, shaking hands.
Taking questions and demands,
Making time to act upon them.
But that man had other plans.
Approached you like a passerby,
Intending there and then you’d die.
With many others, he succeeded,
Not with you, though he did try.
Assassin’s bullet could not kill.
You did not die through luck or will.
And right back work you went,
Still climbing that recovery hill.
Dear lady, take more time.
All the time you need, resign.
And come back fully healed.
And feeling at your peak and prime.
You took a bullet in the head,
It’s a miracle you’re not dead.
You’re the luckiest woman alive,
Or the first immortal instead.

Inspired by this piece in today’s New York Times, in response to the New York Times Headline Poetry Picnic Challenge.

The First Maddy

This light won't come on. Ah, now I see the problem. Unplugged by the cat.

When researching family history,
It’s best to be prepared,
To discover things that might,
Have been better left a mystery.

Buccaneers with treasure caves,
That could be what you came from.
Or maybe they were merchants,
Moving cargo ships of slaves.

The First Maddy in the nation,
Fought the Brits for Independence.
He was a patriotic fellow,
With his own cash crop plantation.

In short he was a slave owner,
As were many who came here,
At that time to make their fortunes,
In the Colonies, or the former.

Tobacco money made him rich.
And though first born in America.
James Maddy died crossing a river,
Proving karma is a bitch.

Hope

Hope and I, we’ve worked it out,
sort of struck ourselves a deal.
we know what it’s all about.
what’s a pipe dream, and what’s real.
I’ve agreed to not invest too much,
to not believe like I was blind.
Hope knows that sometimes it’s a crutch,
that’s a role it doesn’t mind,
but Hope will not be overstated,
not be cheapened or abused.
it will go on unabated,
if for a noble purpose used.
So Hope states clearly it will stay,
as long as I know how to see,
and if I work hard to find a way,
it never will abandon me.

Joy Will Find A Way

To everything perhaps a season,
That doesn’t mean a rhyme or reason,
Fate plays its hand without showing a card,
At times we’re ever so demanding,
In our need for understanding,
But the truth is sometimes life’s just bloody hard,
It’s also true it seldoms lasts,
And at some point rough times are past,
Though we know some day they’ll come back our way,
So raise your glasses with your friends,
Know that every road has bends,
And that in the end joy will find a way.