MY MOM CAN SAVE THE WORLD

I had myself a thought today,
That my mother,
In her own sweet way,
Could set our world aright,
Save the grace from which we fall,
The internet, comment sections,
Politicians, nasty elections,
Each likewise blight,
Could heed her siren call,
No drama, fight, or fuss,
Just what she hammered home with us,
If you’ve naught nice to say,
Then say nothing at all.

Either One Will Do

Leonard waited for a miracle,
Something divine to see him through,
Now it’s miracle, or apocalypse,
Either one will do,
I feel a sense
Of ambivalence,
Not sure I care, if we make it through,
In these times of confusion,
I just need a conclusion,
A miracle, or the apocalypse,
Either one will do.

A world that’s on the brink,
Well we’ve seen that before,
Still somehow I think,
Right now the stakes are something more,
Potential cataclysm,
Right down to the planet’s core,
Our own narcissim,
Blinds us from what lies in store,

Glass half full, half empty,
This is what I’ve found,
Doesn’t matter which you see,
When there’s no one left around,
You can take your optimism,
Positivity abound,
See life through your prism,
Somehow you still will drown,

Sixteen year olds screaming,
”What the hell have you done?”
You’ve known that this was coming,
That there’d be nowhere left to run,
You’ve mortgaged off our future,
Traded it for Kingdom Come,
Now we’re desperate and unsure,
If there’s naught that can be done,

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-2qdhandA9wawfeqhOV6IkCZd-C-AE9z/view?usp=drivesdk

DARK HORSE

the dark horse
the unexpected
parts of us remain neglected
people only see the surface
not the deeper stuff that serves us
well when we meet our new lovers
cast off material, moral covers
our drive comes from a different place
not comfortable with just one face
we know well what we’ve become
never show the whole to anyone
but bring the shadows to the light
in the midst of passion bright
reveal hedonistic forces
with the twist that makes us
two dark horses

Inside or Outside, Can’t Decide

I am a little cat.
I like to sleep,
On the doormat.
So I’m always ready,
Should the door be opened,
To go outside,
Or stay inside.
I am a little cat,
And I like to stare,
Out of the window,
While meowing,
Open this window!
It is imperative,
That the window be opened,
Forthwith, human!
So I can decide,
To go outside,
Or not go outside,
Or stay inside,
Or not stay inside,
Or decide,
To not decide,
To go outside,
Or stay inside.

In any case,
The window needs,
To stay open,
Until I decide,
To decide.

DISNEY ME

I wish I was a Pluto, or a Mickey, or some such,
In a big costume at Disneyland, kids running up to touch,
When you were round I’d laugh and clown, you giggling happily,
You’d laugh so, but wouldn’t know, inside the suit was me!

SLAP

Stretched out,
Stark naked,
Across my lap,
I deliver slap,
After slap, after slap,
My hardened palm,
Stinging quivering cheek,
She gasps, and moans,
But cannot speak,
Though she need not,
I can hear each thought,
As I deliver blows,
I sense her shiver,
From head to toes,
Encompassing her exposed whole,
There lay open,
Heart and soul,
“Will he stop soon?”
“Will there be more?”
“If I say stop, will he ignore”
“Will he continue, again and again?”
“Will there be pleasure, after pain?”
“A tender kiss? A slipped in finger?
Or just stop,
To let the stinging linger?”
“Does he enjoy, this show of nerve?
Or does he feel that I deserve,
Some punishment, for something deep?
Just why do these thoughts creep,
And seep into my concious mind,
As he wails away on my behind?”
Me, I sense each and every wonder,
As I strike her with an inner thunder,
My imprint marked upon her skin,
I share her questions from within,
Punishment? Or gift? Or is it neither?
When will I stop?
…… I don’t know either.

Hardcore Grandma

About five years ago, I sat in my mom’s cubicle at the Arcadia office of the Fish and Wildlife Service and wrote this down in a leather bound journal:

She’s not the average grandma. As I approach my forties, she’s still alive and kicking, although not as high as she used to. When I was little we would make jam and cookies. She’d curl my stubbornly straight hair with steam curlers, and we eat cheese and crackers and drink Constant Comment tea. Now hot water has turned to wine, and we have adult conversations over glasses of chilled Pinot Grigio. She tells me about her high school days in the 1940s. She shows me a photo of her in her knee-length song leader skirt, one knee raised, and both hands gripping enormous crepe paper pom poms. The picture perfect All American girl.

She was a real stunner then, and was still as glamorous as a movie star well into her 50s and 60s. More pictures reveal her older, married, pregnant, her head piled high with Betty Grable curls. When I ooh and ahh over how beautiful she looked in a bathing suit, she chuckles with embarrassment or maybe sadness, that she no longer has the figure of a pin-up girl.

She hates being old. Not that anyone actually loves it, but she really, really hates it. She hates having to wear glasses after a lifetime of 20-20 vision. She can no longer wear high heels due to her feet being damaged from years of wearing too-tight shoes. She rejects computers and hates sending emails, but she’s nevertheless a modern woman. She lives a quiet life now, a lonely life. Though she still drives herself around in her Honda CRV, uses her cell phone, and reads books on an Amazon Kindle.

During one of our last shopping trips together, she couldn’t get her handbag open. The zipper was hopelessly stuck and neither of our best efforts could budge it. So she asked the cashier for a pair of scissors and proceeded to cut open her purse to retrieve her wallet. We laughed and laughed as she performed this emergency wallet C-section. The cashier looked at us like we were nuts.

“I’m not the average grandmother.” She said.

Indeed not.

“Grandma, you are hardcore.”

The Core Issue With Male-Female Relations

I’ve managed to summarize male and female relations, and identify the difficulties we have in that regard:

“She’s a genius,
Can cure cancer,
For every question,
She’s an answer,
Can’t underestimate,
Her abilities,
She is more,
Than the eye sees,
Literary,
Artistic, wise,
Worldly, with all,
That that implies,
Equal, and more,
Every respect fits,
And all I want,
Is to see her tits.

LAUGH, OR CRY

Damn.
Laugh or cry, laugh or cry?
Or better yet, just wonder why,
We’re in this goddamned circumstance,
Where decency doesn’t stand a chance,
Ruled by men who can’t keep it in their pants,
Who wield power like a drunken dance,
Narrow minds, small hearts, seem to rule the day,
Unfettered greed finally has its way,
Rights, justice, and Love,
Go sailing on by,
I wonder,
Should I laugh or cry.