Pixie by Lone Wolf

http://hellopoetry.com/lone-wolf/

Pixie

I want to be a pixie
Not a fairy,
Pixies are sensual
Beautiful tricksters
They flit around
From tree to tree
Tempt and taunt
And tease
And have no queen

Fairies on the other hand
Are innocent
And cute
They flit around
And do good
And listen to their queen
How adorable,
But not for me
I want to be a pixie.

What They Did Yesterday Afternoon by Warsan Shire

they set my aunts house on fire

i cried the way women on tv do

folding at the middle

like a five pound note.

i called the boy who use to love me

tried to ‘okay’ my voice

i said hello

he said warsan, what’s wrong, what’s happened?




i’ve been praying,

and these are what my prayers look like;

dear god

i come from two countries

one is thirsty

the other is on fire

both need water.




later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?




it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere.

 http://warsanshire.blogspot.com/



http://warsanshire.tumblr.com/

Country Lover by Maya Angelou

Funky blues
Keen toed shoes
High water pants
Saddy night dance
Red soda water
and anybody's daughter

Western North Carolina Women Writers

I am tickled pink to be able to share some fun news. Four anthologies from Western North Carolina Women Writers are now available in Kindle format:

It's All Relative: Tales from the Tree: from 50 WNC Women Writers, 

Women's Spaces Women's Places: from 50 WNC Women Writers, 

Clothes Lines: from 75 western North Carolina women writers, and 

Christmas Presence: from 45 western North Carolina women writers. 

All four were edited by the awesome and uber talented Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham.  I love these women.

I am proud to be a part of three of the anthologies. 

Clothes Lines will always hold a special place in my heart as it was my first time being published. And to be published between the covers of the same book with the likes of former NC Poet Laureate Kathryn Stripling Byer, Isabel Zuber, Joan Medlicott and so many other accomplished writers still knocks me over. 

I hope you'll buy every one of them and fall in love with some of the talented women of Western North Carolina.

Bruce Springsteen Cancels Greensboro, NC Concert - thanks, HB2

So.


This happened yesterday.


A Statement from Bruce Springsteen on North Carolina

BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN·FRIDAY, APRIL 8, 2016

As you, my fans, know I’m scheduled to play in Greensboro, North Carolina this Sunday. As we also know, North Carolina has just passed HB2, which the media are referring to as the “bathroom” law. HB2 — known officially as the Public Facilities Privacy and Security Act — dictates which bathrooms transgender people are permitted to use. Just as important, the law also attacks the rights of LGBT citizens to sue when their human rights are violated in the workplace. No other group of North Carolinians faces such a burden. To my mind, it’s an attempt by people who cannot stand the progress our country has made in recognizing the human rights of all of our citizens to overturn that progress. Right now, there are many groups, businesses, and individuals in North Carolina working to oppose and overcome these negative developments. Taking all of this into account, I feel that this is a time for me and the band to show solidarity for those freedom fighters. As a result, and with deepest apologies to our dedicated fans in Greensboro, we have canceled our show scheduled for Sunday, April 10th. Some things are more important than a rock show and this fight against prejudice and bigotry — which is happening as I write — is one of them. It is the strongest means I have for raising my voice in opposition to those who continue to push us backwards instead of forwards.
Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band’s Sunday April 10th show is canceled. Tickets will be refunded at point of purchase.

brucespringsteen.net

Whoa.

Donald and I had tickets for this show.

I'm heartbroken we won't get to see him, but have to admit - I love Bruce Springsteen more now than ever before.

I have always and will always admire and respect someone who will stand up for what's right.

I support him 100% and have never been more proud to be a Springsteen fan. 

HB2 represents things he's been singing to us about for years and years - good to know, I think, that he's willing to walk the walk and stand behind the things he believes.

I am, of course, concerned about what this has done to people who have made plans that will include items that are non-refundable - airline tickets, some hotels, etc.

I do not, of course, have a solution.

But, calling the governor's office to express my unhappiness and to let his office know that I, and many others, place this squarely on his shoulders, I have to admit, did make me feel a little better.

Actions have consequences.

The consequences surrounding the passing of HB2 are only now beginning - it's going to continue, and it's going to be ugly.

It must've been one hell of a party by Thomas Burson

It must've been one hell of a party

The napkin with the mango lipstick kiss
lay naked with promises on the hall floor.

The pearl earrings on the window sill
iridescent with the blush of morning sun. Blue
socks peek at me over the bookends.
Upheaval and uproar still leak into my
consciousness, I seek out the coffee pot,
empty another glass, try to make room
reclaim the kitchen. All the toothpaste and mouth
wash won't make my taste buds right.
Beer cans flattened, Johnny  Walker
dead on the door step. Every ashtray amid
hazardous waste spills. Oh, look at this, Jockey
shorts tossed over the blender in the corner
along with traces of stale chocolate cake.

As the last gurgles of water tumble through,
I hear a voice moan, “Can I have some too.”

I look at the living room. As the light stumbles
through the blinds, she looks back at me
smiles, a promise she is going to survive.
The AM/FM radio alarm picks this time to chime.
“God, what a sick joke,” she screams.
Slams down her fist makes sure it dies.

Sips coffee at the table, trash pushed aside.
Pats my hand tells me I must be "The Man,"
coffee first thing in the morning and I hadn’t
even tried to get her into bed. 

Anne Lamott at Lenoir-Rhyne University

"Lenoir–Rhyne University is a co-educational, private liberal arts university founded in 1891 and located in Hickory, North Carolina, USA. The university is affiliated with the North Carolina Synod of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.

Every year for the past twenty-five years Lenoir-Rhyne University’s Visiting Writers Series has provided outstanding literary arts programming that is free and open to the public."  (read more - http://visitingwriters.lr.edu/home)

I've only attended one other visiting writer event at Lenoir-Rhyne.  That was Pat Conroy.  Several years ago.

I should do more.

And I always say that I will . . . 

Maybe this time I really will

Regardless.

Anne Lamott has long been one of my literary icons.  As she is to many.

What writer doesn't own a copy of her "Bird by Bird?" which gave us the lesson that first drafts are shitty.  

Besides being the author of one of the best known "writer bibles," she writes essays that will tear your heart out, she has written novels, she's a teacher, a political activist, and as a public speaker she rocks the house.

Having the opportunity to hear her talk last night at Lenoir-Rhyne was an opportunity I was determined not to miss.

Even with snow in the forecast for the evening.  (which I didn't see even a flake of, thank goodness).

And, she was everything you could hope.

She writes a great deal about her faith, it's a huge part of who she is.  But she writes about it in a way that is not what most of us are used to in this sort of writing.

Truth be told, people writing and/or talking too much about their faith is uncomfortable for me.  That's probably all I need to say about that.

She writes straight from the hip and tells it like it is.  About everything.  Everything.  This is your first clue that "truth" is an important part of who Anne Lamott is.

She speaks exactly as she writes.

And, actually, I know this sounds crazy, but as soon as she started talking last night one of the first thoughts that crossed my mind was "I would recognize her just by her voice."  Isn't that crazy?  But she sounds exactly like I have had her sounding in my mind as I have read her words.

And she began the evening shooting straight from the hip with words about our governor.  Needless to say, she is as horrified by his latest as most of us are.

HB2 has brought the state of NC, once again, into the public spotlight under the embarrassment of moving from its once progressively responsible self to the extreme irresponsible opposite.  Leaving many of our citizens behind.

Anne Lamott's first remarks to her audience were to apologize to us for having him represent us.

She received, in return, a riotous round of applause.  

But not from everyone.

Hickory, NC is, after all, a conservative part of the state.

Lenoir Rhyne, while being a liberal university, is still, after all, attached to the Evangelical Lutheran Church.

I kept thinking at the beginning of her talk that I should be writing some of what she was saying down.   But.  Most of what she talked about centered back around to quotes you can find all over the internet.  She is a most quotable soul.

Last night she spent most of her time talking to the audience as though it was a group of writers.  She said everyone she had met since arriving for this particular talk were writers which meant she had a lot to say to us.

And so, she said all the things most of us love her for.

She, in her inimitable "tell it like it is" persona, said, "The hard thing about being a writer is that you have to write."  

"You have to put your butt in the chair and just do it. Do it!"

All the things we already know.  Many of which we've learned from her.

But.

Wow.

The woman has something that so many don't.

A particular quiet charisma.

An honesty that can be off-putting from anyone else, but that you expect and hope for from Anne Lamott.

When she says "turn off your phone and write."  By golly, you want to turn off your phone and write.

When she repeats herself saying "just do it.  It starts now."  You believe her.  You want to start now.

When she tells us about reading E. L. Doctorow who said, "Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.' You don't have to see where you're going, you don't have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you." You believe it when she tells you "This is right up there with the best advice on writing, or life, I have ever heard.”

She compares writing to life situations a lot.  And had us all on the edge of our chairs while doing so.  She talked about her family.  A lot of which was not complimentary.  She is one who puts the truth ahead of most everything else - whether it's comfortable for those involved or not.

No one could hear Anne Lamott speak and ever, ever doubt her belief in “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

Suffice to say I walked out of there feeling inspired.  Motivated.  Moved.

And yes, ready to get back to my manuscripts.  My first shitty drafts.  

Because.

She reminded me . . .  

“You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander. We build this place with the sand of memories; these castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible. So part of us believes that when the tide starts coming in, we won't really have lost anything, because actually only a symbol of it was there in the sand. Another part of us thinks we'll figure out a way to divert the ocean. This is what separates artists from ordinary people: the belief, deep in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won't wash them away. I think this is a wonderful kind of person to be.”

I had an hour and a half to drive home, back up the mountain to Boone, by myself.  A time to reflect on what I'd heard Anne Lamott tell us.

Y'all?

If you don't have a copy of "Bird by Bird," go get one.

Whether you write or not.

Read "Bird by Bird."

If you ever have an opportunity to hear Anne Lamott speak, I hope you won't let it pass you by.

And let me know what you think, okay?

A Poem In Praise of the Exuberant by Samantha Bennett

And as you stand there
Sunshining all over our Rain Parade
Voice cheering
Toes tapping
Eyes dancing

Let us now praise you.
You, the mango-coconut in our vanilla world.
You, the red balloon in our blue sky.

You, the hooray-for-your-new-job (or hooray-for-your-engagement or hooray-for-your-wedding or hooray-for-your-new-baby or hooray-for-your-divorce) party-throwing friend.

Your door is always open

And don't think we don't take advantage of it.

Your heart is always open
And don't think we don't take advantage of it.

You have a particular kind of bravery:
The not-being-afraid-of-feelings kind of brave
The stand-up-and-be-counted kind of brave
The jump-off-the-high-dive (again) (naked) kind of brave.

We always know when you're in the audience, because

We recognize your laugh.

And as you sit us down and give us your full-beam attention and as you ask us for every detail of our latest adventure (how do you always lead us to the conclusion that our life is an adventure?) and as we, flattered by your unwavering, bright-eyed gaze, end up going on and on and on and on, we have to mentally waft away the annoying, fluttering thought,

"Yes, but: Who takes care of you?"

Because we know that underneath the nonstop carnival there is a lot of

Damn hard work and that some of

Your sparkle
Is the glitter from the parts that got
Broken.

We've seen you fall and get right back up and assumed that it must not have been that much of a
Tumble but the truth is that

You alone have the
Strength to Rise.

And so it is from you we learn that while we may not always
Feel happy

We can always feel

Joy.

And as you Gush and Exclaim and Twist and Shout and Wiggle with pleasure and Yelp and Hoot and Swear out loud and Burst into tears and Rush in and Hug and Holler across the room in a way that some might think of as

Embarrassing, we

Bask in your fearless conviction that
No human experience is unlovable.

Thank you for that.

So let's break out the
Sequins and the feather boas and
Have dessert first and
Grin at strangers and
Let's do the Hokey-Pokey and really
Put our Whole Self in
And order one more bottle because it's so nice to all be together

Under the Abundant Sun.

© 2009 Samantha Bennett, excerpted from "By The Way, You Look Really Great Today: Selected Poems by Samantha Bennett"

Pixie Queen Revisited by Amelia Jo Anne

Pixie Queen Revisited

I am the secret she keeps
she lives partially in the shadows
I could destroy everything for her
everything that means
something to her
would go away
if I don't stay behind her closed doors

she belongs to someone else
but she's mine while I hold her
she  screams my name (for now)
back arching
I'm not the taken anymore
I do the taking now

I've always been accused of being greedy
I simply see it as not playing coy
when opportunity
looks me straight in the eye & winks
later, opportunity will
bite her lips
pull my hair
beg me not to string her along so well

she always comes back for more

steam coming out of my ears - fire coming out of my nose

THIS has made me as mad as anything has ever made me. 

THIS little love note appeared in my Facebook newsfeed today: 

"Dear Senator Sanders and supporters: Hillary Clinton supporters are fiercely loyal and protective of her, and represent a lot of women in this country. If by some miracle you win the nomination, and then expect our support, you'd better start treating our candidate with more respect. And us. This is one of THE biggest issues in the US right now, the marginalization of women. And if you contribute to that problem you will regret doing so, come Election Day." 

WHO the living hell do you think you are to beat other people over the head with this kind of threat?! 

I'm a woman. I have supported Hillary Clinton in the past. 

Right now? 

Truth be told - I'm still weighing my choices. But I will tell you this. YOU people who think you're doing Hillary a world of good? 

You're not. 

And truth be told, you've lost me as part of your personal world with these attacks and threats. 

If you're willing to let a GOP candidate sit in the White House because of your pride in your "fiercely loyal and protective stance for Hillary Clinton," I'm sorry, but that's just not really very smart. 

It's just another case of bullying to tell me that I'm part of the marginalization of women if I don't vote for Hillary Clinton. 

How dare you.

Mid Life Woman by David Whyte

MID LIFE WOMAN

Mid life woman 
you are not
invisible to me.
I seem to see
beneath your face
all the women
you have ever been.

Midlife woman
I have grown with you
secretly,
in another parallel,
breathing with you
as you breathed,
seeing with you
as you see,
lining my face
with an earned care
as you lined yours,
waiting for you
as it seems
you waited for me.

Mid life woman
I see your
inner complexion
breathing beneath
your outward gaze,
I see all your lives
and all your loves,
it must be for you
that I wanted to become
more generous,
a better man
than ever I could be
when young,
let me join all your
present giving
and all your receiving,
through you I learn
the full imagination
of every previous affection.

Mid life woman
you are not invisible to me,
in you
I see a young girl,
lifting her face to the sky,
I see the young woman
in haloed light,
full and strong,
standing before
the altar of time,
waiting for her chosen.

I see the mother in you,
in your past
or in some yet
to be understood
future,
I see you
adoring and
I see you adored,
and now,
when I call your name
I want to see
day by day,
the woman
you will become
with me.

Mid-life woman
come to me now,
I see you more clearly
than all
the airbrushed
girls of the world.

I became a warrior
only to earn
your present
mature affection,
I bear my scars to you,
my eyes are lined
to smile with you
and I come to you
uncultivated
and unshaven
walking rough
and wild through rain
and wind and I pace
the mountain
all night
in my happy,
magnificence
at finding you.

Mid life woman,
In the dark of the night
I take you in my arms
and in that embracing
invisibility feel all of your
inner lives made touchable
and visible again.

Mid-life woman
I have earned
my ability to adore you.

Mid life woman
you are not invisible to me.
Come to me now
and let me kiss passionately
all the beautiful women
who have
ever lived in you.

My promise
is to you now
and all their future lives.

.…

MID LIFE WOMAN
from
'THE SEA IN YOU' :
Twenty Poems of Requited and Unrequited Love’
© David Whyte and Many Rivers Press
...
Now Available at davidwhyte.com
or amazon.com

FACING THE WAVES
Photo © David Whyte

Two Tramps in Mud Time by Robert Frost

Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.

Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.

A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn't blue,
But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.

The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheelrut's now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don't forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.

The time when most I loved my task
The two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You'd think I never had felt before
The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
The grip of earth on outspread feet,
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.

Out of the wood two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps).
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
The judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax
They had no way of knowing a fool.

Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay
And all their logic would fill my head:
As that I had no right to play
With what was another man's work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right--agreed.

But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.

The Invitation by By Oriah

The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.


It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for Love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your Moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with Wildness!
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own Soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

First Sunday of the Month - Yay!

I love First Sunday of the Month!

I get to play as "Oh, Kaye!" at Jungle Red.

I hope you'll drop by - http://www.jungleredwriters.com/

Snow and Snow by Ted Hughes

SNOW AND SNOW

by Ted Hughes 

Snow is sometimes a she, a soft one.
Her kiss on your cheek, her finger on your sleeve
In early December, on a warm evening,
And you turn to meet her, saying "It''s snowing!"
But it is not. And nobody''s there.
Empty and calm is the air.

Sometimes the snow is a he, a sly one.
Weakly he signs the dry stone with a damp spot.
Waifish he floats and touches the pond and is not.
Treacherous-beggarly he falters, and taps at the window.
A little longer he clings to the grass-blade tip
Getting his grip.

Then how she leans, how furry foxwrap she nestles
The sky with her warm, and the earth with her softness.
How her lit crowding fairylands sink through the space-silence
To build her palace, till it twinkles in starlight—
Too frail for a foot
Or a crumb of soot.

Then how his muffled armies move in all night
And we wake and every road is blockaded
Every hill taken and every farm occupied
And the white glare of his tents is on the ceiling.
And all that dull blue day and on into the gloaming
We have to watch more coming.

Then everything in the rubbish-heaped world
Is a bridesmaid at her miracle.
Dunghills and crumbly dark old barns are bowed in the chapel of her sparkle.
The gruesome boggy cellars of the wood
Are a wedding of lace
Now taking place.

Some Rain by Joy Katz

Some Rain

Freud saw his first patient on a gray morning in Vienna;
cobblestones glistened feebly.
And it was pouring as Pollock dragged red onto Full Fathom Five.
Patty Hearst's face was grainy and soft, on closed-circuit,
as if we were watching her through a wet screen door,
but Socrates, as he died, looked sharply into the distance.
Early evening. Water coursed the gutters.
Remember the morning after, when Benjamin Franklin
did nothing in particular?
And how light loved the wipers on the bus to Selma?
Showers ruffled the Potomac as the burglars
were led over the Watergate lawn;
you could hear horses plashing as Galileo upended his telescope
to peer at the enormous, hairy legs of a housefly.
Watson, come here, I need you. Drops clung to the railings,
ran over the roof in thin streams.
In a soaking mist, the Lusitania gently sank;
bicycles stood in the rain as the students left Tiananmen Square.
The Lindbergh baby vanished through a wet, streaked window.
A few pale-green leaves were stuck to it.
Jane Eyre came back to find Rochester fumbling in a storm,
the yard full of fallen branches.
The tulip market crashed during a terrible downpour,
but oxen grazed patiently at Lascaux, not minding.
If, as Hitler was declared chancellor, the crowd opened its umbrellas,
people stood barefoot in the mud sometimes at Birkenau.
The banality of evil, Hannah Arendt wrote, crushed out her cigarette,
and got up to shut the windows.
As Marie Curie set out a small, glowing dish of radium
with her poisoned fingers, a line of storms was moving east;
faintly it thundered while my grandparents listened,
for the first time, to a phonograph.
Lewis Carroll wrote Alice onto the riverbank
while he floated downstream. The first drops were falling;
it was cool and still as the morning Alaric sacked Rome
or the one —— it was June —— Dickinson looked out at the grass
and said —— something. What? Now that was some rain.

-- by Joy Katz

in The Best American Poetry 2003 ed. Yusef Komunyakaa

In Praise of the Grumpy

IN PRAISE OF THE GRUMPY

And as you stand there

Arms crossed

Managing to look both infinitely patient and impatient at the same time

Trying not to roll your eyes and wonder how much longer all this will take

Let us now praise you.

You: the grumpy, the grouchy, the grumbling.

You: the beleaguered and the put-upon.

You: our hidden hero.

Because while you are

Short-tempered with the witless

Furious with the shallow and

Yelling at the television

It is only because you are so thoughtful

That everyone else seems so thoughtless.

And while you insist that you do not care about

What anyone is wearing or

What anyone said or did or

What so-and-so said or did back,

Nor do you give two figs about

The disenfranchised urban-dweller of today or

The illiterate or

The underprivileged of some foreign land or

Whomever it is we're supposed to be caring about today and that

You will not, under any circumstances,

Attend the choir concert or

The holiday party or

The 12-step meeting or

The neighborhood street fair or

The fancy dress ball or

The class reunion - for God's sake especially not the reunion - and that

You mustn't be relied upon for

Donations or

A ride home or

Free advice or

Help moving in to your new townhouse or a

Damn birthday present or

Whatever it is that all those people with all those

Outstretched hands

Seem to want

You must know that we all know

That you do, indeed, care and that

You will, if pressed, attend and that

We all do rely

On you.

We can tell that you care,

Because you so assiduously refuse to conform to

Some greeting-card version of caring

And instead insist on caring about us as individuals.

You remember the conversation we had about

Ry Cooder's guitar playing, and

Six weeks later you slip us a

Homemade cassette tape with no label.

You shun the collection plate, and yet

You shove a hundred dollars into the Youth Group's coffee can

(A check, of course - no sense missing out on the tax deduction just because you had a weak moment.)

And when you go to greet us,

You look us in the eye and take our full measure

And if you should

Notice that we look a bit sad,

You will grab our hand and

Kiss us roughly on the cheek and say,

"You OK, darlin'?"

You might grouse about Christmas Eve,

But you do love Christmas morning.

And while you would never voluntarily look at a

Photo album,

You forever hold a picture in your mind of

How we looked in

That Halloween costume

That prom dress

That uniform.

And we know you will attend

(Quit squirming - this poem isn't that much longer)

Because underneath your self-proclaimed

Disdain for all humanity

You are curious.

Intensely, insatiably, incorruptibly curious

And while you act repulsed

I suspect you are truly fascinated by us -

This clamoring horde of strangers you are compelled to share the planet with.

OK, OK: with whom this planet you are compelled to share.

Good grief you can be a pain sometimes.

And oh, how we rely on you.

And finally,

While you have largely succeeded in getting yourself off of

The phone tree

(That tactic you had about boring everybody silly with the excruciating details of your latest Water Filtration Project did wonders for removing you from any thinking hostess' guest list)

We do still rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

You are our voice of sanity

Our comrade-in-arms

Our truth-telling ally in a world of endless bullshit.

You are our hidden hero

Deceptively chivalrous with

Your tender heart clad in dented armor.

And you must know that

When you are gone

We miss you.

So go ahead and

Sneak out at intermission and

Have an extra drink to get you through the reception and

Just turn and walk away from the

Over-gesticulating and the infuriatingly self-righteous.

Save yourself from these petty cruelties so that

When the world becomes just too much for us poor mortals to bear

We can rely on you to save us.

Oh how we rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

Oh how we rely on you.

Now stand still, because we're going to give you a nice, big hug. 

Samantha Bennett

© 2009