Some Poems For You To Read As My Heart Withers at 4 In The Morning
Que Sera, Sera: A Sesitna For Doris Day
Why did you just let whatever will be, be?
Angel voice, face, so pretty and gay:
and you a sweetheart of the reel.
Charmer of white collar American men.
Sugar and spice, you were so pure and nice.
Who ever heard of a late blooming virgin?
You built the stereotype: as virgin
as the snow. We had to emulate. Be
naïve, we imitated. Girls had to be nice,
so nice, proper, always charming, and gay.
You showed us how to be tame and men
liked us that way. The style you set on the reel.
Men love the home making type, and it’s real
scary to think of the sweetheart, the virgin,
the doll roll you created. The toy of men,
you showed us the woman’s touch, to be
not as boisterous as Calamity, but gay
and compliant like Katie. You were too nice.
Married to four husbands and none were nice.
They were no lotharios of the Hollywood reel.
You hid it behind your hundred watt smile, gay
clothes and your honey voice. You weren’t a virgin
in the marriage bed. Unfortunately you happened to be
a very poor judge when it came to marrying men.
Musicians never were the best pick of men,
the producer who molested your son wasn’t nice,
the last said you were too into animal rescue. Could it be
you never found love off the reel that was real?
They saw you as a commodity. You were the virgin
queen of the silver screen. You worked, and they made gay.
Is it true; you didn’t know that Roc was gay?
Or never shared pillow talk with him about other men?
You said that you never understood your image as a virgin.
You asked Babs if it was because you looked too nice.
Why did you never let the real woman show? Real
women can’t reach the standards you set. You let it be.
You embodied the image of the perfect woman, virginal, nice,
and gay, and compliant. Men had you in their pocket. Real
women cannot dare to let whatever will be, be.
The day I’ve had today
It’s been a bad day, a hat day,
and death is at the door.
I wear bright colors on a sad day, and
hunker down with my black cat
curled on the floor.
I’m bruised today, and feel used today.
You don’t love me anymore.
I write letters in my journal-
I burn them and write more.
I got bad news today; life is lose/lose today,
and your heading out the door.
She died, and I’ve yet to cry-
My cat purrs curled near my thigh.
And you’re leaving as I lie on the floor.
It’s useless to say I want you to stay.
You won’t come back anymore.
My smile is wry, there’s a tear in my eye-
I know I can’t take more.
Black cat curled on the floor.
There are some pills in the bathroom,
and a lock upon the door.
I guess you could say it’s been a bad day
But there won’t be more.
No, there won’t be anymore.
I watch a fawn on my lawn
There she stands beneath the trees
Head bent
Wide eyes blinking in the stiff breeze
Coat blown against tired limbs
A few apples still hang on the branches
Now the tree is barren
The ground is covered in leaves
The light grows darker
She seems weary
Careless if she freezes
She leaves me behind
Leaves the trees and forges off into the cruel cold
She is searching for better company
Now the night is bleak
I am searching too
Searching for something I may never find
A person standing alone in the cold
My head aches with it
My hands are stiff with it
Eyes fill with tears
The bitter and sweet of autumn
Now the future is filled with winters diseases
If only I could find my key
A Poem
There is a poem I would like to write
An ode to the darker twin of day
To capture the cosmic swirl of night
About the stars, the moon, the light
The glittering dust that marks the Milky Way
There is a poem I would like to write
A Villanelle of rhyme might be too trite
Much too flighty and much too fey
To capture the cosmic swirl of night
To encourage dreams and to insight
Orgies of fantasy and thoughts of the risqué
There is a poem I would like to write
Cataloging the more mysterious side I might
Talk of movement, pitch, and sway
To capture the cosmic swirl of night
Writing this poem seems to be an intellectual fight
These tercets to me sound too cliché
I wish there was a poem I could write
To capture the cosmic swirl of night