Monday, May 4, 2009

White Trash in a Nordstrom's Suit

He fled the hills to the city,
Armed with a college degree,
Got a good job that paid him well,
And then he ran into me.

Uptown girl who liked culture,
To read and collect postage stamps,
He quickly tried to change me,
Into one of his hometown tramps.

It wasn't enough I was a lawyer,
He wanted a slut who would,
Cook, clean and do laundry,
Without ever asking if she should.

Well, I got very sick trying,
To be "super" this and that,
He couldn't cope with the situation,
So he hit me and got thrown out.

The morale of this story,
Is no matter how much power or loot,
Unless someone really changes inside,
They're just white trash in a Nordstrom's suit.

Whore, whore,
I am no more,
Not in body or soul,
I know who I am,
And don't need a man,
I'm whole and in control.



I grew up in the '60's,
A time when Twiggy was "in,"
I never thought it'd be a problem,
My being so thin.

But then I entered puberty,
And nothing much developed,
"So why, a bra," I asked my Mom,
With nothing to envelope.

"You've outgrown Carter's T's," she said,
"You need to be publicly modest,"
We settled on a full length slip,
I always wore a dress.

Years later, I went bra shopping,
And the salesperson struck her blow,
"Don't worry," she said sweetly,
"You still have time to grow!"


The Darkness of the Day

The alarm goes off,
And you bound out of bed,
Into the shower,
To wake up your sleepy head.

You dress in haste,
And eat on the run,
All to get to the office,
Before the rising sun.

Messages, meetings,
You try to do it all,
Soon it's dark out,
Oh, just one more phone call!

Back home, the house is dark,
You walk into an unlit hall,
No time or inclination to,
Contemplate the meaning of it all.

Life to work,
Work to live,
That's the darkness of the day.


If Only She'd Let Me Be Me

My mother grew up during the Depression,
Third girl, the fourth child of six,
Her father abandoned the family, then died young,
Having an opportunity only to pick...

The career path for the first two children,
Lawyer and doctor, respectively.
His lack of instructions for the life of my Mother,
Created a huge problem for me.

First born and looking the most like her,
She ignored my proclivities,
Having been given no guidance for her life,
She took it upon herself to steer me...

To things she had dreamed of doing,
And because of brains and an eagerness to please,
I spent my young life going in directions,
The main goal of which was to appease.

The pattern carried over into adulthood,
My marriage was more of the same,
Stuck in a profession I did not aspire to,
I had only myself to blame.

Mid 30's, I could no longer do it,
Physically ill and ridden with strife,
Forced to give up the game, I took time to ponder,
What I really wanted to do with my life.

As a youngster, I had dreamed of designing clothes,
Or being a writer, alternatively,
Though given a second chance, I still often wonder,
What would have been if my Mom had let me be me.


It's Only a Number

One sunny August day,
When my age was a single digit,
At an outdoor birthday party,
My Mom really began to fidget.

"29" is what she told me,
I put the numbers on her cake,
Her sisters began to laugh,
They knew the age was a fake.

I ran into the kitchen, in the house,
And counted from her age when I was born,
She followed behind me, it didn't add up,
She found me sitting there very forlorn.

Upset that she had lied to me,
And her explanation didn't ring true,
The number of your real age wasn't too big for me, Mom,
But apparently it was too large for you.

It took a long time to trust my Mom after that,
I've really never understood why she fibbed,
To me age is only a number,
Be proud of how long you've lived.


A Sports Widow's Lament

It starts on Saturday afternoon,
In the Winter or the Fall,
For a man, sports are equivalent to,
Going to the mall.

He channel surfs incessantly,
Football, basketball, college or pro,
Eyes transfixed on the TV screen,
A true couch potato.

Arising only for bathroom breaks,
Or to go to get something to eat,
He talks only to the TV set,
Cheering his team's opponent's defeat.

He dreams away Saturday night,
Analyzing a day's worth of plays,
He wakes up Sunday morning,
Eagerly awaiting the Sports page.

Sunday's the same, click, click, click,
More games, no time to brood,
But whether his team won or lost,
Will determine his back to work Monday mood.

My man,
The fan,
King of spectator sport.

Coaching from the couch,
He's no slouch,
Just give him the remote.

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...