Micropoetry Monday: Life in these United States

outer-page

There was something for everyone—
from the faceless mountains sculpted
with God’s own hands,
to the beaches of white or brown sugar,
from the ice castles of Sweden to
the watercolor deserts of Africa,
from the Edenic flora of Madeline O’Keefe,
to the pastoral Americana of Grant Wood,
to the wide-open spaces of Andrew Wyeth.
For this land was a nation of immigrants–
all of whom could still find a piece
of what they’d left behind.

He spent the graveyard shift
watching the hairy underbelly of society scratch themselves–
evidence that the earth decayed during the Dreamtime.

Beck’s father still used terms like “lady doctor” & “male nurse,”
just as Beck’s mother still said “seamstress & tailor,”
“sculptor & sculptress.”
Beck didn’t see the world in shades of pink & blue
but rather,
in the listings of one’s job description;
for him, cosmetologists & mixologists
would always be beauticians & bartenders,
just as the police were “The Flatfooted Fuzz”
to his wayward brother, Call.
“It is what it is,” was Beck’s favorite phrase,
next to “you are what you are,”
for “corporate tool” was listed at the top of his resume,
which was a perfect fit,
as his last name was Lackey.

Micropoetry Monday: Life in these United States

outer-page

Blackout

He’d been blackballed,
she, blacklisted,
for they had ditched their HR & PR personas
to live an authentic life—
fully accepting of the consequences
for blowing the whistle
on the sounding brasses & tinkling cymbals
of the corporate crooks & political partygoers,
so they could live life on their terms,
even if doing so sometimes left them
in the red.

Law-Deriding Citizens

He had a long rap sheet,
she, a wide spreadsheet.
They carpooled their talents,
pulling off a virtual heist
that pushed them to the limits
of their abilities,
& they lived high
while laying low . . .
until the law caught up with them.
The judge laid down the law
& dispensed her prescription for justice,
which was that one work at Wal-Mart,
the other, McDonald’s,
dealing with the general public—
rather than the general population—
for the rest of their lives.

Dinner on a Dive

She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth,
his mother, with a wooden spoon in her hand.
She came from a house of privilege,
he, from the poor house that fell
just below the poverty line.
When they shared a melted milkshake
over a platter of limp fries
at the local greasy spoon,
he realized that she belonged
in the front of the house,
he, in the back,
& so they decided to be restaurateurs,
where she learned too soon
that her silver spoon
had turned green.

Micropoetry Monday: Life in These United States

outer-page

When Sleepless in Seattle
met Pissed in Pittsburgh,
they realized the only way
they could put down
their hang-ups
was for the former
to move to Florida,
the other,
out of Pittsburgh.

He’d thought only the rich made the world go round,
but when he wished away the poor,
there was no one left to
clean the buildings,
stock the stores,
pick the fruit,
wash the dishes,
haul away the trash,
cut the hair,
fix the things few knew how to fix,
when he didn’t feel like cooking,
care for the aged rich,
watch the children
when the parents had to go to work,
teach the little children—
who were the future of the world,
keep the streets safe,
& fight the wars;
because these workers were there
to do these tasks,
he did not have to,
& he realized that he hadn’t wished away poverty—
only the people who lived in it,
never stopping to remember that it had been the slaves
who had built the pyramids.

With a cloud full of stock photos
& a cache of inflammatory headlines,
adding some links to grayed-out gobbledygook—
links which no one clicked on—
all Denizen Jane needed
was an Internet connection
in her stepfather’s basement,
& she was in business,
for nobody ever read the article—
only the comments section.
After all,
paying for content was so 30 years ago.

What I am Living For: A Fourth of July Message

Sarah Lea Stories

Postage Stamp Picture Frame: https://www.tuxpi.com/photo-effects/personalized-postage-stamp

A few weeks ago, a piece I read on The Saturday Evening Post (https://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2019/06/what-i-am-fighting-for-my-home-and-yours/) inspired me to write my version. I simply changed “I’m” to “I am” and “fighting” to “living”; I, however, kept the last line. I guess you could say my version is the homefront one.

In the wee hours of the morning, while everyone else was in bed, I was writing this and realized that it would be a good Fourth of July piece. Mine, of course, is not as eloquent as the piece by Sgt. Pappas, for I’m not a warrior but simply, a writer.

I am living for that big enough house with the wide front porch and Adirondack chairs facing the white picket fence⁠—the house I live in after being touched by homelessness. I am living for the breathtakingly beautiful beaches that I seldom see and the shady, grassy parks with the rusting playground…

View original post 570 more words

Micropoetry Monday: Mystery

Mrs. X and Mr. Y book cover

Side by side in an attic,
profuse with paper flowers,
he built houses out of Legos
& she,
lives in dollhouses.
But when they discovered an abandoned jigsaw puzzle
in a plain brown box,
they pieced together the mystery of the missing triplets—
knowing not who they were but who they would’ve been
& learning of the one who was plucked from the paper garden
to break down in the weeds.

Eve Grey had 3 types of secrets:
The secrets about herself that she kept to herself,
the secrets about others that she kept for them,
& the secrets about herself that she revealed,
a little at a time.
But she carried with herself,
like a dormant gene,
a 4th secret–
the type of secret that was the most frightening of all,
for it was the secret about herself that no one knew—
not even Eve herself.
When Dr. Janus recovered it
in the form of a memory,
it set off a chain reaction
that bound her to him,
for it became the first type of secret
that must never turn into the third.

When Merlina moved into town
with her crystal ball,
she didn’t tell people their futures
but only their possible ones,
which were exceedingly bright,
so that when she moved on,
those who’d had faith in her
had found faith in themselves,
& those futures
she had wished for them
& predicted to them
had happened only
because they had gone on living
believing that great things
were coming to them.

Book Review: Writing Down the Bones

Sarah Lea Stories

44905

Although I enjoyed Stephen King’s On Writing more, which was more concrete and less abstract, Writing Down the Bones had many more plusses than minuses. The title fits because Goldberg takes a page from Strunk and White to “omit needless words,” not burdening hers with excessive description or detail (just a handful of unnecessary quotes).

Goldberg wrote in a nonacademic way, which I appreciated, and the creatively titled chapters were short. I don’t often get a chance to read until the end of the day in bed, so short chapters make finding a stopping place easy.

Though I realize all writers have different experiences regarding their craft, I’ve never heard an imaginary voice telling me I shouldn’t be a writer (Goldberg calls this “monkey mind” in another book, which I find cute and funny). Writing has always been the one thing I’m sure of. I am more likely to think…

View original post 129 more words

Micropoetry Monday: Thanatology

Thanatology book cover

When the merry widow met
the grieving widower
at her late husband’s funeral,
Kickstarter Funeral Home
became their haven,
for when her loathsome groom
& the boss who’d made his life miserable
finally bought that farm down under,
they’d connected on a deeper level
by turning his obituary guestbook
into a public way to air their grievances—
giving others the courage to share their story
when she hadn’t had the courage to leave
nor he,
to quit.

When someone passed away,
the Tribute Reporter interviewed the 10 people closest to them,
but as she got to know her subject more in death
than she ever would have in life,
she found that some people only wanted to remember the deceased
the way they had known them.

D.D. Wentworth was the thrift store queen
who could always be found scraping
the bottom of the bargain bin
with her ShowBiz Pizza token.
She didn’t have 2 nickels to rub together
to make fire,
but she did have a penny
with a buffalo facing the wrong way
& a 3-dollar bill
with a mustachioed Gerber baby on it.
The millions she secretly accrued,
she left to her fat cat,
& things such as the funny money,
she left to her community.
The Wentworthless Museum
was erected in her honor,
where a furry, lifelike sculpture of a calico
is encased in a glass coffin,
or rather,
a glass case—
a penny over one eye,
a token on the other,
& a dollar bill between its teeth.