The Madcap Ginger

Lucinda Bahl catered and pandered to the one-percenters,

which was quite laughable,

as she thought they were greedy bastards

behind their majestic swagger.


She always greeted them quite obsequiously in disguise,

barefaced and blushing,

in a maid’s uniform concealing her tramp stamp—

a hint at her lower class from Flushing.

By dawn, she cleaned their houses;

by dusk, she cleaned their clocks.


In manic states of unrest and undress,

she was quite fashionable with body paint caked on as camouflage,

as she skulked through her employers’ McMansions,

replacing their Jackson Pollocks

with copies that mimicked the worthless works.


She was a zany, green-eyed bandit,

dauntless, equivocal and cold-blooded

a klepto with dual personalities,

who often hobnobbed with her alter ego.


She drugged (or roofied) her masters,

rolling the women for their jewels,

then noiselessly, in bare feet,

tipsy-toed to the other side of the bed

and reached under the bedroom blanket for the family jewels.


Dressed as Greg Brady,

her eyes would turn dark with excitement as she hurried,

finishing with a gust of breath.

Her right hand knew not what her left one did,

and her arms were like those of Olympians.


Every year, she would have a baby bump,

which always aroused a kerfuffle.

DNA was a woman’s best friend,

and a compromise would be reached without a scuffle.


Mr. and Mrs. would negotiate for the baby,

in exchange for the boodle,

and none was the wiser,

for they didn’t use their noodle.

It was a safe bet for Lucinda Bahl–

this belle of the balls.


Being a millionaire heiress herself,

her father being the inventor of the Spice Racketeer,

and collapsible luggage,

she was still lonely.

Prone she was to metamorphize into a generous, frugal soul,

donating plasma for free juice and cookies,

which became a strange attention addiction.


Nevertheless, she was remorseless

when she was in her right mind (or left brain),

for she blamed the haves for the have nots,

that littered her lawn like gnomes with their deafening cries,

making her gloomy and disheartened.


Then it became apparent there was an outbreak

of some disease which caused lots of bloodstained puking,

gnarled knees,

an epileptic elbow,

and an eyeball so lazy it wouldn’t bother to open.

The only cure was a glass of skim milk,

which would ease the discontent.

It was quite the source of gossip.


The men (all friends) began to realize they’d been had,

and when Lucinda came to work wearing an eyepatch,

they decided to fix her unwelcome wagon once and for all.

They had suffered character assassination from the media,

the academe,

and from countless anonymous online critics;

they had suffered savagery from their children,

torture from their wives,

who took delight in besmirching them to their mothers,

taking them to court and ruining their lives.


They wanted to charge Lucinda with unlawful seduction,

though they realized it was all circumstantial evidence,

for Yonkers was going bonkers with it.


Lucinda’s hair was no longer lustrous like sunshine,

her face radiant like moonbeams,

but lackluster and flawed.

She looked like the low-rent kind of broad

who lived rent-free in her head.


Lucinda the Accused,

became Lucinda the new star of TLC,

with lots of advertising from social media,

and with the backing of varied sponsors such as

Eastborough Baptist Church of the Quiverfulls.


“The Real Housemaid of NYC”, her label,

was obscene, but marketable,

and the gnomes had their hero.

Many assumed it had been a premeditated publicity stunt.

It was unreal, monumental,

this champion of the “working class”,

who was just a rehash of white trash.


She became a fixture on the cover of Starr–

a courtship that would last for 15 minutes.


However, it was never enough exposure,

and she got a show on MSNBC.

Hardly impartial,

but an open platform to rant about the dangers of breathing

and anything Bush,

pandering to their audience of 1000,

impeding her stardom.

She missed the ratings,

and so she filmed herself submerging in a bathtub of iced tea,

complete with a Dalmatian,

uploading it to YouTube,

becoming a cult sensation.


However, her girls, once fans, had become jaded,

even though she got an interview with the President,

who was quite a pedant,

much to Fox News’ amazement.


Her daughters remained with their sperm donors,

in their birthplaces in the five boroughs of New York,

becoming Olympians in pole-vaulting.


Lucinda’s ill-gotten gains dwindled,

and she retired from her life of psychosis and crime,

feeling more secure in a place she belonged–

the last star of “Stars Behind Bars”.


She’d reached her summit,

like a great mountaineer,

but at the end,

had groveled for a sex change while on the mend.


The buzzer went off,

and Lucinda, now beached

and pumped full of meds,

awoke from her little trip back in time,

feeling tranquil without a dime.


Tis the end of my ode to those who dream of a life of reality stardom,

and to those who watch it.

For today’s prompt, take a word or two (I took it a step farther and used ALL of these: by William Shakespeare, make it the title of your poem, and write your poem. 

What you are about to read is truly absurd (which is one of my favorite words, as it can be used to describe many things).  It’s sort of a riches-to-rags story involving a dizzy redhead and is a satire/spoof of reality TV.

Across the Sea

The day dawn is breaking,
the moon and stars are fading.
The cool water shimmers,
and I am but a glimmer
who floats with the flow.
I am not numb,
yet I feel no pain.

I have the vision of an eagle,
the hearing of an owl,
the smell of a bloodhound,
the taste buds of a child.
I am experiencing everything wonderful
all at once,
and I’ve only been out at sea for two days.

The morning ripens into afternoon,
the afternoon deepens into twilight,
and then the evening turns purple then black,
like a bruise.
The earth is dying once more,
only to be reborn with the coming sun.

I think of my husband,
then my child—
who was carried out like me,
many years ago now.
Never forgotten,
never found.

The coastline of Maine is becoming nearer,
I am so close.

It is the third day.

I see my husband standing on the sandbar,
looking neither near nor far.
“If ever I am lost,
I will find my way back to you,” I had said,
but he hadn’t believed me,
or so I had thought.

The tide carries me,
and I splash around his ankles,
for I am but ashes.

One Woman’s History

“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”  –St. Paul, First Corinthians

When I worked at Poet’s Coffee Corner,
I met the wrong man.

When I worked for the Book Nook,
I met the right man.

When I worked at Herb Spicer’s Pharmacy,
I married the right man.

When I worked there still,
I had our first child.

When I worked for the Café on the Bay,
I went back to school.

When I worked for How Now Ground Cow,
I had twins while finishing school.

When I worked for Sacred Heart Hospital,
my husband died and I had to finish growing up.

When I went to the Poet’s Coffee Corner one day,
for an espresso and a beignet,
by happenstance, I ran into that wrong man,
only to find that he who had been wrong for me before,
was right for me now.

How the Owl Got its Hoo

Ollie the Owl perched on a birch,
doing a little soul search.

A fragile foundling he was,
for a forgetful stork,
while grabbing a snack along the way,
had left him at an empty tree stump,
and he grew up to wonder, “What am I? Am I a What?”

Ollie peered down at Peter the Rock,
who told him it was a What,
and that because he was,
Ollie was not.

“Am I a Where?” he asked the Forest Glen,
“Did I come from you?”
The Forest replied,
“I’m a Where—
a Here and a There,
but you—you can only be in one place at at time,
so no, you are not a Where.”

Father Time was passing through,
and Ollie caught him on his way,
“Are you my father?”
but Father Time shook his head and said,
“I am the conqueror of women and men.
You are not, for I am a When.”

Then along came Mother Nature,
who told him she was a How,
and then Cause and Effect came by,
who both claimed to be a Why,
and it wasn’t till he saw Olivia Owl a hoo-hooing,
that he knew he was a Who.

I Am; I Am Not

I am a square
yet well-rounded.

I am white
but love black humor.

I am even-tempered
but oddly creative.

My name means “Princess,”
yet I live the life of a pauper.

I am 33
but feel 22.

I am always under pressure,
but a diamond I am not.

I am a poetess
who speaks plainly.

I am an open book
who casts not her pearls before swine.

I am a scholar
but not an intellectual.

I believe in protecting the innocent
& punishing the guilty.

I do not paint by the numbers
but live by the letter.

I was born in the ’80s
but am sometimes nostalgic for the ’50s.

I am a Virgo,
but my memory escapes me.

I am Sunday’s child
but am not always good & blithe.

I have the heart of a Christian
but the mind of a skeptic.

I am a woman,
yet I worship the Savior, who came to us a Man.

I was LDS
but still cross my arms when I say grace.

I have a child,
but the child I was still lives within me.

I have a husband,
but he is not my master.

I am who I am
but who I am not,
is equally me.

My Daughter, The Warrior

Prelude to a giggle.JPG

My daughter, the Warrior,
fighting the forces of gravity
with the grace of Tuesday’s child.

My daughter, the Soldier,
warring for our attention,
our hearts the spoils.

My daughter, the Queen,
with her crown of strawberry-blond,
her grey-blue eyes the jewels.

My daughter, the Princess,
daughter of Eve,
child of a King.

My daughter, the Destroyer,
a one-child demolition crew
of block towers and battery mice.

My daughter, the Dancer,
en pointe with ankles crossed,
in ribbon straps and polka-dots.

My daughter, the Learner,
who calls for Bubbles out of thin air,
and Goady-Goady for no reason at all.

My daughter, the Teacher,
from whom I’ve learned patience,
and how to unwind through play.

My daughter, the Inspiration,
for writing whimsical poetry
and singing songs of Ireland.

My daughter, the Angel,
with her holographic halo
and invisible wings.

The Final Authority

“So God created man in his own image,
in the image of God created he him;
male and female created he them.”
Genesis 1:27

I was who I was,
two weeks ago yesterday.
The day of our wedding then,
is already a memory.

I’d found God before I married you,
and then I found myself.
The person you wed is gone,
but you’ve not forgotten.

I am not your child,
your soldier,
or your little pet.

I am a grown woman,
with goals, ideas, and opinions of my own.
I will support you,
as I hope you will support me,
so that we can both become the best we can be.

I didn’t know what I wanted when I married you,
I only knew I wanted you.
You wanted me then—
please, want all of me now.
Love me for my goodness,
not my obedience.

We can be as different as we are equal—
as happy in one another’s successes as we are in our own.

I am not an extension of you,
but rather am One with you.
Be my husband,
my co-pilot,
my friend and soul-mate,
but don’t be my final authority.