the Flight of 20 Angels

This is a result of dreaded
inspiration:  brought on by shots
of bereaved parents and shattered
glass, their children taken too soon
from sprayed bullets in the temple
of a classroom.  They have fallen
into the hands of the Divine,
yet risen with wings, to alight
upon our hurried frenzy of
Christmas deadlines and parking lot
battles,  frayed nerves and wallets, the
endless waiting.  We looked upon
our children, for one night holding
them closer, their innocent joy
curing our despair, our weary
hope cured by their sparkling wonder.
For one night we forgot bedtimes
seeing our children as if
for the first time, listening as though
their next breath would never come.

12/16/12

Catching the Bully

We went to see the film Bully this evening.  It was uncomfortable, heart-wrenching, disturbing and, at the very end, hopeful.  I was all set to compose my thoughts about viewing this movie, when my dear daughter Jean presented me with this poem. It conveys what I what I would have said, except she says it much better, because many of the experiences of the kids in the movie happened to her.  So I turn the microphone over to Jean...

In her eyes

by Jean D. Pratt

(upon seeing the movie Bully 6-2-12)

Reflected in her eyes

The story on the screen

The life of all those teens

The lives of all that dies

No one notices her as she cries

No on sees her, now or then

No one asks to be her friend

She’s invisible only when it’s convenient

Other times they aren’ so lenient

Other times they laugh at her tears

Laugh at what she fear

Which is them

Every day of every hour

All that hears her prayers

Is the shower

That’s only when she lets loose

Lets all those feelings pour through

Escape down her eyes and her cheeks

The broken machinery at this point leaks

It can’t hold in the pressure anymore

So she cries down on that wet floor

The water is her absolution

Repenting her of all she hasn’t done

Releasing her again to be shunned

To go to school and see their eyes

See how they laugh when she cries

This is my documentary

This is the burden I’ll carry

From the point of conception

To my death

No I could never choose abortion

Extortion

Deliverance from the demon

Inside my soul

The one that has a smile so cold

So frozen and alone

No one to call on

No one to phone

To listen to her worries

But, hey, the principal says

“She’ll be OK, surely”

Surely this isn’t our fault

Surely someone else must be to blame

For her assault

Of her sanity

Never mind we’re the ones

Who teach humanity

Forget that we are the ones in charge

Her problems can’t be that large

She must be a little crazy

Have you tried a therapist, maybe?

Someone else to try and reason with the truth

Make it  stretch a little

C’n, that’s the fun of youth

Someone else to implant the seeds

Of denial

Someone else to force her down

The church’s aisle

In to the booth where she begs forgiveness

Of telling Mommy, Daddy, and the press

Of what they did to her

Oh yes please forgive me

I didn’t know that I

Was just creating tomfoolery

Please just forget I spoke

Please, yes, continue to choke

the ever-loving hope out of me

Yes, kill

at last I’ll be free.

Rochester Poets poetry celebration

Here are the poems that I read yesterday ... I decided to go with a set of "WOman poems".  Some are oldies but goodies.

Lessons in Love at the Colosseum Café

Hey Mister, can’t you see she’s not the least

bit interested, despite your oxford

shirt and tie adrift in this café of

shorts and sandals on a promising spring

night.  You bargained with her for a date like

a bankrupt Moroccan merchant, and she

declined every offer with a list

of busy evenings for the rest of this

month.  Pay the check, put this last refusal

in your back pocket.  Let me give you some

advice:  dress waaaaay down to your last dollar.

Avoid meeting her eyes when she takes your

order.  Smile sullenly.  Watch her backside

walking and turn away grinning when she

looks back.  Count the cars and the stars; anything

but her charms, looking aloof as a cat

on a child’s birthday.  Mumble thanks.  Mention

the coffee stain on her apron is

as large as the oil leak under the truck

in your garage.  She’ll march away, annoyed,

gab to her friends how cruel you are, and think

about what other thoughts you have of her.

Stroll in and stare blankly at the counter

of cheesecake, and look over her shoulder

toward the door when you ask about a

movie for Friday night.  She’ll shuffle in

her shoes, squeal yes, wiggle her way back to

her  trays.  Don’t let her see the clouds you walked

on the way home.  Remember this advice

next time you see her.  This is what she

knows from guys long before you.  Stand in line.

***********************

Reincarnation

In my next life I want to be the one

men take second glances at as if I

was the mirror to encourage their preening.

I want to be the one to get the door

held open from twenty feet away because

someone likes how I look walking toward them.

I want to be the one salespersons

find time to make conversation with as

they offer me clothes that fit all day long.

I want to be the one the guest makes sure

has arrived so the party can start and

frequently asks me if I’m having fun.

I want to be the one that gets noticed

when I leave and escorted to my stylish

salt-free car in a reserved parking space.

I want to be the one with an alluring

accent where vowels growl and consonants

click like swizzle sticks stirring midnight martinis.

I want to be the one everyone thinks

I get what I deserve because I am

beautiful.

3/27/01

****************************

Dropping In

Gooey chocolate in a chewy

concoction of calories

sit on a silver platter,

crunchy crust, doughy within

Just a half, the hips say

there's just not enough metabolism

in this town for the both of us.

But just a handful of slow

smooth salivation of mountain cocoa

mixed purely with milk, sugar, butter,

all those things Babci never

cooked without (and she lived to be 95)

so this is the one time I remember to

forget the scale, the numbers,

the guilt, the calories

and enjoy every last crumb

and not think of all the clothes

in my closet that don't fit me anymore.

4-6-05

***************************************** 

Girls Like Me

While you were taking turns tossing coins into the fountain

Girls like me

Were walking along the river

Reflecting the clouds in the sky

While you held hands around a single cup of espresso

Girls like me

Were drinking and driving

coffee on the way to work

While you caressed a powdered cheek

Girls like me

Were rinsing catheters

and cleaning bedpans

while you spoke languages I’ll never know

girls like me

called girlfriends about boys at night

planning for Friday

while you made plans for a picnic in the vineyard

girls like me

shot pool and drank beer

laughing too loud

while you are now as I am

back then

girls like me

still wouldn’t stand a chance.

Inspired 10-18-10

**************

A reading from the Book of Garments, chapter 16, verse 35-51

“..and so there fell upon the land an unexpected day free from labors.  And the Lord God did speak to the Pear-Shaped Woman in the Town of Penfield in the New state of York, commanding her: ‘Go forth this day, because you are unexpectedly relieved of labors, and venture out into the Marketplace (Mall) and seekest for thyself denim garments for thy lower extremities.  And the Woman trembled with fear, for she had  lookest for such garments for, like, 40 years.  And the Lord, who knowest all fears, did say, “bringest thou clothing for charity and the merchant will reward you with 20% reduced prices for your search.”  So the Woman traveled to the Marketplace, and did donate clothing to charity in exchange for 20% reduced price merchandise.  And the Lord God did grin.

Then the Woman ventured into the racks of regular fit and skinny and curvy and bootleg denim garments, but grew weary at the numbers of each.  Then a miracle occurred! The Woman put on denim garments that fitteth her Eastern European buttocks yet were comfortably snug in the waist area.  And the Lord God did grin.

Then the  Lord didst speak again, cautioning the Woman, “Thou shalt not spendeth more than 50 dollars on thy garments.  No more, no less. Fifty is the amount thou shalt spend, and the number thou shalt spend shall be fifty.  Fifty five thou shalt not spend. The Lord shall look with favor upon forty-five, but if thou wishes to spend up to the amount of fifty, thou shalt give thanks to the Lord forever for having guideth you through the vast racks of denim merchandise. Seventy-five is right out.  Once reaching the amount of 50 dollars, thou shalt take out thy card of Visa, and lobbest it at the merchant, who, being honest in my sight, shall snuff it.” 

And the Pear-Shaped did as she was told, praising God for discovering not one but two sets of denim garments that did indeed fitteth her Eastern European buttocks and were comfortably snug in the waist area.  And there was much rejoicing, and feasting at the Food Court of hot spicy Buffalo wings, and Wahlburgers, and Abbott’s custard, and Five Dollar Foot Long submarine sandwiches, and slices of non-Italian pizza, and (…skip ahead a bit sister.  Oh!).  But the Pear Shaped woman feasted only slightly, for she didst not want lose the fit of the denim garments just purchased.  And she went forth praising the Lord for her bounty.  A-men! "

(with inspiration from Monty Python, with just enough changes to avoid a copyright infringement lawsuit :)

Two to Tango

Am I missing something here?  Would we be having all this fuss and bother if a young man appeared in Congress saying that he would want his faith-sponsored university to supply condoms at their health clinic?  Would anyone be calling him a 'slut' or a 'whore'?   Or would someone say he is a 'responsible adult' because HE should not be bringing babies into this world that HE is not financially or emotionally able to support? (because, of course, an honorable man would be ready to marry any girl he got pregnant).

Think about that.  Comments welcome.

"If men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament." -- Gloria Steinem

Finding my inner Cioci Ena

I suppose it was inevitable, given that my female relatives in my Mom's family always dressed well. Big Babci instilled the virtues of clean, neat and well-fitted clothing; everything had to be 'just so'.  The epitome of that virtue was my beloved Cioci Ena. Even going to the grocery store had nary a hair out of place nor the slight tint of lipstick.  "Permanent"s were protected by plastic bonnets in the rain or in the pool.   My Mom and her sisters followed suit, although they could occasionally be caught wearing 'leisureware' on the weekends.  (funny how that has become high fashion in my daughter's high school).

Now I have seemed to go through an image re-invention every 5 years or so.  When I made the gradual (and sometimes stressful) transformation from preschool special ed teacher to public relations coordinator, I realized my wash-n-wear playdoh-proof wardrobe had to get replaced by tailored, dry-cleaned suits and mix-n-matchable outfits.  When I transitioned (again) to instructing in postsecondary education, some of my clothes could travel with me but some had fallen out of style and usefulness. 

Then, the inevitable occurred: a notable birthday ending in zero (you can guess which one).  And with that came a creeping sense and fear of loafers, sweatsuits, and double-cuffed turtlenecks--y'know, fashion staples for women 'of a certain age'.   There is a name for this condition: Frumpyphobia , the fear of looking or acting frumpy, especially before one's time.

Of course, my Cioci Ena never exhibited any of the signs of Frumpyphobia.  Dresses were still worn (with pantyhose!), pantsuits were shapely, and makeup was impeccable.  And I think perhaps my female cousins experienced the early symptoms at the typical cusp of adolescence, as they all still dress quite well.  But me, well...I seemed to always be a 'late bloomer' compared to them.  So, much like chicken pox, my later-in-life symptoms of Frumpyphobia exhibited themselves in full force.

Where could I find my cure?  Well-dressed coworkers? Oprah? Books? E-books? All of the above, and more, seeking that certain combination of 'j'nais se quois'  and comfortable confidence. With school on break and armed with fashion templates in my head and $200 in my pocket, I looked for the next re-invention of myself.  (note: I keep consignment stores and re-sale shops well-shopped and stocked).  Voila!  I am finally going through that dress-up stage my poor mother has always waited for, the stage where I was found playing in sandboxes or biking down dirt hills with breakneck aplomb.

As I write this, though, maybe it is not about the clothes, or the perfect lipstick color, or just the right haircut.  Certainly my Cioci Ena owned all of these.  But perhaps what made all of the outer package more visible was what the inner package shone through:  faith, kindness, caring, love of family.   Perhaps feeling grounded in these values made Cioci Ena stand a little more confidently, a little more self-assuredly, upon which all of the outer package was displayed. 

Maybe that is the lesson learned: I can't buy self-confidence on a rack.  Maybe the second lesson learned is:  by being grounded in what I truly value makes my 'fashion' all the more authentic.  Maybe the third lesson is:  what I need may not always be what I want.

Now if I could just get rid of these puffy dark circles under my eyes...