Another Quarantine Poem - To My Crush

I call these my Dr. Fauci masks - button-down on one side, a little fun on the other

I adore you, Dr. Fauci;

Come sit with me on my couchy
And speak sweet words of immunology.
Whisper how you whipped Swine Flu,
SARS, MERS and Ebola, too;

Now, solve Covid while I serve you snacks and tea

Because I believe you, Dr. Fauci
Though you have made some people grouchy
Just as you did researching HIV.
“Too slow!” They cried, “There’s people dying”
But you wisely kept on trying,
Reducing AIDS and changing history.

And still they fuss in this pandemic,

(It's folks who aren’t so academic - 

Do you think they passed high school biology?)

They see the issue black and whitely

(Googling “viruses” and reading slightly)

And put no faith in your advanced degree.

“A hoax!” “No masks!” I hear them cry,

Each one quite willing to deny

The Covid facts you so succinctly present;

“CO2 breath” and rights, Constitutional,

Their arguments counterrevolutional

To an illness you KNOW they could prevent.

Dr. Fauci, how I miss you,
I would never contradict you
If I were the seated President.
Like Reagan right through to Obama,
I’d be your ever-listening mama
And flatten curves to your heart's content.

I’d never make you touch your face
Or bow your head in sheer disgrace
By saying things both stupid and untrue;
I know you are the voice of reason;
Truth-telling is no cause for treason

(Hey!  That just might be my new tattoo!)

And when they ink it on my arm,

I'll think on your smart sexy charm

And give thanks that you always will hold sway

With science, facts, your impish shrug;

I dream someday we share a hug

That's closer than the cursed six feet away.  

Peace

A Quarantine Tuesday Poem - Upon Thinking of Going to The Grocery Store

At 6

All I wanted was a pocketbook.
Grandma said I had a pocketbook,
The white patent leather, gold ball-snap
Purse with gold chain that I carried
Over my wrist
On Easter that held three kleenexes and
a red-stripe peppermint.
I wanted
a real pocketbook.
A big pocketbook to fill
With important things like 
Lipstick.
Floral-printed handkerchiefs stained with lip prints.
Assorted coins.
A small sewing kit. 
A wallet with money and a social security card
And a library card
And a license for driving a car.
I could go to the IGA with that pocketbook
And buy ice cream in little cups
With little wooden paddle spoons glued to the lids
And sour cream and onion potato chips
And foot-long hot dogs and foot-long buns.

At 13

Mom sewed me a purse out of the top
Of a pair of dad's overalls
To carry Kotex. 
To junior high. 
Such a cool purse, lined
With pink stripe fabric leftover 
From a pair of baby doll pajamas 
She had sewn for me that summer.
Wendy Calvin told my 
Social Studies class it was too bad
My mom couldn't afford buy me a real
Purse at JC Penney
So I stopped carrying it to school
And bled right through a pair of white pants
In the lunchroom.

At 35

Why is my damn purse so damn heavy?

At 57

Oldest daughter:  Mama, hand me your purse.  
I'll clean it out for you.
What's this? 
This chapstick is ancient.
Do you really need 11 pens?
You have so many coins in the bottom of your purse
It could be a door stop.
Or a lethal weapon, swung just right.  
Line up your bills according to value
Like dad does.
All the guys facing forward. 
Toss these old receipts.  
The newer ones are behind the bills.

Now keep it this way, she says. 
And then we laugh and laugh at her
Funny joke. 

At 60

Don't take a purse into the store, they say.
In and out quickly, they say. 
Carry just a card, they say.

But where do I put my keys?
My little pad for writing down interesting things?
Kotex.  Peppermints. 7 pens. 
Too many coins. 
Kleenex.
Hand wipes and Clorox wipes and hand sanitizer and plastic gloves.
And a mask. 

All I wanted was a little cup of ice cream. 
And a little wooden spoon. 

NaPoWriMo Fail

I wrote an entire one poem for National Poetry Writing Month, April 2020.  I thought I could do better than last year, when I wrote  around 10, but while some would think the pandemic/quarantine/worldwide chaos we are in would make good fodder for writing, it has literally shut me down.  I can't explain it.  This would have been the perfect time to work on my novel(s), but I've written very little - just enough to get me through my writing circle.  

That's embarrassing to admit.  

So here is my one and only sort-of poem.  Our prompt was to describe your life metaphorically along the lines of "life is like a box of chocolates."  I think.  

My Life is Sarah's Birthday Cake

The recipe is old, but good

From the 1959 edition of the Betty Crocker Cookbook, 

Found in an antique store and

Inscribed on the inside cover "to Georgie, from Mom, for her

Wedding shower, September 1982."

I've made it so many times, 

I'm comfortable with changes.  

An extra half teaspoon of vanilla,

One more egg white.

Now, I spray the 2 eight-inch pans with Baker's Joy 

Instead of rubbing them down with butter then 

Tossing around a few teaspoons of flour to coat.

Sift.  Cream. Fold.

Into the pans, into the oven.

Out of the oven, out of the pans.

Let it rest.  Let it cool.  Let it be.

For about an hour.

Then get busy.

The party is soon. 

The party is always soon. 

Beat the shit out of two sticks of butter and a block of cream cheese.

Add vanilla, sift in a half a bag of powdered sugar

And turn the mixer up too high so powdered sugar flies

Into each and every crevice of your kitchen.  

Split the layers in two, because fancy is everything.

Set the first layer on your favorite fancy cake plate,

Spread with buttercream, jam and repeat.  And repeat.  

The slather the whole cake with buttercream,  smoothing and 

Filling in holes and gaps and smoothing and filling. 

Top with a crown of raspberries.

Because fancy. 

Leave room for candles. 

White ones are best, but any combination of 

Colors, scavenged from the back of the silverware drawer

Will do 

As long as there are candles. 

Sing, clap, blow out the little flames.

Eat, laugh.

Wait a year and do it all again. 

NaPoWriMo Failure

Here is it, May 7, and I have failed NaPoWriMo, just like I failed NaNoWriMo last November.  But I keep going anyway - my novel is progressing, I promise, and I wrote this poem for Circle today.  

If You Give a Woman a Power Washer

(with apologies to Lara Numeroff, brilliant author of If you Give a Mouse a Cookie)

If you give a woman a power washer,

She’s going to want to power wash the front porch.

And if she power washes the front porch to sparkling,

She’ll notice that the rocking chairs now look dingy

So she’ll power wash the rocking chairs.

And if she power washes the rocking chairs,

She’ll probably have the pressure too high,

And if the pressure is too high,

She’ll knock the paint right off the chairs.

And if she knocks the paint off the chairs,

She’ll have to go to the garage

To get a can of paint and a brush. 

But to find the paint and brush

She’ll have to straighten the garage,

And if she straightens the garage,

She’ll know it’s time to take in the recycling,

And if she takes the bins to recycling,

She’ll have to pass the Walmart,

And if she passes the Walmart, she’ll want to

Stop in for pots and plants to decorate the nice clean porch.

And if she shops for pots and plants,

She’s going to see the fountains and patio furniture

And if she sees the fountains and patio furniture,

She’ll be tossed into the dilemma of wants versus needs

And if she thinks about wants versus needs too long

She’ll stop in the middle of the aisle at the Walmart to ponder them,

And if she stops in the aisle at the Walmart,

She’ll look around and soon wish she too, had worn her pajamas.

And if she wishes she was in her pajamas,

She’ll think of how nice it would be to be on her couch with a cup of tea

And if she goes home and makes a cup of tea,

She’s going to want a cookie to go with it.  

And if she wants a cookie,

She’s going to have to go back to the Walmart for ingredients

And if she starts to go back to Walmart for ingredients,

She’ll have to stop on her way out to lock her front door

And if she locks her front door,

She’ll notice how nice her front porch looks, all power-washed.

And if she notices how nice her front porch looks,

She’s going to want to get that cup of tea

And a book

And sit in a power-washed rocker

And enjoy the afternoon. 

Until she looks around and thinks how nice the

Front sidewalk would look

Power-washed. 

Georgiann Coons

Women Writing for (a) Change

May 7, 2019

Peace

Abby and Olive, Four Years Old - NaPoWriMo Day 19

Prompt:  Write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet.

Abby and Olive, Four Years Old

Abby 
Blowing bubbles
Crying 
Doctor tools on the coffee table
Energy
Fighting
Grandpa's gum
Hide and seek 
I spy with my little eye
Jelly sandwiches
Kitties 
Laughing 
Mimi's house 
No 
Olive 
Play-doh
"Quiet, the baby's sleeping!"
Running, running, running
Swings
Training wheels
Under the dining room table
Vanilla ice cream cones
Washing dishes
Xtra 
Yellow crayon
Zipping it myself.

Second try:

Abby and Olive, Four Years Old

Abby is
Blowing bubbles, then before you know it, 
Crying over the 
Doctor tools on the coffee table.  So much
Energy, and sometimes 
Fighting, ended by an offering of 
Grandpa's gum.  Playing games of 
Hide and seek and
I spy with my little eye.  For lunch, 
Jelly sandwiches;  grape, please.
Kitties lounging on the stairs scare us, but then we
Laugh and fill their food dishes.  Not scary. 
Mimi's house is where we seldom hear
No.  
Olive is careful with her
Play-doh.
"Quiet, the baby's sleeping!"
Running, running, running, then to the
Swings.  Pink bikes with 
Training wheels.  Camping
Under the dining room table.  Time for a treat of 
Vanilla ice cream cones.  Making a puddle in the kitchen
Washing dishes.  More
Xtra gum.  We both want to color with a
Yellow crayon.  Now.  Can you
Zip it yourself?

Under the Bus - NaPoWriMo day 17

Prompt:  Write a poem that presents a scene from an unusual point of view. Perhaps you could write a poem that presents Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery from the perspective of the apple. Or the shootout at the OK Corral from the viewpoint of a passing vulture. Or maybe it could be something as everyday as a rainstorm, as experienced by a raindrop.

Under the Bus

(With thanks to Clark Brown for the idea...)

Here I lie. 
The pavement is cold
Thick dark oil drips on my shin
Leaking from somewhere important
I would guess,
Not actually knowing anything
About engines.
Or chassis.
Someone, it seems
Had to 
Stomp down the aisle
As they searched out a seat.

Here I lie.
Through no fault of my own,
I don't think,
Not actually knowing anything
About scandal.
Or rumors.
Yet thick accusations dripped on my head.
Someone, it seemed,
Had to take the blame.
Be stomped on.
Lose their seat.

Tax Day - NaPoWriMO Day 15

Prompt:  write your own dramatic monologue. It doesn’t have to be quite as serious as Browning or Shakespeare, of course, but try to create a sort of specific voice or character that can act as the “speaker” of your poem, and that could be acted by someone reciting the poem.

Tax Day

Forsooth, forshame; I hate this game
Thou plays with the IRS.
Tell'st me why, Tho' thou always comply
Thou waitest 'til the 15th to confess
The income and wages from W-2 pages
Of both your career and mine?
(Although mine quite meager) Thou'st never too eager
To complete them and then to sign
Our names, jointly filing, ere hours compiling
And cursing percentages taken;
'Tis true, 'tis inflated, and perchance unjustly weighted
'Gainst those who bring home middle class bacon;
Though hardly ever we owe, it just goes to show
Thine stubborn streak wide, yet not appalling; 
Be thou up in arms, I am "mistress of your charms"*
And love thee in spite of thine tax stalling. 

*from Hecate's monologue in Macbeth, Act 3, Scene 5
"Hark! I am called. My little spirit, see,
Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me."

Eye No Nothing about Sailing - NaPoWriMo Day 14

Prompt: Write a poem that incorporates homophones, homographs, and homonyms, or otherwise makes productive use of English’s ridiculously complex spelling rules and opportunities for mis-hearings and mis-readings.

Eye No Nothing About Sailing


"It's just not right!"
Said the frustrated wright
As he tied the knot on his sail;
"I was taught to keep it taut!"
And then shouted "I see a whale!"

But he heard his wife wail weakly 
And he spied her through the mist;
She had missed the spectacle completely,
She'd had six pints - on sale at the pub!
And their weekly sail was soon dismissed

As he dropped the riggings and flew to her side
"I think I have the flu!" she cried
And just as he wondered,
"What the heck?"
The wretch retched onto the deck

He stood on the bow 
And held on to her braid
His eyes wandered to see the mess she had made;
Puke on the bow tied in her hair;
In the sea, the tide carried her vomit everywhere. 

Plantively she brayed,
"This, of course, will sound quite coarse, 
But I thought just as I was yaking,
Although I ate eight puddings at lunch,
You jibed but should have been tacking!"

And with her groan, sigh and complaining
His disgust had grown without explaining!
Her heaving now through -  but awful -
He considered that if he threw her over the side - 
For the whale she'd be nothing but offal.

And yet he knew that in the morning 
He would be mourning her demise!

This sweet maid he had made his wife -
Why, he'd be a heel to drown her!
He needed to heal her every ail!
"I will never desert you," he cried
"But pass up the ale and desserts next sail!"

Dull Little Knife - NaPoWriMo Day 12

Prompt:  Write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it. 

Dull Little Knife

I have a little knife
I keep in the knife drawer
It used to cut a lot of things
But doesn't any more.

Oh, I could slide it down a steel
Or draw it over a stone;
I was taught to sharpen knives
To cut through meat and bone

Or a hundred chicken livers
Hiding connective tissue strands;
Berta taught me to find and detach them
Despite how cold my hands

Were searching for livers in ice cold water
In the Temple kitchen sink.
She was pleased with my knife skills
And liver cleaning, I think

For each week when I got to work
I was grossed out to see
That while others iced cakes and stuffed dumplings
The livers were left for me.

"You do it so well! We hope you don't mind."
And I'd smile and do it despite
How offensive the task
Because I knew at the end of the night

We'd feast on leftover brisket and kugel,
Thick slices of challah with honey,
Apple cake and even chopped liver with schmaltz - 
You see, this job was more than just money

For the poor English graduate students
Who worked on this catering crew;
Berta taught history, theology, cookery -
She was so proud of being a Jew

That we left Temple Israel each night - 
Feasting and cleaning complete - 
Wishing that we were Jewish, too,
Not just for the good things to eat.

And what of that dull little knife
That remains in the back of the drawer?
It led to this chicken liver remembering poem -
Maybe not so dull any more. 
  

From Shit - NaPoWriMo Day 11

Prompt:  Write a poem of origin. Where are you from?   And having come from there, where are you now?

From Shit
(this one is a little unrefined...)

Figuratively, 
I am from sunshine and flowers.
Norman Rockwell and The Waltons.
Every meal around the table.
Christmas with cousins.
Birthday cake carousels.
Wading in the creek.

Literally, I am from shit.

Chicken shit
Pig shit
Cow shit

Shit I shoveled
Pushed
Hauled

Shit from animals
Sold to pay my tuition

Shit from animals
Spread onto fields
To grow crops
Sold to pay for my wedding

Shit from animals
Spread onto fields
Minus one acre
Sold for one dollar
One acre for our house

With cows on three sides
Where our children could grow up
Smelling, but never shoveling
Shit. 

Oh, To Be British - NaPoWriMo Day 10

Prompt:  Write a poem that starts from a regional phrase, particularly one to describe a weather phenomenon. 

Oh, To Be British

Two years ago today
We were on holiday in London.

Full English breakfast
Tinned beans and black pudding
Taking the tube to see the Crown Jewels and
Brooding over The Princes in the Tower then
Hearing Big Ben
Crossing the Westminster Bridge
Strolling the Queen's Walk along the Thames
(Glad I had worn my trainers!) 
Stopping at Tesco for plasters
Stopping in at the pub for a pint
Crossing the Millennium Bridge
Gawking at St. Paul's 
Taking the tube back to Paddington Station
Eating tikka masala for supper
Falling in to bed completely knackered. 

We had seen Wordsworth's daffodils and
The Brontes' village and
Peter Rabbit's garden and
Rowling's favorite pub. 

Castles
Churches
Castles
Churches
Gardens gardens gardens

Driving on the wrong side of the road
Mastering reverse roundabouts
Throwing our luggage in the boot
Floating on an unexpected ferry.

Afternoon tea with a biscuit
Peri peri chicken at the motorway service area
Tuna salad with corn and a bag of crisps
Fish and chips
But not the takeaway.  
Never the takeaway.

And not once did it tipple down
Not once did I need my brolly
or the mac I had packed.