Lost & found & found

Yesterday, I lost my postcard poem.
30th in the 2011 series. Damn well know
I saved it. Such actions are automatic
after years working with words, even if
you're running out the door.

But somewhere,
between keystroke and hard drive
command was lost or garbled.

Horror discovered later
when seeking to post poem
on twitter and Facebook
to earn a few measly cents
for day's poetic effort.

Search proves useless
as far as incommunicado poem goes,
but thankfully finds some lost fiction.

Poem later located
in car of assistant I'm for once
glad was lazy in timely mailing.

Running Ragged

(a postcard poem)

I do the money dance,
rob Peter to pay Paul.
Pay employees with money
meant to purchase a computer case.
Because I don't to shop much about Wal-Mart
for ethical reasons
anyway.

Buy myself a little more time.

Take the bus instead of the van.
Save $2.40 and pray four working lifts
and made connections.

Call in an old loan
to acquire $7 round-trip
fee to doctor's and back.

Hurricane Haiku

(a postcard poem)

Green leaves cling
to trees, withstanding for now
Irene.

Irene

Note: This poem was to be written yesterday but it wasn't.

(a postcard poem)
Rain, wind, and weather
makes 24 month old injury ache.
I sleep much, forget daily postcard poem.

I do my homework,
read a book,
binge on honey nut Chex Mix.

I tell myself
I will indulge
in caffeine and chocolate,

melted center cookies
as I wait for Irene to kill my power
as she’s done to 90,000 others.

In Praise of Technology

This poet's brain
was cursed by
forever neurologically slowed
typing fingers. Digits never meant to
keep pace with quicker than average mind.

I dealt.
I hired other people
to supply surrogate, fast fingers.

First for $7.50, followed by $9.50, followed by $10.12,
and, lastly, the somewhat princely sum of $12.48.
The state brought me scribes
with the same pile of money
that it paid people to clean my bottom,
only it wasn't always aware of the transactions.

I did what I must
to be myself, follow my muse,
obey my own soul's song.
And I don't regret that choice
for even a moment.

One must seek freedom
however one can, with whatever one can.

On Friday
via UPS for just under $50,
came a miracle to my house.

Program frees me
the type at 2 AM
if the muse finds it amusing.

It learns my voice,
twisted though my words sound to most,
and saves my fingers,
which I had feared soon destined
for the surgeon's knife.

So pardon the poet
if she is momentarily giddy
at latest incarnation of strange –
often denied – word, "freedom."

Waiting

(a postcard poem)

Yesterday, I opted to forgo
free weights class
because the weatherman
said anyone going out
risked getting hit on the head by hail balls
I wasn’t going to take chances my precious gray matter.

Of course, all we got was gray gloom
not so much as a droplet of precipitation.

I send my assistant on a mini-food run.
She gets frozen broccoli with cheese,
popcorn, elbows, and more juice.
I’m ready for this much overhyped storm.

I smile at friend’s friend Facebook comment,
“Irene is facing down
three cities full of the meanest people
this side of the Mason Dixon.
Bitch has been warned.”

Working the Weekend

I’m undertaking a full scale effort
to make up a month’s lost productivity
in 72 hours-

a speech recognition program to train
to comprehend my God instilled gimp accent,
three articles to finish,
almost a dozen reviews to begin,
4 videos on magic to watch
so the magician/prince in my novel
doesn’t seem quite so foolish.

Then it’s time to revisit the outline
for the story that’s been percolating
in my head since Christmas which I must
dictate to poet friend in 72 hours over Labor Day weekend
in order to possibly win publication
and enough fame to make my mother stop
inquiring what, exactly, I think
I’m doing with my life.

Any spare moments
already devoted to preparing two
separate submission packets
due on the same day
as well as trying to make payout
on an internet Q&A site by Wednesday
so I get paid next month,
even though the odds of making over $8
in 4 days means answering or posting
about 800 questions and my schedule
just doesn’t allow.

Plus, because this emo poem
got to long for a postcard
I now have one more task to pile
atop my pile.

I Worry

(a postcard poem)

About childhood friend
who seems to be falling apart
by inches.

That Climate change is evidenced
by earthquakes, hurricanes, and other
weird for New England weather this week.

That Dragon NaturallySpeaking won’t come tomorrow
or work with my personal CP accented voice
when it arrives to free me to do all my scheduled work.

This Morning's Questions in Trio?

(a postcard poem)

How could my alarm go off at 9AM-
as scheduled- I hit snooze just once
for 10 minutes more sleep time-
but awoke to Charter guy pounding my door
at 10:14?

Am I the only
person who finds it creepy
that the 4 new history books
that came into my library this week
revolve around 9/11?

Why does a memoir on coaching intrigue me,
when all I want to do is teach writing
and breed organizers?

Shaking (somewhat)

(a postcard poem)

Today,
there was an earthquake
in New England that I slept
through and discovered later
only by reading friends’ Facebook statuses.

Rush, Rush!

(a postcard poem)

Faxes sent and received…
paid by PayPal…
Retirement card brought,
all it needs is a note…

Lost a reading contest to take a pretty girl,
who always pays for our outings,
to a fancy restaurant, but don’t mind so
much because the guy who won
wanted to take his wife out for their 27th anniversary,
but couldn’t afford it because the live on a fixed income.
I’m a bit of a romantic, you see.

Homework’s done,
writing group assignment’s all read,
comments aligned in mind to spout
when time comes.
Even poetry postcard is ready early.

I give myself a moment to breathe.

Falsehood

(a postcard poem)

I find lost manuscript
and breathe deep, thankful breaths.
I finish watching The Laramie Project, twice through,
and find I like my televised horror
better against the bright day
than before I go to sleep at night.

That's an important life note.

Fact acquired from viewing
means memory real as my hands
could not have happened.
And the manuscript
which never seems to be done
takes another step backward.

Reawakening...

After watching part of The Laramie Project
on my DVD player, I feel again the fear I thought I’d banished
to the primordial part of brain back when I was 22 and
finally getting over the event.

I’m too shaken to leave the house,
mail the postcard. I see villainy
anywhere. I want my happy,
post-cancelled picket line
self of 120 minutes ago
back.

I'm on Strike, too

(dedicated to Lowell McAdam, Verizon CEO)

Holidays that honor martyred bodies
are not bargaining chips whether the body
be Dr. King’s or some wet behind the ears
18-year-old fresh out of boot and blown to bits
in Iraq, Afghanistan, wherever we’re making war this week.

And when some Verizon big shot
thought he could get away
with turning someone’s deceased
son/daughter, mother/father, sister/brother
into a tool for negotiation

Your fellow Americans spoke back
in one and many voices
“We will simply not pay; We swear won’t see a cent.”

We will picket your stores.
Tell others not to enter.
We won’t buy your upgrades.
We’ll find new providers.
You’re stock will fall.

And if you really want our money,
you’re going to have to come and jail us all
from 91 year old World War I vet to the single mom
to me, complete with electric wheelchair that only moves when I tell it to
or when several uniformed officers attempt to move it’s500 pound, plus me, mass
with the gears still engaged.

But you’ve come to your senses-
rescinded offensive demands-
and the union’ called off this picket line
having more faith than I do that you’ll keep your word
to bargain in good faith.

But don’t think we won’t be watching
and won’t be back next time.

Rhymes of Solicitude

Disembodied voice reads me Brave New World.
It sounds like Kyle, or Darvit, or Jenny- the computer voices
reminding me of long lost friends.

After the near disaster
of mailing books to Texas
so they can be at The Abilities Expo
I can’t afford to attend.

I feel like a parent sending a child off to college,
unsure what will happen.

I also realize
that I- again- will
not finish the Summer Reading challenge,
another failure.

This Day…

(a postcard poem)

I walked the picket line with a dozen or so
striking Verizon workers, community members, and grad students
today doing “5 times a year” service to others in struggle.

I lifted free weights
and did 120 minutes with the hand fashioned theraband,
too much in retrospect.

I organized my Texas shipment,
and at suggestion included a portrait.

Joy in the Simple

(a postcard poem)

Talking.
Dancing.
Sitting in sun.
Reading a good book.

Remembering that you’ve got good
got your back friends.
Writing a poem in rainbow
just because you felt like it!

Forgotten

(a postcard poem)

This poem slipped
from mind after too
long day, but I recall
duty with mere 18 daily minutes
remaining.

My solitary typing finger
hurries through rough draft words
to make deadline.

I breathe
after finalizing ending couplet.

The Poet's Lament

(postcard poem 8/15)

I’ve kept my rainbow
scraps, awaiting verses,
but I’m too sick to
compose
a pretty poetry postcard today.

I tell myself
it’ll keep.

To Meet the Ghost You Want

(a postcard poem)
inspired by Jennifer Finney Boylan

I long for you as I write the poems,
send them to unknown poets.

I long for voices, familiar and singing
unheard in days, months, years, decades
in some cases.

But I must keep on keeping on
with or without them.

Bending the Arc of the Universe

(a postcard poem)

Assistant reconnects dying desktop
so I can migrate data. I make $43.
Break even, marking a better day than most.
Listen to memoir of trans
woman's childhood, adolescence, adulthood-
self finding era by era .Dare to
wonder if I will ever be that brave in telling
my own story.

Tomorrow, I have a fund raising e-mail to write,
and a Verizon to picket as part of partnership
with Jobs with Justice.
I take my “I'll be there five times a year”
in service to justice very seriously;
After all, I've called on that network
more than a few times myself.

My plans are a chagrin to my layabout assistant
who wants to nothing more than lay about on a Sunday morning.
But she knows that giving up a chance
to give corporate big wigs what for
is never on going to be on my agenda
and opts not to argue the point.

A Trio of Couplets Inspired by Brave New World

(a postcard poem)

Twin embryos gently rocking,
inarticulate articulation.
We stamp,
beat our dozen into one.
Her eyebrow mocks.
Odd, odd, odd was her verdict.

In Praise Of

(a poem for the Northeast Organic Farming Association)

All People who know
that livestock aren’t units,
that everyone deserves real food
whatever their income level,
that the revolutionary and the farmer
are more kindred spirits than enemies.

On this annual weekend,
let us rejoice, bond, network
to the consternation of those
who would rather us do anything but.

Thoughts

(a postcard poem)

Colorful scraps of paper
beckon me to compose poetry
on them, but I know I can
not write clearly enough
to do that. Handwriting
isn’t my strong suit,
due my neurological impairment,
but one can dream!
Perhaps my assistants can
help me achieve this odd, sudden
goal…

Offended

(a postcard poem)

I’m used to people
who dare assume I can’t
order food from a restaurant
without help to read the menu
or I spread each day staring
at daytime TV and drooling.

But when a fellow writer
implied that I was lying
about hurting my back while dancing
I was driven almost too angry tears,
because the implication was that,
of course, disabled people don’t exercise
or move for anything other than function.

I opt to poor my anger
out into a poetry postcard poem
instead of confronting the rude writer.

Insominia

(postcard poem)

I never sleep 8 hours unless I’m ill;
wish I could but this spastic, medicated body
always needs to pee, to be repositioned...
The million miles per hour poet’s brain sometimes
rebukes descent into dream land, preferring to stay up crafting verses.

Six is my average, 4 my doable, anything less
and I’m a mountain lion (just ask my assistants).
Yesterday, I pulled barely three.

I pee twice, reposition once
play video games on my new phone.
Finally finish my challenge book,
although it doesn’t, as I hoped,
send me back to sleep.

At 8:07,
when morning assistant arrives
I opt to get out of bed…
hoping to return to it
until at least 10pm
and finally sleep.

Today...

(a postcard poem)

computer consult…
call to mom…
poetry lesson…
writing group- aborted
because of various of computer
and etiquette concerns…
new phone…
and now a poem on a postcard!

Itch Cream

(a postcard poem)

After itching for four days,
non-stop, I finally decide
that my misery merits a call
to the doctor on call line.

He orders me
a new, prescription strength cream.
The one I have is 8 years old, after all.

After applying,
I breathe a well-deserved
sigh of relief
and plan my grocery shopping trip.

Strolling

(a postcard poem)

A library walk
in the early afternoon
leads me past a man (I assume)
lying on the stone wall,
the warm sun catches him
full on the body
in a position I can never attain,
bicycle at his side.


When I roll back,
I find him crying-
and here I suspect
I misgendered him-
shirt off.

I wonder
what’s going on.

Civil Disobedience

(a postcard poem)

Today’s trip to the post office
is joyless. I must
send our lawyer
copies of documents the government
somehow doesn’t have.

All I did
was stand up
for friends, for self,
even though I only stand up
to pee approximately 6-8
times per day.

And I know,
without even asking,
I will do it again, again, again
until something, permanent, changes.

But at least, at the same time,
I can mail this postcard.

Eating

(a postcard poem)

I need to get to farmer’s market soon
or my vow to eat
t only ethically raised and slaughtered
livestock shall yield to my inner carnivore’s
desires for flesh now.

Today, if anyone on the town green sells meat
or Saturday in Amherst (where I might go
to see her anyway if we can get it all ironed out),
or as a last resort, Tuesday before dance
at the gym.

Soon,
I’ll consume a pair of boiled eggs
and the last of my edamame salad,
because it’s time to consume and I don’t
want anything to spoil. Such waste
disrespects the starving.

Doctors and Dancing

(a postcard poem)

Woman on a quest to:
find people.
complete things,
catch up
after lazy/ill/ do nothing much
day that yesterday became.

Today,
I also ache for rest,
but take none,
accept for occasional,
stolen cat nap in van,
as I scurry
from appointment to appointment.

Sick Day

(a postcard poem)

I had a quiet day,
reading under the big tree.

I paid my the library fines
and
got back into literary good graces.

I play with spacing. I like this piece;
I think it’s going somewhere,
even though that where’s
unbeknowst to me.

First of the Month

(a postcard poem)

A trio of bills-
payments to Verizon,
the three day Novel Contest,
and one more payment
toward a too long held debt.

We needed rain
and are getting it
in swift buckets.

I hope it stops,
so I can prowl Northampton
in search of postcards
and a new phone.