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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.