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.