When driven to weep Even quietly Your tormenters come right away To make fun
Among us, poets are ill paid. In order to continue her work, this one currently lives in her minivan, on an income of a fraction of our nation’s poverty level. If her work has moved, enabled or uplifted you, your contribution to this effort may be made at: https://www.gofundme.com/kx4xka-are-you-a-patron-of-the-arts
How is it that a woman shaves her head, Forgets to apply skin cream before bed, And dressed in so much winter clothing goes Her body contours no observer knows, Whom, anyway, in every way appears As having, every one, her sixty years,
Cannot for any purposes be bought In heart, in speech, in body, or in thought Giving no quarter femininity As it’s considered traditionally — Far too enthusiastic and alert To play successfully the languid flirt
As soon as the poet published tonight’s earlier post, “Incredibly. Unbelievably. Amazingly.” the volume of the nightly Cyprus Street trash-trombone serenade reduced itself once again to a less perpetually intrusive level.
Just until he thinks he’s made sure no one’s really listening.
Yes, they took that songbird Shivering defenseless thing And tucked a sharpened thorn Bound up beneath its tender wing And then they starved and beat it To see if it would bring A somewhat sweeter tone When it began in pain to sing