This is what I did yesterday, on a gorgeous, truly incredible early-autumn day here in New England. I am honored to have participated in Meat For Tea Presents 100,000 Poets and Musicians for Change at Art in the Orchard right here in our town.This event was part of a global happening, One Hundred Thousand Poets For Change.
Always, the kitchen--crafted in oak,bluestone & pewter--command central,veritable heart ‘n soul,where it all went down.Wide floorboardssoftened by generationsof slipperspacing rag rugs, wordschosen with precisionto make a case.Whither she goestor won’t she, will theysay yes or no?The same kitchen,same desires, worries,wonderings & wanderings.All of which argue in favorof just curling up by the fire.
Mrs. James Ward Thorne (American, 1882-1966)
Massachusetts Living Room and Kitchen, 1675-1700from Art Institute of Chicago, Thorne Miniature Rooms
Gazing outon a nuclear seawitnessingzombie starssnarfing queen-robotstarfish by the pawful,questions come to mind:What have we become?& What are we supposedto do now?Answers evadelike so much smoothed-outflotsamway out beyond the buoyline,or at the murky bottomwith no hope of reclamation,unreachableundiscoverablebeyond reproachor repair.
What is this? Hell if I know, but it’s for Izy’s prompt to the Real Toads: Future Sailors
Our dancing daysseem so long ago & far away,I’d take the moon, any moonor just one star, or surf,bed of leaves, bed of grass--(But all that’s extra.)I wanna see you dance again.
Join the Real Toads in being inspired by the Harvest Moon.
Rooted here,not susceptible to decay,I get to observe human foibles,from petty weaknessesto deep and entrenched faultsresulting in outright heartbreak.Sometimes the view’s a pleasureas men’s choicesare mostly good for a laugh,or occasional shocked dismay--but I’m no weeperand won’t become entwinedin the pain and foolishness of men.I remain evergreen,abundant, your coveted prize.
For Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads: What has become of the old gods?
I’m taking a breakfrom happinessto remind myself of emptiness,the color grey,fields of spent sunflowers,how the overhead lightstays bright all nightin your attached garage,neon Miller sign flickeringlike butterfly kisses,and silence.
Crossing the streetin my stocking feetlucky buttonHOPE ’08presented to me by Fateherself(like you)Your likeness stashedwith my hopeI’ll prick you with my hope pinstraight thru your pillingcrochetedheart.
Words Count with Mama Zen at Real Toads: EIGHT
Get your voodoo dolls at Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo.
A girl’s searing gutdoubles her over, stokingembers of anguish,unrelenting churning burnturns heartache terrifying.
Lolamouse has asked the Real Toads to write poems inspired by her inkblots. She says her analysis of our responses is confidential, ahem.
It’s likewhen you go to see a band& you’re blown awayby the opening actthey transport yougrooving on their ample vibeletting it wash over youwishing their setwould never endYou buy their recordslisten obsessivelylearn all the wordsjoin their fan clubfollow their tourdanceand danceand dancecatch their eyemeet them backstageall the makings of a groupieTime passes& your focus wanesthey’ve changed their soundput out a new recordyou’ve found someone newbut they’re still therelike background musicalways present& comfortablebecause you can tune inwhen you wantbut mostly you don’tUntil suddenlywithout warningthat shit gets turned to 11& unavoidablyyou start tapping your feetthinking aboutgetting back on the busor at least feeling likemaybe you wanna dance again.
Fireblossom suggested the title. The rest is mine.
Believe me, I appreciateyour appreciation of my lil-bit-extra-round-the-middleAs if ads are to be believedscourge of tough belly fat =perceived horror of womanhoodBah! Like the three Graceslet’s circle round & celebratethe full weight we’ve earnedForget ever having learnedto berate ourselves & carryour bad selves on alreadyHate don’t look good on nobody
Peggy has the Real Toads writing about things we carry.