The woman with the most elegant home,
Wins an all-paid vacation to the city of Rome.
And the mother who births the smartest babies,
Gets a brand-new, red, convertible Mercedes.
And the woman who chants, “I’m so busy” the most,
Gains the respect of all, on account of her boast.
So for goodness sake, I hope you’re keeping score,
Cause if there ain’t no prizes, then what’s it all for?
“Why are you so quiet?”
A coworker asked the other day.
“Talking is easy, just try it!
Do you really have nothing to say?”
“I’m sorry my silence offends you,”
I carefully replied,
“But you see, I’ve work to do,
And my mind is occupied.”
“Here, here,” my nemesis cried,
“That’s no reason for restraint.
Look at Betsy, Susan, Clyde,
They greet me without complaint.”
“Is this only a matter of greeting?
Why, I said hello just last week.”
(Sadly, for some it bears repeating.
I forget this, hence her critique.)
She continued our conversation,
Claimed it the most we talked since we met.
“It’s liable to cause a sensation,”
She said, “I’ll surely win the office bet.”
I did not like the sound of that,
Though I knew it was just a tease.
I tried again: “No time to chat,
I’ll return to my desk, if you please.”
Did she listen? Of course not, they never do,
These garrulous acquaintances we soon regret.
She spoke of shopping, shoes, the weather,
Or maybe it was her health, I forget.
The fact is, I’m with her still,
If it weren’t so tragic, I might laugh.
But as I’ll die here, I’ll write my will,
At last, it’s quiet, my epitaph.
Don’t remember what happened when we last left our alter egos? Don’t worry, it’s not important. But if you insist, here’s Part 3. (Don’t say we didn’t warn you.)
Writer: (walks into room, followed by Editor) I’m telling you, I think we hurt her feelings. We need to apologize.
Editor: And I keep telling you, she’s a grown woman. I’m sure she’s long gotten over it by now. Besides, it’s not like we did anything too terrible.
Writer: No, of course not. We only bound her and gagged her and stole her cake.
Editor: Well, sure. If you put it like that.
Writer: It’s so weird having her gone this long. Usually it’s only a day or two, like when she’s researching a lead or tracking down facts for me. We must have really pissed her off.
Editor: Pshaw. She’s fine. Don’t worry about it.
Writer: I can’t help it. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat… I’m becoming a nervous wreck.
Editor: You should do what I do. Suppress your emotions and pretend everything is fine.
Writer: Really? You think so? Continue reading “Welcome to My Existential Crisis, Episode 4”
My quest for poetry has led me to some interesting resources. One of them being a podcast from The New Yorker, where real, live poets read the works of other poets. 
Live!
Care for a listen? Click here.
It’s a nice thing to have on while cooking dinner, let me tell you. Sort of like having a couple of good friends over to chat about life and beauty and love, while you chop peppers and onions.
The other day Billy Collins was over, and he mentioned something William Matthews said. I was so blown away by it, I backed it up three times so I could hear it again.
Then I wrote it down, because I’m sure Billy was getting tired of repeating it: Continue reading “The Joy of Editing. Wait… What?”
The Family Book of Best Loved Poems. Tattered and stained, yellowed pages, glorious old book smell. Wow, the memories it contains…
On Monday, I sent out a request for poetry suggestions. As of now I have 2 journals, 22 poets, and a number of online resources to explore.
You don’t leave a girl hanging, do you? Consider this my personal thank-you, as well as my pledge to do you proud.
One comment (left by Claudette from To Search and to Find) mentioned her 
fondness for silly, humorous stuff, reminding me of my dad’s favorite poems.
Dad had a fondness for silly rhymes too, and he would recite them often.
For one, he had a bit of help from Longfellow: Continue reading “A Poetry Lover is Born”
Do you have any poetry suggestions for me?
Reason being, I came across this cool article about fostering your creativity. It included this graphic, based on Ray Bradbury’s diet for feeding his subconscious:
What’s good enough for Ray Bradbury is more than good enough for me, but my bookshelf is suffering a severe famine in the poetry department. (I live in great fear of the bad stuff.)
Who are your favorite poets?
Perhaps you know of the poem by William Carlos Williams:
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
Charming, yes?
However with all due respect to William Carlos Williams, I think the sight of a grown man with a little red wagon may be more charming. Look upon this my friends:
I spied you in the phone store,
Cradled in your cubby, attached by a cord,
Your screen was dark, waiting for more
Than a passing glance or a mumbled word.
For a part time clerk, seeking a sale,
Shows the popular model, the better known brand,
I checked your features, my skin grew pale,
I held you aloft, I took you in hand,
Cool to my touch, you were eager to please,
Never have I selected a phone with such ease.
Continue reading “Ode to My Cell Phone … With Apologies to Keats”
