It’s versing to surrender, I must say.
To the eccentric, wacky willful stage.
Bag Lady, cats and hats – but not the gray!
Alas, this flailing, flaunting facing age!
I’ll rummage in my closet for some beads.
You know the sort, from Hippie Dippy times -
And casting off expectant looks and deeds,
Instead – I’m woman, hear me roaring rhymes!
I love the thought; it’s freedom I would get.
But no, I may not find myself there yet.
* * *
My recent days and nights, a blur of words -
And pleasant moments, too, that lighten limbs;
But workaholic habits? For the birds!
(Big Bird, you say? Fall prey to budget whims? )
Nay I prefer to think of wings that spread -
Our own, for good (and fun), if we may dare.
Perhaps I’ll frizz and paint my locks bright red?
(Hot shoes are non-negotiable; not hair.)
When I resort to couplets in the breeze
You know the brain is mush, the eyes a blur -
As rhyme pours forth (some writer’s rag disease),
Would that I were cured by java stir.
I long for a community of gals -
A mix of writers, thinkers, real world pals.
* * *
‘Tis so, I conjure images of friends,
My Carrie, Charlotte, Sam, Miranda, too -
That is the sort imagined, as life bends
us to our tears, our years – evolving brew,
With women there to hold each other tight
Through triumphs, worries, clawing back again,
Our reach for strength in joy or fear, our fight -
Realizing we will feel it all, it’s when
We never know, and that’s the trick to this -
The juggling, loving, striving, asking “how?”
Of course we want adventure, meaning, bliss -
Could crazy hair and plumes bring freedom now?
Those nights for counting sheep? I still say no.
Instead I cling to dreams I can’t let go.
* * *
Oh hours, too short! The work yet to be done!
It fills my days with voices, they give back -
Yet I had hoped by now my battles won,
And sweet desires at last would be on track.
Instead I hold my tongue – and don’t – I write,
Accepting life and change; there is no “free” -
Our times for better, times for worse in sight -
Deranged? Not quite. Regrouping – more “to be.”
I mourn and also celebrate this “me,”
Emergent into “us” – can you not see?