Just Another Dear John Letter

My life is not well ordered,
or perfect like a machine;
nor will it ever be.
That drummer I follow,
don’t worry, you won’t
be able to hear enough
of his beat to follow along.
I choose my passions with heart, not greed,
and pursue them like the wind
chases a tumbleweed.
And no, that’s not catching either.
Perfection is in the eye
of the clichéd beholder,
not a computer file sitting onscreen,
or the holds of a stock market portfolio.
My stretch marks, wrinkles, and all those
imperfections that you find
so simple to abhor
are the map of my life.
Each smile, each laugh,
tear shed, hand held,
and abuse withstood
has helped to create these lines.
My son’s growth gave me
the stretch marks.
My passion and soul for food and wine
gave each extra pound
I carry with pride.
I would not erase these
physical souvenirs that you
so cavalierly call flaws.

And now, today,
as you’re walking down
your societal “put together” life,
your fingers slide over the keyboard
begging for my cast aside
affection, but,
you’ll never again
taste me
between your fingers or lips.

- PoetEcho (Mary McLaughlin)

(featured in the poetry forum 01.22.09)

Bolivar’s Buoys

Seemingly forgotten,
perhaps self-marooned,
fully surrounded by this tomb
of dirty grey water.
It mimics the swirling colors
the sky held hours ago.
I have heard them say
to boil water before use
over this little radio
that is now the only voice around.
but how, may I ask,
do they expect me to obey?
No magic of spark and light,
no cell feeding liquid
is flowing through
these tangled pipes.
The grill is bent and mangled,
now just one more branch
on the fallen tree.
The meat has gone rancid.
The slimy sheen running
from the doorless freezer
where it now lies
in what was a backyard,
attracts more bugs and rats
than salivating appetite.
Oh, what I would give
for a steaming meal,
steak and baked potato,
vegetable lo mein,
or scrambled eggs and crispy bacon;
hell, even Speghettios served warm in the can.
Anything that could create
a birth of sensation on my tongue.
Over there is a teddy bear missing an eye
just a few minutes ago he floated by.
The brown fur not just dirty and matted,
but half worn away.
Was it the wind or small arms
that rubbed off the new looking fluff?
Over here is a doll
in a red spotted dress,
the petticoat is now ragged
and tinged a grayish green brown.
Her arms are stretched up,
the missing blue eyes open
staring blankly away.
Is she waiting for the child
She once comforted?
The child who is now
who knows where—
San Antonio, Austin, Dallas,
washed out to sea?
I’m still here too,
on my 3 piece plywood seat
8 feet in the air.
Stuck on the skeleton of some sort of building.
Nothing looks the same.
I wait and I wait for that buzzing sound
to come from a distance
but all I hear are the bees and mosquitos
sharing this stale destructed air.

- PoetEcho (Mary McLaughlin)

(added 01.22.09)

For Grayson

My son is a blue and yellow zebra running
over this paved landscape.
He stares at the sparkly silver trash
tossed away in the street,
finding beauty in waste.
He struts through the beige shag carpet
as if it was the Streets of Laredo.
He is in the midst of bitter years,
still a child yet yearning to be grown up.
(He does not yet realize.)
The Globe Theatre could be his stage,
he has an understanding of the ages,
Shakespeare, Poe, Silverstein, Kerouac, Seuss…
he has read or heard them all, and finds
them all equally valuable.
He is loud as symbols,
and quiet as padded mouse feet.
His eyes are equally full of star and tear.
He is Texan, he is alien,
reaching for the things no one can see.
He is a saguaro silhouetted against the sky.

- PoetEcho (Mary McLaughlin)

(added 01.22.09)

Generation X Screen Poem

The Wonder Years
have long since passed.
Those days when mom just said
“Get home for dinner.”
and it was bicycle riding freedom
until the street lamps flashed,
glaring and daring the question
Are you Afraid of the Dark?

We grew up believing
in D&D, The Smurfs, and Thundercats,
G.I. Joe was perpetually
the good guy,
not just the face
of a political agenda.

News of the Challenger
took up residence in our minds,
not just who’s up next on Oprah or Jerry Springer.
The media feeds us lines
only half steeped in fact
True Lies for us all to swallow whole.

Jonathon Larson wrote
his masterpiece in NYC,
me and mine paid Rent in The Heights
right inside Houston,
but it was the same search
for utopic bohemia.

We didn’t dance in an empty studio
thinking that Reality Bites,
but went out On the Road to explore
coffee shops, museums, and books,
reconvening at Fitzgerald’s or Abyss
to discuss our discoveries
over live ska or grunge.

And as My So Called Life
chases some semblance of path,
I feel people’s need to conform
to a 90210 mentality,
while the drama of Melrose Place
seeps through the walls.

We live in a generation
of exhibitions and extremes
displayed in belly rings, meaningless flash tattoos,
and less than 0% body fat.
I miss the days of Punky Brewster
with her personal style and flair,
not worried about what the latest heiress is wearing.
While the most recent Paris Hilton or Britney Spears
breakup – breakdown rules the headlines
of glossy magazines and news feed alike.

We put sexuality out there
like a poker hand,
holding back the cards
just long enough to seem coy,
then lay it all out
spread eagle on the table.
Meet, say hello, then 3…2…1…Contact and fold.

We have forgotten that Family Matters,
feeling instead we have a Full House
with 2 cars and a career.
Step by Step we try to conquer the world,
and I don’t know
If You Can’t Do That on Television
is simply a phrase from the past.
myspace.com contains all our friends,
and Boy Meets World through a screen.

We have watched men older,
then younger, than ourselves
leave to go fight in sand
in a playground game that we can’t
begin to understand.
We have seen towers fall,
and rich protected men dictate war.

If only we could stumble trip back
to the time when we wore lumberjack uniforms
of plaid flannel, unwashed hair,
oversized sweaters, and ripped up jeans.
(Even in the suffocating Houston heat.)
When we believed that our lyrics and words
could change the world
or at least the mind of that yuppie in the next seat.

- PoetEcho (Mary McLaughlin)

(added 12.31.08)

Subtle Glance

Swimming in sounds
Of honeyed sultry jazz.
A possibility remains,
Of you, of me, of we.
Mingling on air
In cigarette smoke
From snubbed out butts,
With remnants of crimson wax
(A perfect curve).
Voices drown yours out.
The seated man beats
A methodical rhythm
On his coconut drums.
The stifling café
Forces containment
Of expression,
An involvement of
Visual contact,
Holding back the flesh.
Where is your mind?
Your eyes give you away,
They stare a few inches
Below my chin.
Sentences later,
I arch my back
To help your view.

- PoetEcho (Mary McLaughlin)

The Blue Saloon

I park amidst
The rows of battered
Pick-up trucks,
My small white Honda
Looking like a lost child.
I walk through the wooden doors
And sit down in the old timer’s
Bar reading Rilke’.
Their eyes are palpable
The foggy stares
Curiously watching
The woman lost
In her world of words.
Youth here is a forgotten folly.
They try to suffocate
The passed years
In Whiskey straight up
And beers.
(Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker,
Lone Star, Bud Light.
None of the new fangled
Fancy crap.)
I can hear them discussing me,
With my black lids
And my beliefs etched
Into my arms.
Here I am like a stubbed toe,
They can’t help
But focus on.
The wound pulsates with an energy
The rest of the appendages have forgotten.
The ancient barkeep,
With a cigarette hanging
On her lips,
Saunters by and refills
My still full glass.
“What are you studyin’ on girl?”
“Rilke’ and Baudelaire,
Modernist poetry” I reply.
“Oh”, she says,
“That’s a really big book”.
Then wanders away to more
Fitting conversation.
Then, from the corner of the bar
A gravelly worn out voice
Begins to quote,
In perfect eloquence,
Kafka, Pound, and Reverdy.
His clouded eyes smile
As he finds the equilibrium of a mug
On the opposite of his palm.
I tell him (quoting Rilke)
“A strange place for a cup:
Balanced on the back of a hand.”
He replies with a quote from Mallarme,
(A wisdom that equals him in age,)
“A throw of the dice
Never will abolish chance.”

- PoetEcho (Mary McLaughlin)

10 Years

You back away from me,
You sidestep me,
Turn the other cheek
Away from me,
Before I have had a chance
To speak.
Why? Because there’s
A bit too much padding
On my stomach or on my hips?
Just quit, I’m tired of it.
Through my mind flows words,
The likes of which you will never hear
From the blonde bimbos
And surgically enhanced clones that
You so continuously lust after,
And follow after,
And close your eyes and pretend
Your hand is.
10 years ago you were at my feet
Wherever they chose to tread,
When my size zero hips swayed by you
Your feet fell into step.
When I was shy, and young,
And covered my words in makeup,
Tight clothes, and your cologne.
When I didn’t know that
How you treated me corresponded
With how much you respected me,
And I didn’t see that while your eyes
And attention were open and searching
Me up and down,
Your ears and mind were closed to me.
And now, 10 years later,
10 years of learning and growing,
And birthing and yearning,
And climbing and falling,
And laughing and hurting,
And choosing:
Choosing to live by my words and mind
Not just my eyes and thighs.
Allowing my thoughts to dictate
What people think of me,
Not just the size and cut of that pair of jeans.
This is the time when you choose
To try and step back into my life?
As you stumble along your
Societal dictated path
You stutter and hesitate,
Not sure how best to take in
This me that you can’t even
Recognize.
You try to say that it’s not the right time,
That it’s better to wait.
But, wait for what?
It’s not the weight that turns you off,
Nor is it my lack of fashion sense
For fads and sexual glances,
It’s intimidation.
You don’t know what to do
With a woman
Who is secure?
With a woman
Who has something to say,
Speaks her mind,
And doesn’t back down?
You choose to run,
Heels to ass
Just as fast as your legs
Will give you flight,
Because you realize
That a woman like this
Might just possess
More balls than you
Could ever have.

- PoetEcho (Mary McLaughlin)