Jealous Much

Oh too much this green-eyed monster
I was born with... right next to me in
My DNA... spiraling out of control -
out of the double helix-ness of it all.

They are this and I want it.
They are that and I want it too.
They draw attention away from
What I want attention from -
Who do they think they are?
That's for me - I thought... wrong again!
UGH! This makes me turn a hue of
CONFUSED and ENRAGED!!

Who do I think I am that I get this
INFLATED sense of entitlement?

Nothing is owed me - I am and have
Been a has been and yet I'm still blessed.

I wanna be a wanna be like the others of
Whom I am so jealous...

Those green-eyes need some contact lenses of
A different color so I can stop seeing red.

Love

I hesitate to do this...
A love poem.

How cliche, and trite and lame.

Who cares about love.
I'm down on love!
It's stupid... Love and love poems.

All those butterflies trying to thrive off
The pollen of emotions in your stomach
When you see their smile or hear their laugh

The gooseflesh when they brush pass even if
They don't know you exist - their existence makes
You feel more alive      more       more
Extra alert to everyone else being filled with life
Life becoming 5-D and then they say your name and
Your head almost explodes and everything is magnified
You think you can walk on water and in the clouds and
Talk to animals because you're that in touch with the Universe -

The Universal feeling and craziness that is love.

Ain't that a hoot!?

Knock Down, Drag Out, FIGHT!

Keep going
G      o         i          n          g

Keep running
R      u        n         n         i        n       g

Keep your chin up
S      m        i          l        e


Challenges can knock you down

They are the glue that makes you you

And they create a person with a backbone of steel and resolve

Be resolved to get up when you're knocked around and down and

Fight
      
           F          I         G          H           T            

                      F             I              G             H                T!

More Drama 4 Yer Mama!

Front and center, center stage
Downstage center -
HIT YOUR MARK!
ANNUNCIATE!
PROJECT!
The blue-hairs in the back
GOTTA HEAR YOU!

And curtain
And remember your cues and
Pick up the pace and
Stop letting semis drive through
Your pauses - pausing in the
Spot light to wonder and figure
And question your motives;
What is your motivation to
Take the stage, to take on
Something else that pushes you
In the direction of more rejection.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!
This isn't right and that isn't right and
You're just not right for the part.

Which part? The part called my life?
I struggle to be directed and be told
What to do, with my life - hit your mark,
Communicate, BREATHE life into that
Character - that character is me!
I need this, I want this, I want this -
I need this like a bullet in my head OR
A winning lottery ticket?

Hurry up and wait and wait and wait and
Put it off to do for others... and others do
It to you and your mind and your heart goes
Through the rigors of mortis of not following
Your dreams and deeming yourself a failure.

No more - I will move in the direction of
My dreams, even though they have been
Quite nightmarish - and succeed at being that
Character only I know - me, fully, truly,
Authentically me - front and center, center stage,
Downstage center in my life...

And scene.

NEXT!

Thee One

Frogs are fun. They bounce and belch without apology.
They can. It's what they are and what they are allowed to do.
You, however, are not created in a floating clump of frog spawn.
You, therefore, have no excuse for following their suit and
Jumping around like a complete idiot savant without regard
For your species: Homo Sapien. Stop wading in that pond.
You're a grown frog now. Leap out and try some other Lily's pad.

I have kissed some frogs and nary a prince was unveiled by
the broken magic spell.
I haven't a stomach anymore for watching frog legs hop away
Untransformed by my demure-ity.

Maybe it is fatalistic to think there is a
"The One" out there for me.
Crap, I think I killed that frog in the sandbox
on the playground in kindergarten.

Luisa Esperanza

You could have been a boy,

I believed you were to be a girl.

You would have had eyes

Like an amber sunrise and hair

Like coffee colored curly

Shredded silk sheets on

Which you were conceived

In vain... and yet you will

Forever run deep in my veins

Even though I never saw your face and

You never felt the sun upon it -

You live forever in the

Splendor of God's heavenly sunshine.

Luisa Esperanza - hope in your name -

I hoped to name you, and still I only

Feel the pain from the minute it took to

Extract you from your resting place...

I am ashamed. I played a game with your life,

The game was lost, and so am I without

Your laughter lived outside my vivid memory

Of getting what I deserved and feel

I no longer do - you.

Dumped in Dachau*

At birth we are given a number
It is social... but whether we turn out that
Way is a whole different barrel of
Concentration Camp clothing.

We learn early on to: line up,
Fall in, fall in line and crazily
Fall in love... with another number
Of potential numbers.

IQ of 56 not a good match.
IQ of 144 maybe too much...
Average these two and you have
100 - and this is what we want -

From each other: 100% of each others'
Hearts, minds, souls - everything.
We don't want to know where we end and
You begin - we want what Aristotle said,

"...a single soul inhabiting two bodies."
When ripped apart a gaping hole where
The other used to be - a siamese twin
Removed, not surgically - but cruelly.

Without regard, as much to the surroundings...
She became a number expunged from the heart,
Crudely tattooed on the arm - a blight, a reminder,
Of what couldn't be and didn't survive the ride

On the boxcar that slowly rushed to the furnaces of
Inhumanity - left to walk the stony path, alone,
Hearing the crunch beneath her feet mimic the sound of
Her breaking heart after being dumped in Dachau.

The House that Amy Winehouse Built

"All addicts, regardless of the substance or their social status share a consistent and obvious symptom; they're not quite present when you talk to them. They communicate to you through a barely discernible but un-ignorable veil. Whether a homeless smack head troubling you for 50p for a cup of tea or a coked-up, pinstriped exec foaming off about his ‘speedboat' there is a toxic aura that prevents connection. They have about them the air of elsewhere, that they're looking through you to somewhere else they'd rather be. And of course they are. The priority of any addict is to anaesthetise the pain of living to ease the passage of the day with some purchased relief...All we can do is adapt the way we view this condition, not as a crime or a romantic affectation but as a disease that will kill." Russell Brand 


"And one that, from all indications, murdered her [Amy Winehouse] art five years before it took her life."Chris Willman


The House that Amy Winehouse Built
She chose and purchased the
Building materials and 
Carefully placed the pieces together 
Just the way she liked...
One crack vile on top of the other.
One tumbler of coke side by side.
One carton of cigarettes a day.
Marijuana as caulk to hold it all in place,
As needed... for the walls.


Once the walls were built and sturdy
She started on the roof to keep out 
The elements of surprise:
Love, honesty and truth.
The materials used were
Vile words spit with vehemence at
Anyone who got too close -
Sarcasm, bitterness, evil looks through
Slit unseeing eyes veiled with absence.
The roof was done and what did she
Forget...


But a door to come and go as she pleased...
Or to let others in - you see, she couldn't see
That people wanted more from her than 
Her talent or fame and so she built a 
House around her to avoid the pain of the
Reality that only drugs seemed to drain
Every ounce of life from her and cause so
Many pain at her permanent absence that 
Began shortly after her addiction had her
In its grip... she purchased false relief and 
Built this house that became her tomb...
Piece by piece and puff after puff and now
She's through building the house that 
Killed her.

How Could I 4 Get?

You turn my face to pizza.
You make my hair freak out.
You make me cry at Hallmark cards, and
often I will sit around and pout.
Sometimes I feel my uterus is
Housing a boa constrictor that is
Trying to kill me from the inside out -
Because of you! How could I 4 get YOU?

Remember when I was 12 and you
Ignored my rotary phone calls for your arrival after
Reading, "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret."
Then you showed up when I was 14 at ballet class -
That was not funny or cute even with a tutu on!

Now 100 years later and you're still announcing
Your imminent arrival with the presence of
A crying fit or your friend the zit -
Yeah, I know crude -much like you!
"Get used to it," we scream at each other.
It's going to be like this until P.M.S. is a
Personal summer reality.

Post Menopause Syndrome will be the only way to
Rid you of your heinous ways - so, really,
How could I forget?

Shake It Off

The latest fitness craze is the
"Shake Weight!" I would like to
Shake the hand of the person who
Invented such a ridiculous trend!
I wish I could use a weight to
Shake off many things including the
Weight of worry and what if -
These Wonder Twins often activate the
Wait before attempting; the not even
Leaping because I've looked too long -
Staring is what becomes of this wait that is
So weighty it staunches the flow of any
Creativity, positivity, or confidence that
Wants to exude faith in the direction of
Being free of the "twins -" just shake it off!
Shake it off! Let it go. Shake, rattle and
Roll with the punches that keep landing on
Your chin and continue to keep it up even in the
Face of adversity and discouragement...
You never know when the seismic activity of
Your core releases the pressure from the
Fault line that was awaiting the shift from the
Displacement of one side with respect to the
Other... respect yourself... and
Shake off anything that hinders this...
Shake it off... make this part of your own
Fitness craze... it is not a ridiculous trend.

That Feeling

How is it that everyday and at my age
I still feel, if not more so, inferior and insecure?
I question everything and brood over everything.
That person likes that person.
Notice how that person ignored me.
Am I coming across as desperate and
That's why people are avoiding me -
I do that! Avoid the contagious plague of
Desperation that says,
"Like me! Validate me! Look at me!"
Where do I turn in these times of
Desperation when God seems to allow them to
Collect a wage from my personal security account?

There's the prettier, younger crowd that gets more
Attention and always has even when I was part of the
Prettier and younger crowd.

There's the cooler, hipster crowd that just has a
Swagger about them that eludes me and continues to
Even as I feverishly pursue it.

There's the nothing-phases-me-because-it-doesn't-matter-
Anyhow crowd - completely escapes my realm of comprehension
To the point of utter disbelief.

Perhaps I just need to join the crowd of missed dreams
On my bed - I am tired and need to rest my weary head.
These feelings are too much to bear and I wish they could
Just be slept off or dredged off like that nasty film over
The pool when it's too hot you don't want to wait to jump
Into - the grossness that that sludge is - but if you don't wait
You are slimed and it clings to everything...

Nasty - that feeling.

Mmm Mmm Good

That tastes right!

Focus...

Ever been told to FOCUS?
Well I have and then I think,
I have extremely perfect vision and
Since I haven't needed glasses except for the
Time when I was 8 and just wanted attention and
Made my mom bring me to the eye doctor and lied about
What I couldn't see... I saw it all... I see everything and I some-
Times think that my focus is too acute - I don't miss a detail and
Often it hampers my ability to move toward whatever is in my sights
Be it a dream or a goal or a friendship or love or that frosted brownie that
Would not be good for my waist line... I am focused, but perhaps too much
On others' opinions - where I give my power away - well, I take it back and I
Want to say FOCUS on this: when you least expect it I will appear on your radar
And you will need to rub your eyes because you won't believe what you are seeing.

Press On

It's gotta be somethin' else... it's gotta be something
Succulent, satisfying, sincere -
There's gotta be a reason to get up in the morning,
To allow the lungs to continue to do their job without
A sob, a gasping for breath, or the eternal questions,
"WHY?" "WHAT IF?" "IF ONLY?" "HOW COME?"

Why not - just try to take a stab - cliche-ly,
You really do only have one life to live after all!

Jump out of that plane - don't be a drain on the psyche
Of those who are sick of your insecurity and self-hate!

It's gotta be something' else... it's gotta be something
Rich, rewarding, restorative -
There's gotta be a reason to get up and get out
To allow the need to be fulfilled instead of
A fearful resignation to the crushing blow of unhappiness
Found on the arid desert of deserted aspirations.

It's gotta be somethin' else... it's gotta be something...

So Jealous

I am feeling like an
Ugly, pimply teenager
Who can't shake the uneasiness
Of being awkward.

I want to break out and shout
I can do what is needed!
I am an incredible being!
But perfection stops me
Since we are not close companions.

I try to please perfection.
We've had many a conversation.
However, it's often one sided:
"You're too fat. You're too ugly.
You're too old. You're hair is not right,
Neither is your skin or the color.
You just don't fit in - in the skin
You were given because it's just too tight."

I need to break out of this trap of
Perfection - it's suffocating me with
Jealousy for all those around me who
Seem to be getting and being the
Me I want to be.

CALL ME CRAZY!

CALL ME! Call me back!
Choose me or I'm gonna crack!
This business of showing
Oneself and one's everything is
The lamest excuse for a career...
BUT it's what I have chosen...
What has chosen me...
I need it like I need air to breathe.
Unfortunately, the respirator
Works so infrequently... but
Seemingly just enough to
Keep me saying,

CALL ME! Call me back!
Choose me or I'm gonna crack!
If I keep showing up and making it
My business will I be able to see
Where it's going or is it just
Suspicion?

I know I have what you need:
A presence, an authenticity.
I need some direction.
Tell me what to do.
I will show up,
Hit my marks and leave -
It's true - but I know I can do it,
Not just for me, for you and
God too... He's the one who
Filled me with this dream,
I think I should see where it goes.

CALL ME CRAZY!!

Dream Deluge

Dreams can come true, so
What if they do?
What will it prove?
Will it delude
Who you are or can
Become after the
Dreams have been realized?

Should these questions be
Answered or will they just
Continue to form like the
Icicles on the porch in winter -
Then melt away on a scorcher of
A day where the heat of
Disappointment bears down like
So many snowballs chucked at
Your face by your older brother
Without mercy?

The Institution of Marriage

Flying high, can't even touch the sky because
I have surpassed it - hurtling through the
Atmosphere I no longer feel my being,
Am I here - do I appear on the radar of
Still existing?

I have done something exhilarating and
Can't even feel the incredibleness of it,
Don't know if I really want to... Naw,
I do - I do - I do - you say it too and
We'll make it a pact that lasts forever.

Be You

Ever felt like you were meant to

Do something with your life then

You went and chased after it 

THEN

You started losing heart and

Wondered, "what is going on?"

Is it just numbness?

Complacency?

The Universe or

God telling you to move on?

Or is it Satan crushing your soul and

Your dreams with his lies of

Inadequacy?

FIGHT; get up and get out and

DO something until the darkness

Satan is trying to shroud you in

Is blown away by your lightness of

Being - who you are meant to be!

Landing Blows

Fear chokes and stokes the

Flames of insecurity to such a high

Degree that whatever approaches

Is melted down into a puddle of

Nothing right before it.

How can the past have such a 

Hold on the present - it goes

Running back to Fear who

Hears its cries for help and

Reignites memories that

Cripple.

How do I trip and fall from

Something that isn't even

Throwing a punch?

Fear, be a dear and get the

Hell outta here - I'm tired

From throwing and not 

Landing the blows that I 

Know will kill your inability to

Paralyze the dreams I am

Pursuing.

Just at the Gate

All of us stallions kicking to go,
To bust out of the gate and
Run at full pace - a smooth,
Rocking gallop under the jockeys
Who have whipped our backs into
Submission, but what lacks is the
Fact that we are the horses - We,
We have the power to throw
Our riders off our backs, over fences
And onto their backs, missing the
Finish line from our pride and
Arrogance: I don't need direction.
Nor do I need the kicks and digs and whips
In my sides to get me to function.
I need a gentle nudge at my muzzle,
An encouraging pat on the haunches,
A carrot - string not attached - fed lovingly.

Then lead us to our starting gates after some
Appreciation, admiration, consideration for
All we have done to make you look good -
Taking the risk of mounting us, as steeds,
Riding us full force on to victory -

That is what we both need.

Fatigues, Not the Clothes*

Uninspired am I - so much from
Exhaustion - I dream of the time
When push comes to shove and
Someone other than me falls.

I am green with bruises like
Army fatigues from my fatigue
That flat trips me and I fall on
My face in the presence of many
Not to my embarrassment

Too tired to care I brush my
Fatigues off and continue to
Stare at the pile that is my life,
The circumstances that befuddle,
And I giggle because I am too
Tired to heartily chortle at

The mess of this outfit that
Calls me to fight: brown, beige
And green polyester and tight
In places that pull my arms to
Their sides, or up in a salute...

I fight for the country that is
My land mine filled mind,
Often detonated by the trip wire
Of previous lives I have collected
Through war torn and ravaged
Shrapnel filled bodies of lies...

I'm sick of the fight that is called this Life...
It fatigues me - I will remove my
Fatigues, wash them on hot,
Hang them to dry in the sun where
Carrion rots - the stench it will
Reach someone who cares and

I will be washed out again, hung up and dried
Until somebody stares at the wreckage and
Sees something salvageable - something
That cries from exhaustion to be fashioned
Into a different uniform and worn without conditions.

A Haven

The face of an angel looked deep
Into mine - taking my hand she
Flew me about - following her lead
I laughed at her innocence, she didn't
Realize there could be malevolence.

Eyes twinkling with wonder, not
A care found in crow's feet, smile of
Amazement not sheepish to meet
The look of bewilderment found on
Such a haggard face, not even forty
Years old.

Could it be for real this
Heavenly encounter? Graced to
Someone who has often and sometimes
Completely faltered... to believe in
What's sweet and ethereal - and yet
Here it was in a 36 inch Haven.

Blond hair, almost not there, curled
Just at the tips - with little rosebud lips,
Pursed in a question... high pitched squeal
Of delight in the simple - I am glad to
Not have missed this divine encounter.

Wishin' and Hopin'

Once upon a time I was a little girl with
Big dreams.
I had a notebook I duct taped and
Carved into the tape the word,
"ASPIRATIONS."

Onto the pages of the notebook
I wrote my aspirations:
To get married and honeymoon
In Antigua, where I taped a picture
Of the swimming hole I daydreamed about
That was in Antigua, complete with
A blissfully content couple floating together -
He on his back, she on his chest - in the
Crystal clear, placid, blue waters while
Flamingoes stood guard at a short distance,
On one leg, amidst elephant ears and
Other exotic flora, admiring the human couple
Coupling in the water that supported them
Like so many dollars in a never emptying bank account.

Hoping and wishing I would one day find myself and
My newlywedded husband in this photo - our reality
Just for a week - while flamingoes flamingoed and
Admired our conviviality.

I'm still wishing and hoping and aspiring for this picture
To be taken with me and my one true love in it.

Now penning poems house my aspirations not a
Picturesque pool, somewhere remote and romantic,
Nor a ranch style casita in the hills where my husband
Carries me over the threshold of our new home.

Words, words, words - Hamlet said and they
Say so much even in the one:
"ASPIRATIONS."

Moving

Moving forward using all my breath -
This is a great line from one of my favorite
80's song. It punctuates how I feel and
Deal with life as of late...

Moving forward using all my breath -
I find things difficult to cope with at best.
I want to be amazing and be amazed, but
Half the time I am just dazed and
Confused by the reality of my reality.

Moving forward using -
Using the time to remember
Painful memories that I wish
I could reconcile by just breathing.

Moving forward using -
All my energy to not curl up
Into a ball of sadness and fear
Where I disappear into effortlessness.

Moving forward -
I begin to see there is light at the end of
The proverbial, trite, cliche tunnel and
That I can be me without gimmicks.

Moving forward -
I move without regards to lying because
I lay about lying to myself that everything
Will be all right - it can't be.

Moving -
In my bed, writhing to the rhythm of the
Beating in my head... it chafes the forgotten
Memories that once laid dead.

Moving -
It is better than not moving at all.
I tell my feet to do something too, like,
Moving forward
Using
All my breath.

Big Brother's Birthday

Dear Big Brother:
Happy birthday to you!
I hope it's a good one and you can still chew.
Since your birthday should have foods
That you like; it makes such a difference if
You can not quite bite.

Here's Mom's hot water chocolate cake,
Spaghetti and meat-tuh-balls,
Garlic bread with extra butter and
Tums for all y'all!

Sorry there's no present from me to
Uh you - I couldn't find a thug
To take you down town and
Give you a slug the way you beat me
All over the family rug the way that
Only you could do with your
Mean words and toothpicks and
Stinky ol' breath - I guess I am
Glad I'm not there, I confess.

Happy birthday to ya'!
Happy birthday,
Happy birthday to ya' Shaggy!
I hopes it's real great.

July 5th is DEAF, like Def Jam

I'm gonna let it out
Just scream and shout!
Can you hear or are you
Too near the speakers
Of your own thoughts
That dominate your
Prefrontal cortex to
Listen to anyone else?

What good would this do?
Vomiting nothing onto the
Arena of someone's thoughts
When they're not even looking,
Listening, hearing, or feeling?
Feel that? It stings being ignored
Or just dinged like a bumper,
How droll life and folks can be.

If you weren't so smug I would
Tell you a secret - from the top
Of my lungs - so loudly stated
You couldn't ignore it - bursting
From depths only Leviathan has swum,
Yet here it goes -
HEAR
It
Goes -
Goes out from my being and
Into the world, cannot be retracted
Since it is unfurled without abandon
To a deaf audience.

4th of July

It's so exciting to fly above and
Look down on all the love that
Seems to happen in a spark of a match
When held to the end of a firecrack!

Boom! Hiss! Bang! WWAAAZZOOOOO!
What a to do when it's a kazoo of a frenzy!
Sparklers, M-80s, Roman Candles, and
Cherry Bombs - light up the night with such aplomb.

This is for freedom. This is for free.
We give it away like it's nothing to see.
But what have you got when it's all that you have?
Just some crummy memories in a field with a hag.

Don't forget to look up - you're always so busy
Looking down and around for something
Better - it won't be found on the ground.
Look up! See! It's amazing, such light.

They may only be momentary, but they provide
A magnificent sight of faces filled with excitement
In flashes from what ignites in front of them -
Blips and bursts, so bright!

Let's hope our freedom isn't this quick.
4th of July; what does it do for you?
Just provide BBQ, beer pong or Mountain Dew?
Or is it a reminder of how we aren't really free?

Freedom comes at a cost - which we didn't even see.
Doesn't come in fireworks, or in BBQ, or the "p" in pool -
It comes from our hearts and is subtle and clean like
The living we do when we are truly free just to be.

July 3rd*

Inspired by, "Twas the Night Before Christmas."

Twas the day before the 4th when all through the streets

Not a child was sleeping, not even the thiefs.

The Sparklers were packaged and waiting to burn,

In hopes that Roman Candles would soon take their turn.

The children were awaiting all gathered around,

While visions of trailers in their eyes did abound.

And Mama with her lighter, and I with a firecrack,

Had just turned around to avoid the KER-SMACK!

When out on the court there arose such a matter,

I sprinted from the curb to see Ralf DePitatter.

Away to the hospital he flew in the *'blance,

Because of some shrapnel I saw from a glance.

The *'blance on the street of this hot July night,

Gave the crowd gathered 'round a miniature fright.

When, what to our collective eyes did surprise,

But a part of Ralf's finger found covered with flies.

With him tucked away in the back of the truck,

We all kind of knew that he was quite outta luck.

More speedy than Gonzales did that rig sail away,

And it had to to avoid Ralf's shock and dismay.

"Now, lay down! Now, breathe this! Keep open your eyes!

Drive faster! Drive faster! Or else this guy dies!

To the ER! To triage! To Xray; Let's go!

Now ice this and ice that! Hurry; not slow!

As fat kids to cake make a demonstrative bee-line,

The doctors' with Ralf's blood seemed totally fine.

So up on the gurney they worked on his body,

With paddles and gauze and no one was haughty.

And then, in an instant, we heard on the phone

The doctor declare that Ralf lost some bone.

As we drew in our breath and looked to and fro',

His Mama sat back as the fireworks were aglow.

Ralf was all bandaged from his head to his toes,

And his right hand was missing feeling his nose.

He looked down and saw it's 'cause he lacked,

Part of his pointer finger, his hand was all blacked.

His eyes - how they bugged out! His tears - did they shed!

His cheeks were all ruddy while he laid in the bed.

His nurse dabbed his forehead with a cold iced compress,

Basically because he would be unable to dress.

The stumps of his fingers he stared at with horror,

As the numbness he felt made him pray for a restorer.

He once was good looking much like a movie star,

But after the scarring he'll likely hide in his car.

He was confident with swagger and tall to boot,

We all had our wishes that he'd think us cute.

A blast of an M-80 turned him to a groaner,

Soon we were wondering if he'd be a loner.

He spoke not a sound, but went straight to his room,

And turned on the light, where he found an old broom.

And grabbing the stick with his working left hand,

He played air guitar and created a band.

He sprang to the window and looked down on us,

Could there be a better time to create such a fuss?

He lifted the pane and leaned out and said,

"Happy 4th of July! I'm glad I'm not dead!"

*'blance = ambulance

Freedom

Because you walked here first and
Left us land - because you shed
Your blood and stood up to the Man
We thank you - I thank you for this.

Freedom is not free - you took the fall
For me and went to the tree hanging
All your dignity, left whipping in the wind
Blowing all around - it hit some square
In the face - how can we continue to frown?

July you remind us of what we have:
Heat from the blood, sweat and tears
That were let - forever seeped into the
Ground where we walk and talk and
Forget so easily that what we have is
Nothing of our own making but something
Given as a sacrifice, selflessly, everyday.

Freedom. It's not free, but it has been freely given
To each and everyone on this soil who take it
Often without a second glance or a simple
Thank you... thank you. I hope we never
Lose you... and don't take you for granted
Because you were not always ours for the having.

Let Freedom Ringa-Ling

Why hello July! Welcome to my summer.
It's the first of your month and quite a bummer
To be locked inside because of monsoon-like weather.
My girls and I would like to go outside to smell the heather,
But, you, Chicago July, have quite different plans:
Wind whipping and ripping roofs off as easy as Spik & Span-
Tough on grease, and greasy men too
Let me out of this jail cell of indoors; I'm kinda blue!
I don't mind the precursors to your violent ways:
The Lightning bugs and thunder claps that just do not play-
However, there are festivals to attend and food to eat -
I need to get out and move my body and wiggle my feet.
July don't you get it? I need the freedom to let mine ring-
Please let freedom ringa-linga-ling without one mosquito sting.