OLD POETS NEVER DIE

Today I went through some boxes of miscellaneous items I had assumed was simply junk to throw away. But what I found was poetry I'd written through the years. Some were penned when I was in high school, and the rest later on after we began moving around. Stuff written when we moved to Cedar Rapids, IA, more poems I'd written in Omaha, NE, then Sioux City IA and Kalamazoo, MI. Lots and lots of fairly decent poetry, some I'd forgotten through the years. Some I'd submitted to magazines and newspapers, some actually accepted for publication in poetry journals, and also several one- & two-act plays I'd submitted to local playhouses (and letters from the directors).

I probably inherited this special talent from my dad's side of the family--my aunts on that side were poets and artists who painted with oils, whereas, I had never experimented with oils, but instead chose pencil, charcoal, oil pastels and watercolors.

So today I read through all those old poems and ended up wondering what would happen to them after I'm gone. I suspect they'll be dumped, because if nobody complimented me on all that work while I was alive, why would anyone suddenly care when I'm no longer here to enjoy a few words of praise for writing such a mountain of work . . . and that doesn't even include the enormous amount of research I did for several novels. I did not leave any stone unturned to find the information I needed to write a Great Depression historical novel and three Arctic novels (two for children, and one historical novel for young adults/grownups).

So I'm sitting here thinking, "What the hell? All that important work for nothing?" I even created my own cover art for most of those books, plus formatted, edited, and proofread them, then published all but one myself. (The first one was traditionally published.)

It's sad to think some of my family will just not give a shit how hard I worked and how much I taught myself about writing and publishing.

My dad would've been proud of me. His sisters (my aunts) would've been proud of me. And I'm proud of myself for what I accomplished. My paternal grandmother had been an artist whose comic strips were published in her local newspaper. I was delighted to discover a couple of those in a box of photos and other items I inherited from my ancestors.

Well, that's enough whining. People will do whatever they want. But I hope they'll know those words were written from my heart.

Have a great year, folks!

Namaste!

JUST A CRAPPY POEM

 

THE DAY MAMA WENT TO POT

It always starts on Monday.

Let me tell you what this means.

She’s really in a hurry.

Was it the sauerkraut or the beans?

She sets her mind in that direction,

knows it’s nothing or it’s all.

But the minute that decision’s made,

she hears the door close in the hall.

She stands in twisted torment,

and tears began to flow.

And by the time the bathroom’s empty,

she doesn’t have to go.

It’s like that every morning,

and if you’re good at math,

you can figure out that Thursday

is when grandpa takes his bath.

She hears the water running,

hears him splashing in the tub.

An hour or so goes by—

it isn’t long—but here’s the rub:

she hears her innards grumbling

and sweat begins to flow.

But when at last he’s finished,

she doesn’t have to go.

It won’t come out at noon,

and it won’t come out all day.

But she always has to go again

when the kids go out to play.

Now’s the chance to go ahead

and try to get it done.

She locks the door then suddenly

everybody’s on the run.

But she tenses up her muscles

while in her heart she knows

she’s really put it off too long.

Now it’s hard for her to go.

She sits in perfect misery

and listens to the roar

of every family member

as they try to budge the door.

She doesn’t know what makes them guess—

can they really read her mind?

They’ll be six houses down the road

when someone yells,

“Come on gang . . . it’s time!”

Now Mama’s getting nervous

and she begins to moan

as someone hollers through the door,

“You’re wanted on the phone!”

But as she lives and breathes,

there always comes a day

when she tries but really can’t—

the urge has gone away.

Will she have to take a physic

or maybe drink some juice?

It’ll take a stick of dynamite

to blast the critter loose!

~~~

Long after everyone

has slumbered off to sleep,

Mama gets up silently—

an appointment she must keep.

She tiptoes to the bathroom—

no one must ever know

that in the quiet of the night,

she thinks that she can go!

So she sits in queenly splendor

with a smile upon her face.

It’s only then she notices . . .

there’s not a piece of paper in the place!

 

By Bonnie Turner

Independence, Missouri, 1970