Every once in a while, an easy-peasy poem appears,
an effortlessly written poem,
a ripe poem,
like a full-term baby, an eight pounder with a full head of hair,
and the innate ability to sleep through the night.

After working on poems that are runaway creatures,
fickle-hearted flirts, and unsolvable puzzles,
along comes an easy-breezy poem, full of grace.

Out of respect, other poems ohh and ahh and recuse
themselves.
They know a winner when they see it.

Where do these gift poems come from, and
why don’t they come more often?

My theory is that a rewards program operates
in the universe, allowing a poet to earn a freebee
after a random number of head-banging attempts.

That’s the best I can come up with.

I
It’s not a good idea to use celebrity names or trendy items
in your poetry because two or three hundred years from
now, they will have faded into oblivion and you will
sound dated.
However, you’re safe with Marilyn Monroe and Elvis.

II
Do not feel your youth is a hindrance.
William Cullen Bryan wrote Thanatopsis, a meditation on death,
when he was seventeen. However, the pitfall for precociousness
is a plagiarism charge.

III
“I don’t get it.” is an acceptable response after reading poetry
you don’t understand. There isn’t any need to elaborate.

IV
Avoid writing during the swale of the afternoon or the shank of the
night. You’ll regret it.

V
A few words of caution about writing stream-of-consciousness poetry.

A flow of unfiltered thoughts is like the debris in the wake of a flash
flood: a toaster oven here, a sofa there, a credenza, unresolved conflicts –
all manner of random rubbish cascading down Main Street.

No matter how raw the content, I prefer verse that is edited, well-groomed,
and honed.

I like my literary truth varnished.

VI
Don’t write about your dreams. Your dreams are boring.

The Queen of England has strict rules for female members
of the royal family about the wearing
of nail polish.

Color nail polish is prohibited,
a natural blush polish is acceptable.

The Queen’s preferred nail polish brand is
“Ballet Slippers,” by Esse, a pale pink—
as sheer as chiffon,
as pale as a new moon in June,
as versatile as Rose´ wine.

The Queen’s polish is the epitome of refinement,
understatement, and propriety.

My preferred colored nail polish is RED!
the epitome of glamor, sex, and sophistication.

Not just any red—not an orange-based poppy red—
but a blue-based, deep red, one that ranges
from ruby to garnet.

Red nail polish reminds me of New Year’s Eve and
Champagne toasts, little black dresses, New York
City, bing cherries, and a Merlot-filled wine glass with
a lipstick stain on the rim.

Once, like the Queen, I had a favorite brand of polish.
Of course, it was discontinued. But that’s another poem.

When I run out of my stash, a seductive array of
red polishes awaits me:*

*Actual Names

There it was, an off-white knob and a shaft
nestled into the pelvis, my pelvis

Looking ever so new, smart, and capable,
like a first grader on the first day of school.

Despite its shiny titanium surface and two screws,
it seemed right at home,
a bona fide occupant.

Eventually, bone growth will fill the porous shaft,
and merge like tendrils embracing a Chihuly glass sculpture
at a Botanical garden.

The body, my body, will increasingly claim it
as its very own

And all this goes on beyond my awareness—
the presence, the stability, the healing …

Except when I see it on X-ray.

Dexter, an “emotional support” peacock was banned by an airline.
The following is a translation of Dexter’s response by Horace Birdsong,
a noted ornithologist.

I was actually looking forward
to my maiden flight on an airplane

But I was denied, banned, put on a “no fly” list.

“I was too large,” they said.
“I was too heavy,” they insisted.
“I was not essential for emotional support,” they claimed

It was the latter insult that ruffled my feathers.
I provided scads of emotional support for my owner.
I knew when to coo or be quiet or just look gorgeous.
My owner, an artist, said my beauty thrilled her, fueled her creative spirit.

I’m seeking to appeal the airline’s decision.
I believe I have a strong case.

My needs are minimal: an aisle seat for perching,
a seat belt extender, access to the first class lavatory.

And, contrary to the rumors, I don’t bite.
And I only screech during mating season,
and then, only if I’m truly in love with a peahen.

Alone on a plane, all I want to do is sit back,
relax, and enjoy the view.

Where does your British accent come from?

A little town called St. Albans, home of St. Alban’s
Cathedral. Stephen Hawking went to school there.
And my sister still lives there.
Rinse

I’m a native Chicagoan. St. Albans must be very quaint.

It is. My sister’s thatch-roofed cottage is two-hundred years old.
Rinse

That’s amazing!

But it’s very small. There’s a tiny spiral staircase,
small chairs, mini-kitchen, exposed beams.
People must have been smaller back then.
I’m five foot ten. I can touch the ceiling beams.
They have a piece of furniture they call a sofa–
I call it a love seat.
Rinse

I would fit right in. I’m barely five feet.
Do you miss it? St. Albans?

I get back there. But it’s too small for me.
I like lots of space, the kind of space in the Midwest.
Rinse

I picture elves and fairies there. And an English
Garden, dripping with flowers—roses, wisteria, ivy.

Yes, there’s a beautiful English garden—like a postcard.
But no elves or fairies.
They do have a satellite dish and room on the street for parking.

Please spare me any posthumous awards.

I want pre-humous awards. I don’t give a gold-plated hoot for
belated recognition.

Especially if I’m dead.

If I’m dead, I can’t give an acceptance speech and feign surprise and humility.
I can’t thank:
my parents
my husband and children
Oprah
my aunt Ruth
my fifth-grade teacher, Estelle Purcell
my personal trainer, Ramone

If I’m dead, I can’t plan what to wear to the Awards Dinner
or drink Champagne, or sign autographs, or pose for pictures.

I can’t post the award on Facebook either.

Leave my descendants out of it.

I’m here!—very much alive–and ever so humble.

I
Current theories cite the possibility of an infinite number of universes
making up a multiverse.
Our universe might be just one of countless others.
In mathematical terms, that’s incomprehensible to the umpteenth power.

II
Once it was believed that the earth was at the center and the sun went around it.
Not so.
Other revelations followed:
Our sun is just a medium-sized star;
Our Milky Way Galaxy is just another spiral galaxy, among billions of others,
all sizes and shapes, all consisting of billions of stars.

III
And now, our universe might be just another garden variety universe.
Bubble, alternative, parallel universes abound.
And dozens of Big Bangs, no end of Big Bangs.
“It’s not personal; it’s just science,” said the astrophysicist,
But it is personal.

IV
Call me universe-centric, but I’m attached to this universe, and not
in a clingy way either.
It has local charm, familiar unfathomability.
And don’t forget its contents—all those supernovas, colliding galaxies,
baby stars, black holes—they have to still count for something!
Despite this pending proliferation, I’m still partial. Always will be.
No matter what.

Dear Little Monkey,

Recognizing yourself in a
mirror really isn’t such a big deal.
Even though your researchers work so hard
toward this end.

Lately, I hardly recognize myself.
Especially in the morning,
Especially before I’ve had my coffee.

And I feel it’s important to inform you
It’s not really you in the mirror.
It’s a virtual you, a reflection,
simply light bouncing off a plane.

And a warning: don’t get too enamored with
your mirror image,
You could end up like Narcissus who
had a personality disorder named after him.

I have more startling news.

Once you learn to recognize your image in a mirror,
that reflection will change—imperceptibly, but
inevitably.

One day, a handsome, stud monkey appears in
the looking glass
A bunch of years later, an elder statesman.

Here’s a tip:
A mature monkey should not try to look like a
teenage monkey.
It’s a futile enterprise and tacky as well.

So don’t overdo the looking or the grooming.

Just be happy being the monkey you are, which
has little to do with your reflection in the mirror.

“HOW WAS YOUR TRIP?”
“WHAT?”
“HOW’S THE FAMILY?”
“CAN’T HEAR YOU.”
“HOW’S YOUR OVEN-FIRED PSFFFF?”
“GREAT! HOW’S YOUR CWTCH?”

We’re at a trendy restaurant.

The latest in upscale Industrial Rustic

High ceilings
Concrete, tile, and metal surfaces
(Napkins, the only shred of texture)
Loud music
Each and every sound bouncing, echoing,
and reverberating like dozens of ball bearings
in a pin ball machine,

Producing an acoustical din of such high volume,
such extreme decibels that

Drinking glasses spontaneously shatter
Servers wear industrial-strength ear plugs
Neighboring dogs howl

And

All conversation is rendered hopeless.