Long Housewife Poems
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I used to be a boss in the cut-throat business world
Until the day I woke and everything I ate I hurled
My belly grew, my energy shrank, so I "simplified" my life
Added two sons, lost bladder control, now I'm a desperate housewife!
It seemed so easy at the time, no tedious nine to five
Cook some meals, clean the house, keep the dears alive
How could I know each'd come out cutting his own cord with a knife?
One look at their red, glowing eyes and I'm a desperate housewife.
I begged my husband to go and have a simple snippy-snip
Did he see the way those spawn of hell caused my flesh to rip?
"C'mon you baby! Get them cut! Just do it for your wife!"
As he fell unconscious to the floor, Crap! I'm a desperate housewife!
I attended groups for house-bound moms hoping for relief
Instead they heard I don't breast feed and gave me lots of grief!
"Cloth diapers and organic foods, extend our planet's life."
Chugged my "water" half filled with gin, 'cuz I'm a desperate housewife!
My story has a happy end, as most such tales you'll hear
I started my own Mommy's group, dues cigarettes and beer.
And when we meet I forget the stress with which my day is rife
And for a night I feel like I'm no more a desperate housewife!
6/11/2016
Shoot To Kill
Life is something
You do not revere
In an instant
The words come clear
Shoot to kill
Of notoriety
You haven't gotten
Quite your fill
The gun in your hands
Gives you an unholy thrill
The pain in your brain
Goes away once you take aim
On your unsuspecting targets
You think of the fame
The glory of your name
If you make this shot
A hardened criminal
You are not
Until you shoot to kill
You aim and squeeze
They don't even have time
To beg or scream please
Your head says engage
In this passionate rage
All remnants of humanity disengage
You think you are just acting
The whole world is your stage
You will be on the news
Make the front page
Your victims had a life
One a young child
Another a new father
The last one a housewife
You don't care
Bullets fly through the air
You feel disconnected
You feel no despair
It won't stop
Until you've had
Your unfortunate share
You don't have to play fair
No rules are there
When you shoot to kill
Inspired by actual events in Ohio 2003
Like the early morning mists
That rise from the waters’ depths
Memories emerge in swirls and twists
Foggy shadows of lives past
Of them all, childhood scenes outlast
‘Membrances of dear, familiar faces and
Fragmented moments of particular places
Emotions retrieved from those distant spaces.
Of my family, I do recall
My mom and dad most of all
For by the time I came along,
My only sibling had grown and gone.
My brother knew our parents when they were in their prime, and then I came, much later in the span of time.
My arrival changed the course of their
Tamed and settled ways,
Eroded away the edges of predictability,
Stirred up the easy flow of their days,
and I’m told,
Challenged everyone’s sensibility.
The truth is likely not so dramatic
Although, we all could be a bit theatric.
My father and uncles sat for hours at our house
Argued and joked, cussed and smoked
Lamented the damnable things politicians do.
Then over cribbage and coffee, they’d list
All the best ways of snagging a fish.
From captured bits of conversation
I suspect, as were others of his generation,
Dad was a “roustabout” in his youthful days
In my recollection, though, he was our defender and a regular “Jack of all Trades.”
With the men around, my
Momma stayed in the background-
Busy always with domestic chores
Cooking, cleaning, laundry and more
Injecting a flair for the lovely into her everyday life,
Seemingly content in her role as housewife.
Doing for others brought her great joy
The fruits of her labor did others enjoy
Surrounded by close friends, My momma did shine
Social activities filled her free time:
Fancy luncheons, music shows, quilting bees, Bible studies and bowling leagues.
Memories can be such hazy things.
Images of loved ones blur with time;
yet, with clarity, through the vapor, I still see
My parents’ hands, worn frail and thin,
Their journey’s trials traced upon their skin
In their touch, though strong from life’s hard labors,
They softly held my babies safely in their arms, and
I knew that love was foremost in their nature.
Like the early morning mists
That rise from the waters’ depths
Memories emerge in swirls and twists
Enveloping me in love and devotion.
I took her in, more mother then friend
now she's in your arms
and my heartaches begins
I'm your women, I'm your wife
I'm the one who shares your life
can she hold you tenderly
even tho you still love me
does she watch you as you sleep
or hold you close when you weep
and if she can do all these things
then I'll take off my wedding ring
can she be your helper
when you need a helping hand
or keep you company
when you just need a friend
a mother to your children
a housewife in your home
can she do all these things
when I'm gone
a cook in your kitchen
a maid in your den
but most of all darling
can she just be a friend
a lover at night
when you hold her tight
a saint by day
when you go away
can she be all that I've been
and if she can, then our love's
come to an end
Another women in your life
not just a women
and not your wife
but if she can be all this
then I'll pack my things
and move on out
but can she love you
the way I do
and can she be the one
that's true
and if she can do
all these things
then I'll give her
our wedding rings....
THIS WAS WRITTEN IN JULY 1 1982
IT WAS WRITTEN AS A SONG.....
Standing there with your glistening hair,
miniskirt tempting all eyes around,
say you’re just going out the unwind
with you friends, hottest club in the town.
Looks can kill and I’m thinking that you
mean to draw every wandering eye,
as if you do not have a man here,
as if you’re on the hunt for a guy.
Don’t play funky with me, girl,
don’t play funky with me,
I got standards too, girl,
that how it’s gotta be.
Don’t play funky with me, girl,
don’t play funky with me,
I know what’s in a ‘girl’s night,’
tou ain’t cheatin’ on me.
Waking on down the street at your side,
we pass a man and you look away,
looks awkward and I come to realize
that both of you have something to say.
You don’t talk much of what went before,
it gets hard to learn much about you,
wearing a mask don’t make it better,
I’d rather built things up on the truth.
Don’t play funky with me, girl,
don’t play funky with me,
I got standards too, girl,
that how it’s gotta be.
Don’t play funky with me, girl,
don’t play funky with me,
everyone has got a past, girl,
so stop lyin’ to me.
You’ve always said you’re liberated,
and gonna go take charge of you life,
land a blow, make sure all the world knows,
never ‘sink’ to being a housewife.
When we pass kids you think I don’t see
the warm glow that comes into your eyes,
yet you insist you’re not into it
when you so want to give it a try.
Don’t play funky with me, girl,
don’t play funky with me,
I got standards too, girl,
that how it’s gotta be.
Don’t play funky with me, girl,
don’t play funky with me,
I know that you want children,
why not have them with me?
Don’t play funky with me, girl,
don’t play funky with me,
I got standards too, girl,
that how it’s gotta be.
Don’t play funky with me, girl,
don’t play funky with me,
we could make a good thing, girl,
if there’s some honesty.
Dilated pupil captures a partner with her submission
Above sadness, eyes sea sunk in upset unquenchable
Desperation lodged in lagoon swims to 2021 surface
Air refilling deflated lungs floats a Goldi locked trophy
Drawn from decaying pages of housewife magazines
Overtly womanly hip to waist ratio cinched on display
Empathy white tidal wave, compassion washes angst
Surrogate heart fed off rise fall arousal bursts buttons
Nostalgia learns Stu's language, sucking word marrow
Omens of history trip a mirrored future, path predicted
Sorrow entangled sheet furrows, wrath burrowed deep
Trauma not lost thru lustful aggressor swamp syphon
Welcome fragrant frail pale spurs a sturdy demeanour
Enveloped open emotions compel his chest responds
Lechery leaves detail aside, abides with blind present
Longing to cast away loneliness, romance sails rough
8th February
Dictated by Wharf air (after warfare)
DADA DOES NOST WELL
Just a poetic (souper) side note courtesy chief
wordsmith brother unaware ye experienced grief
diagnosed as walking pneumonia please bull lief
yours me, he doth care and breathes sigh of relief.
Gratis the miracle of modern medicine wife
of Richard McGeehan, he offered succor
during serious bout when ye suffered strife
lovingly tendering lifelong counterpart
spelling finis regarding any galavanting nightlife
nurturing mother of their grown son (Brendan),
who immersed her whole self as housewife.
How aware ill luck of the draw
found thee inexplicably stricken
with serious malady against the law
nearly necessitating travois
(maneuvered by Kit Carson)
to transport thee to medical center.
The above stanza unbeknownst to you
analogous to current reading material
myopic eyes of mine view
historical fiction titled
"A Most Desperate Situation"
authored by Walter Cooper,
I just might maintain as keepsake
among various and sundry other books
lined up like soldiers upon shelved queue.
Courtesy perusing selective material
not so much to become boastful
self pedagogical ace,
but merely to expand knowledge base,
whereby latest erudition
preoccupies mindscape with displace
called realm of imagination
allowing, enabling, and providing me
to travel into hyperspace
only welcoming family members
like thee dear sister into myspace
a beloved sibling
thirteen plus months older
glad ye got begat December 1st, 1959
whereby ye got fifty two plus weeks headstart
to join (chance throw of genetic dice)
entrance into human race.
Though Amelie Beth Harris-McGeehan born
more than three score and three years ago
if series of unfortunate events would befall thee,
this sole brother would certainly mourn
and with futility emasculate and scorn
himself until... his own plaque
designating his buried cremains
in lieu of tombstone worn.
Disappointed that most of the things
she kept contained
on a daily basis
were far too banal to entertain
memories of sad things
over the years
ho-hum anxieties, insipid fears
rather mundane
and not even interesting
unlikely worries
like being kidnapped by pirates
or eaten by a polar bear-
but worries like her favorite dress
being ruined by the cleaners
and not having anything decent to wear
or getting a bad permanent in her hair
Disgusted by the
blandness
of my Mama's secret life
I flipped and skipped ahead
to after she and Papa wed
but it was no better
just drab descriptions
of her experience as a housewife
and lists of petty irritations
things he did that annoyed her
but she hollered those out
in screams and shouts
so even those were no great surprise
'cause it didn't take much
to 'get a rise' out of my Mama...
Eventually I learned
that people will answer
those questions every day
in the way they live their life
in the things they say
for there's a pattern to everything
and ultimately we each reveal
all we try to conceal
whether in our work or in our play
...and my Mama spoke volumes
in her diary
in all the things she
didn't say
When I look through my porch window my heart skips a beat
Looking at my leather chairs, and getting them home was a feat
Memories of my dad and our wonderful talks we had in those chairs
After he passed, they became mine as I look at them with tears
I think back to our wonderful talks and didn’t know it would our last
The last one in those chairs at his home, now so much time has passed
He was very ill and I did not realize his time was going to be so short
And soon he would be dying and with his choice of no life support
I inherited his leather chairs and then stored them away for several years
I decided to bring them home to my porch, safe from my cat scratching fears
I sometimes catch myself looking at them through my porch door window glass
My heart feels content, then my grief comes back but soon it does pass
I know my dad would be happy to know that I kept his beautiful leather chairs
And for sentimental reasons as he has now been gone over five years
I walk by those chairs several times a day to let my dog outside
And my emotions flip flop from joy to grief that doesn’t subside
My heart is happy to have my wonderful memories of my dad in my life
And our talks about my life, my work troubles and being a housewife
I know he would be proud of my choices and life changes I have made
I just wish God gave us more time together and my dad could have stayed
I will forever cherish my dad’s leather chairs and what they represent
The gift of my dad in my life and all the wonderful years together we spent
Liza B of Yorkshire stock
a tinsmith'a wife
her face bears
travails of life
Lily B orphaned
in a sad manner
commissioned
'neath the army's banner
Violet O born in the great war
father Ernest
she never saw
Anne S unanswered
questions still accrue
the granma
some never knew
Frances L her tragedy
was to unfold
the exact details
remain untold
Annie O granny Mayo,
mother came to know
by the canal
at Brookside row
Susanna O a mid-victorian maid
her determination
does not fade
Ethel G's fish&chips held sway
in her wakefield take-a-way
Harriet H high cheeked,pretty&petite
of twinklig eyes&
dressed so neat
Edith G of Jewish stock
a housewife so usung
to me,her face
is ever young