Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

The Sporadic Poem: A Lady’s Ode to Santorum

March 10, 2012

Santorum's America.

If not an apology, at least a disclaimer to anyone who finds the following poem inflammatory: I’ve never been very good at turning the other cheek when it comes to offensive platforms, and I think that extreme statements can justify extreme responses. Whether you’re incensed or enthusiastic, feel free to leave your own response in the comments.

All hail Rick Santorum
He’s Christian to the core-um:
Theocracy allures ‘im
So America’s his forum.

In the mind of Rick Santorum,
We’re mothers or we’re whore-ums.
Even spouses: he implores ‘em:
Condoms? Shouldn’t've worn ‘em.

Rights to privacy? He ignores ‘em.
He loves pre-suffrage lore-um.
US women are a quorum:
We won’t have Rick Santorum.

The illustration above is snitched from my earlier post, Love and Togetherness in the Age of Santorum.

I used to maintain a feature called the weekly poem, but real life intervened and I don’t have enough juice left after meeting my deadlines to publish a poem every week. Henceforth the poetry feature on Alaina Mabaso’s Blog will be more appropriately known as The Sporadic Poem.

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Posted in The Sporadic Poems | 20 Comments »

The Weekly Poem: Halloween Night

October 31, 2011

Halloween night at the Johns household, c. 1993

I was Laura Ingalls, George Bush, a cowgirl, a nurse
Queen Nefertiti with a candy-filled purse.

Once home, brother and I would set out our wares
Arranging battalions of chocolately fare

(While lamenting the tyranny of “Fun Size”
Because no miniaturized candy was fun in our eyes)

To improve our hauls with meticulous trades
Of desirable candies, haggled and paid.

We bore our customized stashes upstairs to bed,
Slightly greasy from make-up and a bit too well-fed,

Dreaming of Hershey’s in our lunch for a few weeks at least -
Sweets to last til the Thanksgiving feast.

Which one would you choose?

 

 

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The Weekly Poem: A Word About US Airways

October 21, 2011

Let this be a warning to you.

I’d like to tell you about US Airways
Put up your seatback and stow your trays.

Fly US Airways, if you so dare -
Yes, you may save a tiny bit on the fare,

BUT for the price of a cross-ocean flight
I wish the staff had at least been polite.

I asked an attendant: “are there peppers in the meal?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed like an absolute heel.

An attendant with customs forms blew impatiently by,
Returning only with a verbal roll of the eye.

One slung food without looking, or smiling, or saying “you’re welcome”
(Though I think answering “thank you” is a good rule of thumb).

Even the in-flight blankets left us chilly and bothered -
One, who knows why, was half the size of the other.

As we exited the plane, no friendly “goodbye” would atone:
The bored-looking attendant just stood like a stone.

If things had gone well on the ground, I might have let bygones been.
But both of our suitcases were nowhere to be seen.

To the bowels of the airport, the luggage counters, STAT!
Where US Airways staff, bless them, informed us that

“Sometimes folks are told that their bags are on the plane,
When really, the bags aren’t.” Oops, what a pain.

So instead of riding happily across the Atlantic below
All our possessions were left somewhere at Heathrow.

For two days, I called the office where the fate of lost luggage is writ.
Let me tell you what they know: absolutely sh**.

But low and behold, three days later, our suitcases appeared,
So it seemed things weren’t quite as bad as I’d feared.

But then I saw it: oh no, you’ve got to be kidding.
For worst airline ever, you’ve won the bidding.

A large pocket: totally ripped, its whole contents lost,
Including many items of high personal cost.

My make-up, my toiletries, my camis, socks and bras,
And a present from Africa for my beloved sister-in-law.

But the worst thing, perhaps (things are SO out of whack),
Is that I simpered with gratefulness at getting SOME stuff back.

I can be forgiving, and cut others some slack:
There’re lots of reasons for how people act.

Am I ever going to fly US Airways again, though?
No, no, no, no, no, no. No!

 

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Posted in Journeys | 3 Comments »

The Weekly Poem: The Desert

September 27, 2011

I need a drink.

This poem is inspired by my father, who in his childhood coined the term “The Desert” in reference to shopping with my grandmother.

It’s as dull as the desert and almost as deadly:
A polyester forest, a bad textile medley

Of faux-fur lined vests and all the latest for fall.
It’s the relentless consumerist assault of the MALL.

Every year or two I am forced to go store-hopping,
Though a bed of hot coals sounds nicer than shopping.

Some retail employees will completely ignore you
While others will follow, cajole and implore you,

Pointing out clothing that’s patterned like pelts;
Suggesting the purchase of bluish python-print belts.

In the department store maze I lose all direction…
What’s this? Oh my Lord. It’s the Kardashian Kollection.

For slim long-limbed girls, do fitting rooms offer glory?
To me, those cubicles are sartorial purgatory.

When you locate some trousers in this garment-filled wasteland
They’re a fit in the hips but not in the waistband.

Sleeves are too long and hems drag on the floor;
Tight, sticky side-zippers are enough to start wars.

Blouses and sweaters look frumpy at best
And button-downs won’t button up over my chest.

All the stress took its toll – I may have parted from reason.
I fear I have journeyed beyond what is pleasin’.

Despite all my woes and my fears and my tinny “can’t”s,
My husband convinced me to get skinny pants.

A hard-won new outfit.

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Posted in The Weekly Poems | 5 Comments »

The Weekly Poem: An Appropriate Breach of Etiquette

September 17, 2011

Don’t raise your voice if you’ve got something to say.
Speak calmly and quietly in a civilized way.

But there is at least one case where shouting is called for.
When volume won’t gall, or brand you a boor:

It’s when friends find their patience is veering away
Because neither of them think that they need a hearing aid.

When folks are unwittingly irritated on account of bad ears,
A shout restores tempers because it’s what they can hear.

This poem is inspired by weekends spent with my great-aunt Doreen, whom I love dearly. Here’s an essay I published recently about more of Dor’s adventures. 

p.s. I realize that the Weekly Poem has been more like the Sporadic Poem lately. I’ll try to do better.

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The Weekly Poem: The United States’ Ultimate Crushing Doom, Upon Us In The Year 2011

August 17, 2011

God forbid we raise taxes on anyone’s fortune!
Who cares about funding when tempers are torchin’?

And cuts to our spending will spell doom and worse.
Let’s just pretend Medicare can take all the boomers.

Superpower no more! Might as well call a hearse.
Like the empires of history, the US is cursed.

But forgive me – are these really our worst times to date?
Is a quarreling congress going to seal our fate?

We survived the Civil War and its crises umpteen,
The dreaded influenza of 1919,

We survived slavery, Jim Crow, the first and second World Wars,
And our own Great Depression, when stocks dropped even more.

There’s been earthquakes and storms and fires to smother.
Remember when the US and Russia aimed nukes at each other?

The point is, we’ve seen worse than these budgeting woes:
The buffoons that fill Congress are not our worst foes.

It seems to me, when folks say that the US is finished,
What they really mean is that we’re diminished.

We won’t be the smartest, the richest, the police of the world:
Other countries are rising, their economies unfurled.

Maybe, in world power, China is the sequel,
While we learn to see other countries as equals.

“You un-Exceptionalist minx!” the patriots might say.
“The US takes top billing – there’s no other way!”

Friends, let’s be real – the latest crisis won’t kill us -
Unless the hyperbole continues to swill us.

It’s hard to admit, in American eyes:
“Doom” ain’t the same as being cut down to size.

 

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Posted in The Weekly Poems | 2 Comments »

The Weekly Poem: Heat Wave

July 22, 2011

Father, Son and Holy Ghost!
Meat on the sidewalk becomes a roast.
Summer’s a climatic whipping post,
The time of year I hate the most.

The dogs are panting, I am sweating,
I’ll never make the bus, I’m betting.
Miserable and mean I’m getting;
Summer is the year’s worst setting.

“F@#k you, seat’s mine!” the people say
Riding on the bus today.
The weather makes them talk that way.
July: politeness doesn’t pay.

Tell me, is it from May 21st
When none of us repented first?
‘Cause Satan couldn’t cast a curse
Which could be a fraction worse

Than this disgusting heat.

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Posted in The Weekly Poems | 5 Comments »

A Poem: Ten Things I’m Thinking About You When You Diagonally Park Your Porsche Cayenne Turbo Across Two Spaces In The Whole Foods Parking Lot

July 15, 2011

#1

Isn’t Whole Foods about responsible consumption?
Look at your insufferable, Porsche-sized presumption.

#2

We shop at the same store, I like to discern:
Maybe one day, I, too, will have money to burn.

#3

You change lanes, make left turns, and things that’re tougher -
But when you’re parked, you insist on a double-space buffer.

#4

Let’s be real: my things couldn’t sell for ten bucks at a yard sale.
But were I rich as you, my Porsche-parking objections might pale.

#5

Did you buy a Porsche because you’re the big fish in town?
Or – chicken or the egg? – is it the other way around?

#6

Even at the grocery store, you know you’re on view.
When you got a Porsche, did the world become a showroom for you?

#7

When your car costs a hundred grand, you must always attend it.
Someone might steal it, scratch it, or God forbid, dent it.

#8

Your entitlement is obvious: you get two parking spaces instead of just one.
What do you get next? Tax cuts? Free condiments? Traveling for fun?

#9

Do you really think this parking lot is such a buffoon bin
That if someone parks next to you, your car will be ruined?

#10

What happens (I’m imagining parking lot fisticuffs)
When you park on two mall spaces, the Saturday before Christmas?

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Posted in The Weekly Poems | 7 Comments »

The Weekly Poem: “Get The Hell Off My Bumper”

June 15, 2011

(Announcing a new feature of Alaina Mabaso’s Blog: the Weekly Poem. I’m going to write a poem once a week, and unlike other poets,  I will never leave you wondering what my poem is about, even if you like the way it sounds.)

Get The Hell Off My Bumper

I reserve my most volatile day-to-day hate
For you drips who think it’s ok to tailgate.

I think driving laws are really quite handy.
But you’re close as a toddler who thought he saw candy.

Forgive me for 70 in the 65 zone.
I’m in the right lane, take the left for your own.

The Beltway is hellish enough by itself.
Why be a prick of the very top shelf?

Shall I list all the reasons you make my blood boil?
Why you make others’ travels such horrible toil?

First there’s your arrogance, plain as the day:
“Fuck safety rules, I’m driving my way!”

Next is your callousness, you unholy ass:
You’d rather endanger me than simply pass.

Your foresight and dignity amount to a speck.
Don’t you know that you’re courting a terrible wreck?

If you’re tailgating me, what should I do?
Drive even faster and burn up my fuel?

Drive very slowly and hope you don’t linger,
Finally passing while you give me the finger?

Tap on my brakes just to scare you a bit -
Hope to teach you a lesson without getting hit.

Or grimly ignore you and maintain my speed,
Praying a deer doesn’t jump in the street.

Whatever it is that I do or don’t do,
I hate that I’m bugged by a numbskull like you.

If I said I wished you some physical pain
My kindly veneer I couldn’t maintain.

But I do wish that next time you’re making a drive
Of four working tires you are deprived.

I hope one goes flat on a desolate highway.
And you don’t have a spare.
Then only mechanic in 90 miles charges you
$1,400 for a new tire and brake pads.
But the work takes till tomorrow
And your motel room is infested with
Bedbugs and then the only thing
There is to eat is the free continental breakfast.
Then when you’re speeding the next day
To make up lost time, you get pulled over
And get a whopping ticket and then
It’s the last straw for your insurance policy
And your rates go way up.

But however terrible this’d be to you,
It’s a picnic compared to what I go through

When you won’t get the hell off my bumper.

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Posted in The Weekly Poems | 2 Comments »

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