I Refuse to Live in a Poemless Universe

As I've mentioned here before, I used to be a:

Yet these days, I  spend more time decorating my steps

and making little pins like this that say:

than I do writing poetry.

Maybe it's because most of the poetry I read and write make me want to drive off a bridge.  And when you have kids, that's not really an option.  

Anyway, the other day I ran into an Old Poet Pal.  Old as in long-time.  'Cause this guy is definitely not old in spirit: 

After hearing an earful of my current issues--no job, no marriage  (email me if you've got offers for either),





he sent me a poem for my birthday.  

It's a poem that doesn't make me want to drive off a bridge.  In fact, it's a poem that inspires me to actually wear a seatbelt. 

Thank you, Arnie. It's just what the Midlife Crisis ordered.

 I would like to dedicate this poem to another Poet Pal of mine--P.A.U.L. whose birthday was April 5th.  Happy Birthday Old Friend and Cheers!

More than a wish

I more than wish you a happy birthday
I envision you happy on this day of days
Not with a dependent happiness
Depending on what’s going on around you
Or even in you
Not a happiness with mood swings
You are a swinger who swings
With joy and dancing
Not a conditional happiness
That has strings attached but
Like the strings tied to helium balloons
You let them go to fly free
Of any thing to be sad about
It is not what you are about
Or what you deserve
You deserve a happiness that is determined
To be happy no matter what
A happiness that refuses to be pushed around
By circumstance or heartbreaks
A happiness that makes the most of what it has
Thereby making way to have more
Because you know you deserve it
A happiness that kicks the ass of sadness
Gets your mind straight
You have more to be glad about then sad about
This happiness is courageous
In its pursuit of itself
This happiness is not shy
It walks right up to that beautiful man or woman
To tell them they are beautiful
Because you know
They need to hear it as much as you do
This happiness is not limited
To any self-imposed limitation
It is a celebration of itself
Within the larger celebration of all
Receive your joy by gift wrapping it
And giving it to others
Get what you wish for
Not by blowing out candles but by lighting them
Being a light for all who can see
And for all who can not
But most of all for yourself
Knowing you can’t be any good to anybody
Until you are first good to you
So go ahead have and eat yourself
A large slice of the cake of life and enjoy
This happiness does not mean you to be
In a constant state of glee
It does not deny grief or sorrow
Nor does it ignore blessings
Affirming life as a whole to be good
This is no sentimental happiness
This is the real thing and you are real
Happy birthday 

by Arnie Koester

posted at Humor-Blogs

From the H-Files (The Hippie Files)--My First Love

The first love of my life was Mick Jagger. 

And I mean luvvv. With Donny Osmond it was merely a crush. An “expensive” crush my mom would say after a trip to Rexall’s for the latest fan magazines. I’d play One Bad Apple and Go Away Little Girl so much that once my dad hid the records in the clothes hamper. 

I thought Donny was it.

But one day a crisp, new copy of Life Magazine arrived in the mail, smelling that soft waxy Crayola smell. When I pulled it out of the mailbox, the cover revealed a young man in a rhinestone-studded jumpsuit, low cut to his waist. His hair was shaggish and sweaty; his lips gorgeous. 

All of a sudden the clean-cut Mormon thing for Donny ceased to appeal to me. “Go away little boy. I can’t get no satisfaction from you,” I sang to Donny as I ripped him from my walls.

Mick was really it. 

Mick was a Bad Boy. My Bad Apple. I conned my dad into letting me wash the car and rake leaves so I could buy all the Stones’ albums. In the eighth grade talent show where Tina Miller played “Color My World” on the guitar, I dressed up in a makeshift jumpsuit, and to the horror of our school principal, pranced around the stage lip synching Jumpin' Jack Flash. 

At night, when I thought of Mick something stirred in me. I’d lie in bed fantasizing that I saved him from drugs and Latin women. That Keith, the guitarist, wanted me too and that the riff between them almost broke up the band. I dreamed that I was the love of Mick’s life, and he mine.

So when Painter Friend invited me to participate in a poetry reading (yes, this Hippie's a published poet) at the opening of his exhibit on love, all I could think to write about was Mick’s lips.

Because really, what the hell is love? 

I didn't have a clue.  The only thing coming into my head were song lyrics.  

Love is Real. Real is love. 

Whoooaa. Can’t you see. Love is the Drug gonna set me free….

A Hunka, Hunka of Burning Love...

With just a day before the opening, I locked myself in my office and In a Harried With Children State--children banging on the door, children begging for Rice Krispie treats, children calling one another “Big, Fat Butthead,” children begging to use the toilet, I somehow wrote a series of poems anyway: The Dream Love of My Life, The Real Love of My Life, The True Love of My Life. 

One the day of the show I’m not even concerned that folks won’t like my work. I figure if they don’t get it, they’ll think it’s because it’s over their heads. 

That’s the beauty of poetry.

What I am concerned about is what to wear. 

Shit. I need something artsy. But subtle artsy. Not neon artsy. Mature woman artsy. Not 20-year-old artsy. I need Batik artsy. Not thrift store artsy. Streamlined artsy. Not oversized artsy. Celtic artsy. Not army boot artsy. Hand woven artsy. Not Lycra artsy. 

I had 17 different shades of eyeliner but no mature-woman-batiky-streamlined-Celtic-hand-woven artsy clothes. 

So I wear a black skirt and black blouse. This could, after all, be my funeral.

I arrive at the gallery early—a good five minutes before the reading.

Immediately I see Buddhist Buddy checking out the paintings about love. She looks marvelous in her mature-woman-batiky -streamlined-Celtic-hand-woven artsy clothes.

Three women from my book group that I rallied at the last minute are at the hors d’oeuvre table. I head, where else, for the food.

“The guacamole is to die for,” Book Group Friend 1 says, nodding a hello.
“The hummos, too,” Book Group Friend 2 says, taking a bite of pita.
“Um. Try the grape leaves.” Book Group 3 piles three more on her plate.

“I knew there was a reason I came,” says my Spousal Unit. 

Just then Painter Friend walks up to me and grabs the matted poems from my hand. “I’m so glad you made it. Everything going all right?"

"Sure," I shrug.

“Great,” he points. “Because you’re first up.” 

And there, just seven feet away, I see a video camera the size of Rhode Island.

Stayed Tuned for Part II in which my love causes confusion to all around me

**************************************

Posted at Humor-Blogs.