Valentine Poem

Here’s what I wrote for my darlin’ of 18 1/2 years:

There’s not enough words for me to tell you
I can’t find the words to tell you
How much I love you, that I love you

I can’t sing any lyrics
Write any prose that says
How much I love you, that I love you

And then, I reach over and touch you
Your arm, your leg, your face
And words are not longer needed, are they?

copyright 2008, Paula Offutt

Int’l Blog Against Racism Week

Racism
Noun: racism
1. The prejudice that members of one race are intrinsically superior to members of other races
2. Discriminatory or abusive behaviour towards members of another race

[WordWeb.info]

No one race is superior to another. Intrinsically or other wise-ically. We are all the same. Some have more skin pigment, some have less. Some have different eyelids, some have curlier hair. It is what makes us unique. I am of an allegedly superior race. I am Caucasian with blonde hair and blue eyes. But none of those characteristics makes me better or worse than others who do not. I like the believe I am “colorblind” but I know I am not. We try to not be, we who are learned, but I wonder if we ever can reach that goal completely.

I’ve kissed a black man. I’ve had sex with a woman of Asian descent (half Japanese, half Irish). I’ve considered adopting a child of a different race knowing the vast majority of families want white babies.

I get angry at young men, white or black, who wear their pants down around their knees (nobody gives a shit what type of boxers they wear!!). I don’t “get” rap nor hip hop music. I’ve tried, but I just don’t like it.

If a young rap singing boxer showing male were to need my help, I’d not hesitate. After all, other than taste in music and clothing, we are the same.

Linkage:
Sandra Barrett’s post
Icons from Oyce

Happy Mothers’ Day

Thought I’d re-post the prose I wrote last year.

So, called your Mama yet?

Called your Mama yet?
The woman that birthed you?
Had labor for 48hrs in a
snow storm/thunder storm/heat wave/insert-appropriate-cataclysm
while stuck in rush hour traffic?

Twice a year, maybe three,
Mama expects to hear from you.
Mother’s Day, her birthday,
and maybe at Christmas.

Called your Mama yet?
The one that picked you out
from all the others
on the orphanage list?

The one that waited
for the court to decide
who was your mama,
who was family.

Called your Mama yet?
the one that lived down the street
the one that you went to
with questions and problems

Called your Mama yet?
Both of them?
The woman that birthed you
and the woman that married her?

Mama – she who patched your booboo
she who said your clothes didn’t match
who said your hair was perfect
and that pimple didn’t show.

Broken

Something is broken
Not like the first morning
More like the rip-tide
Took me without warning

Tears without reason
Anger without a goal
Disapointment and
Pain: all out of control

Why were all my dreams
Built upon sifting sands
And gone when I wake
Not at all like I planned

Sounds of Spring

Winter is hushed
but the smallest sound
is heard
as snow hits the ground
with a hiss.

The world around
me is so quiet
as if
all had gone to sleep
or gone south

But spring comes and
the noises return
so free
unrestrained and loud
and alive

Smells of Spring

The smells of spring make me sneeze
The smells of spring make me wheeze
I sniff and I snot
From whatever allergen I’ve got
Hand me a kleenex, would you please?

The smells of spring are in flavors
There’s pollen in the air, I wager
From brambles to trees
They all make me sneeze
The honk of my nose is in C major

The smells of spring, like mowed grass,
Are just pollen and histimines en masse.
They may all smell nice
And succeed to entice
But Mama Nature can shove them up her…