The moon sizzles like an aluminum
cutlass,
playing jazz scales with its
arthritis knuckles.
Finger tip mallets strike
the ebony piano keys
With a lazy,
Chocolate, precision.
Tickles your spine
like sardines
&
cereal.

I pushed aside a plastic box
of plastic-backed thumbtacks,
a half-roll of Scotch tape,
and a paperclipped stack
of edited verse to write
a letter to you.
It went something like this:

Dear Audrey,
     No, that's too informal.
     Just her first name would imply
     our friendship didn't mean anything.
                     What about
Dear Mrs. Barber?
     Way too formal. Like, am I going
     to follow it with "can Billy come out
     to play," or "I'm sorry I threw snowballs
     at the side of your house," or "I apologize
     for skipping your class to pop Tums
     in the nurse's office."
                     Maybe
Dear Audrey Barber.
     Something about the sounds
     doesn't feel right. The Ds and Bs
     hit the eardrum weird, like marsh-
     mallows or caramel toffee.
     They're just too thick.
Dear Audrey Sofield Barber,
          There we go.
     It's been a pleasure knowing you this past year
     or so. In a way, I regret being there for the box-
     moving and the computer troubleshooting,
     but not for the sidewalk shoveling or book editing.
     Or driving you to Elmira Corning Airport to pick
     up your daughter. I'm an English writing tutor here—.

     Never mind. How's your book doing? I'm sure it's a hit.
     Enjoy Hawaii.
Sincerely,
     C. S. Cizek (Christopher)
    
P. S. I plan to purchase "Wellsboro Roots" over the summer
         and relive our conversations in Wellsboro over coffee
         and cheap sugar.

Thank you for the honor.

I get offended when people say
That the happiest girls
Are the prettiest ones.

But
How about us?
How about the girls who
Fight the urge of crying
Every night alone?
How about the girls who
Almost stitch their skin to pain
Just to flash a smile?
How about the girls who
Are in a battle from the moment they woke up
Struggling to keep their pieces together?

Can't we be the prettiest?
Can't the strongest be the most beautiful ones?

Crave it. Crave life. Desire things that aren't material. Learn to grip every little thing and never let the feeling of being blown away by this earth leave your fingertips. Try new foods from different places and cultures. Don't shut your mind off to things that are not what you deem 'normal'. Open your heart to people and do not let yourself walk away from loving and being loved. Quit allowing your fear of getting hurt overcome your need of intimacy. Stop shying away from being vulnerable. Allow yourself to feel every emotion there is to feel. Don't fret when you start to feel a little insane. Don't worry when your throat swells up and tears form around the brim of your eyes. Be angry, happy, silly, sad, and wild. When people tell you that you're being too much, laugh.  Live your life empty of fear for tomorrow or regret from yesterday. Kiss lots of boys, walk long miles, swim in foreign waters, create new things, write. Love this life and yourself.

Aubrey was confronted by her mom in the kitchen as she was making her lunch for school the next day. "Two sandwiches?" her mom questioned. "What's up with that, Aubrey? Since when do you eat more than one sandwich?" Actually Aubrey ate well. It was always a healthy lunch for her, perhaps a sandwich with some lettuce and tomato on it, or something cooked and leftover. She rarely indulged in sweet snacks, like her brother and sister did, never going without a couple pieces of fruit in her bag.  

Audrey was a freshman in high school, and she was a forthright girl. There was no need to hide anything, so  she replied nonchalantly, "It's not for me. It is for Wade Hodak. He doesn't have a sandwich in his lunch".

With her hands on her hips, Audrey's mom smelled something fishy. Was Wade taking advantage of her? She replied, "And why not? Since when is it up to you to look after him?"

"Mom!" Aubrey protested. "He is lucky his mom even gets any child support from his dad! Her paycheck doesn't come til the end of the week. Sometimes, he eats okay, but sometimes they just don't have the money! You know how it is with bills and stuff! It is usually just a bag of chips and whatever else he can find"

Aubrey's mom only vaguely knew of Wade Hodak. What little she knew of his mother, his mom seemed on the up-and-up. She remembered that the woman had to pull her daughter out of  dance class because she couldn't afford it, the same class her younger daughter was in.

Aubrey's mom smiled and gave her a kiss and a hug, "Peanut butter and jelly?" Well, don't lay it on too thin.", she advised.  Aubrey smiled big, a sweet smile with those braces on her teeth, and she was becoming a beautiful, young woman, both inside and out.

"That's what I was hoping you would say", Aubrey said and added, gratefully. "Thanks mom".  Peanut butter and jelly it was.

Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria
Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah
Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo
Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia
Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India
Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline
Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda
Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine
Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra
Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily
Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen
Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura
Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey
Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien
Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine
Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene
Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel
Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral
Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne
Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie

Everyone has that place they go to when the world is too much with them. Or at least, near everyone. Mine is dark, like the sea, and it’s full of stars. It’s not quiet. It’s endless and orchestral, swirling with symphonies that I haven’t quite heard yet, symphonies that are always just a galaxy out of reach.

And sometimes it’s full of fields. I’m from the city, but they feel like home. They circle me and the sky is blindingly blue and I count my breaths: One, Two, Three, and so on. Until softly the wind blows and there I can imagine a different sort of song -- it doesn’t elude me; it consumes me. It’s there in the breeze, in the drifting bits of dust and pollen and tiny particles of sunshine. It’s great and beautiful and the first song that anyone ever heard.

And every so often. Only every so often. That song changes. It’s still within reach, but it’s a different tune. The song is light with floating, glowing ash; it’s heavy with a million voices and laughs and other songs; it drips with summer drinks and rushes through my soul. I am not alone in some black, celestial ocean or alone in golden labyrinths; home is no imagined place, nor are others just comforting phantoms. I am with them. It is more breathtaking than the stars, and more blinding than the sky.

It was like this that my summer began. In musical swells of escapism, visions of melodramatic beauty, grander than my true surroundings. It was built up like Fitzgerald crafted the West Egg, and it nearly ended much the same way; a journey homewards marked with disillusionment.

First came the traveling. I had hoped to find something I’d lost, and started out my search in the throbbing streets of Barcelona, saturated with sunlight during the days and at night with the sounds from sports bars as the football games ended, or young lovers’ laughter along the clear, black Mediterranean coast. Even the most hushed, winding alleys were full of something; perhaps this was just some magical element I conjured to make every moment new and original.

In Spain I found sea food and chilled beer and a bright rose to color my cheeks. I found churches crafted with dizzying dedication, art that made my heart stop, that somehow filled the world with its own sort of symphony.

Then came Paris. There was wine, red and deep and romantic, wine that Hemingway might have brooded over, or that Audrey Hepburn could have brought to her lips on some glamorous getaway from her Roman home. I found walls too, covered with Degas, with Monet and Manet alike, with Da Vinci and the rest. I discovered what it feels like to survey the Luxembourg Gardens on a July day, from a high shady point where despite denim shorts and a boulangerie sandwich, you’re aware that you’ve been graced with something that holds a euphoric regality.

And finally came a trip to Maine. On the shores of Bar Harbor I saw the endless pines and clear blue waters that spelled out the promised land for the first explorers. Atop Cadillac Mountain, as I burrowed into my father’s jacket and hid my face from the wind, I found the stars, as endless as I’d dreamt. They danced for me as for Van Gogh and I could have died up there. I found cool mornings to be filled with walks to rocky shores, and tea and berries and books. There was a different quality here than had been in my European travels. It was introspective and quiet aside from the chirps of crickets and birds and the laps of waves on dark cliffs. I loved it.

Each place held its own collection. Sand and shells and Spanish fans; metro tickets and corks and long linen dresses lightened on the bottom from the waters of the Seine; sea glass pulled from the harbor and dream catchers and endless dog-eared pages. Physical, tangible, ephemeral things for me to grasp onto. I added them to my character, grafted them to my bones, made them my own.

But what use is imagined significance; I hadn’t grown or changed or even learned what it was I had been looking for. I was several weeks older, I had seen a few more corners of the world, granted meaning to trinkets and decided they added to my worth.

It was August then. Shorter days for fluttering leaves and the understanding that nothing separated me from the person I had been aside from the hours between us. Direction in life can’t be dreamt up, it’s earned. It’s what you’re allowed to have after you’ve fallen down and picked yourself back up. I fell, but chose to imagine a new self in faraway places where my troubles couldn’t find me amidst the breezy, sunny crowds.

The cobblestone Parisian streets, the docks of Barcelona, the coves of Maine; they were only where I fled to when my own world was too much with me. When I couldn’t find any use in continuing as myself, I invented a girl laughing on the edge of l’Arc de Triomphe, wading quietly into the inky mystery of the warm sea, or hiding in pine forests with a copy of Wuthering Heights and a serious demeanor. She was the same girl that lost herself into empty fields and dark oceans of stars.

Only one thing stopped the self-absorption that had claimed me that summer. It was nothing fateful; nothing original. I didn’t traverse the world to see this, and the experience was not mine alone. It didn’t hold any old hollywood glamour, nor was it the topic of any of Hemingway’s books. Or maybe it was. It was true, after all. It was the truest thing I did the entire summer; it wasn’t adorned with portraits or cathedrals or soaring landscapes because it didn’t need to be. Hemingway, I think, might have liked that. What I’m going on about now is that Every-So-Often moment. It doesn’t stand lonely in my memory, like so many of the others might. It’s brimming not with strangers and false romantic visions, but with the company of those souls you’re allowed to feel like you’ve known for your entire life, for more than your entire life. The sounds of empty seas and shapeless symphonies have no part; instead, there’s the strumming of guitars with songs so familiar they place an ache right in the core of you. You ache because that moment, full of bonfire and friends and song, is becoming you in a way that nothing else could have (for all of your efforts). It’s a beautiful ache, the one you get when you’ve come home after a long time spent lost and away.

~
atop the Manhattan skyline
her similitude descends as rain
we see her wonderwork
we see her water-standing
her very abandonment of draperies
unassuming and artless
where the heedless moths settle
with bodies of mystic warmth
colored with rose and a dash of flame
~
– for Audrey Munson

Now we all know the story of the grinch and the who's
So listen quite closely for I have some bad news
The Grinch is back in Whoville and before you make a fuss
The blame for his existence must fall on all of us
We the the Grinch in power, we elected him you see
This time the Grinch has got a name, it's Brian Mulroney!
You're a mean one Misher Grinch
The meanest man alive
You stay up in your mansion
At 24 Sussex Drive, Mister Grinch
The Grinch called for his council to gain some ideas
He planned to discover each persons worst fears
"I've demolished their lifestyles in the time I've been King"
Then he thought to himself, "That has a nice ring!"
"I've sold out the country to whomever would buy it"
"It's such a feeling of power, I wish you could try it!"
"I've taxed all I can  I've cut low cost housing"
"It makes me feel special, in fact it's arousing"
"I'll get them this Christmas, make them regret their decision
"Of voting NO on my Constitutional Vision"
"I;ll leave them no money to celebrate the season"
"And if they speak out against me, I'll charge them with treason"
Now, out in the Provinces the people spoke out
We;ve fot to find someone to knock the Grinch out
We've not much to choose from, It'll be a tough job
We cannot depend on the broad and the slob
Audrey McLughlin, I'm sure isn't up to the test
I'm not sure what's bigger her IQ or her chest
Jean Chretien was good, but his reputation is fraying
And if you're not from Quebec, you don't know what he's saying!
The Grinch was a terror who did not like free speech
Elijah Harper learned this when he put "MEECH" on the beach
We need a strong leader to whom the torch can be past
It doesn't matter what party, we just need one fast.
Back up on the hill, the Grinch started to fume
He was feeling threatened by someone, but he wasn't sure whom,
He called in Joe Clark and they formed a long list
Of all those against him, but there was someone they'd missed!
They listed the Premiers from the West to The Rock
There was not one name among them that was made of the stock
to take on the Country and make it stand strong and free
In fact of 5 of 11 couldn't quite spell B.C.!
But deep in his soul the Grinch still felt a tingle
So he called on hils staff and fave Geroge Bush a jingle
Maybe H. Ross Perot was a citizen up here,
You know who he is, he's the one with the ears!
The Prez told the Grinch that Perot wasn no threat
But, the Grinch was still worried, there was someone else yet...
Now the people waged searches in each nook and cranny
And the leader they'd found had a beard, was named Lanny
He said "I can help you but I'll not thake the reigns"
"But, you'll find your new leader if you'll just read MACLEANS"
The people thought hard and when they broke from their huddle
They remembered a phrase from the past "Fuddle Duddle!"
The leader they sought was Pierre Elliot Trudeau!
But no one was sure if he'd return to the show
They approached the ex-leader and they spoke of their quest
They all spoke of taxes and how he was the best
To come back to The Grits and be saviour for all
He thought on it a bit and then he stood up quite tall
He said "Yes, I'll do it!", and his voice came alive
"What I buggered in twelve years, The Grinch has ******* in five!"
Now, the rest of the story is yet to be told
The winds of change are a blowing and they're blowing quite cold
Please heed what I've written and think for a while
For the Grinch is still here with his chin and his smile
This Christmas think ******* the message I've sent
Let's make it the last he get his seven per-cent
Let's make this a Christmas both Joyous and true
Let's give the Grinch what he gave us, but let's give it times two!

Vague recollections,
Of curio collections,
Salt and pepper shakers, unused
crystal ashtrays, reflecting rainbows
of northern prairie light on days bright.

A prairie girl, did you miss the place near the Arctic Circle,
your home?  Did Odin and Freya call you away from here to
there, or was Thor, or Loki the thunder in your angry voice
that I feared and may have hid under the steep basement
stairs, quietly in the dark hoping you were unaware.

Some of your children, and
your spouse, left before you did,
I know that was tough, and a shame.
You were tougher, though, you did
suffer in you aging frame.

I know you loved us all, I know you knew me too,
very early you said of me "he is a sensitive child", which
I have found to be all too true, many years after you have
gone I miss you, grandpa and dad, Audrey and Vic too.
Did you all find Valhalla at Heaven's Gate?

So I will not stir up the past, nor
will I hurry, through each day, for
I will remember, and smile at those
memories that brought me joy, prose
and rhyme not of a child, but a Viking man.

©DWE032013

"Elegance is the only beauty that never fades....  -Audrey Hepburn

I beg to differ...
there are many beauties.....
such as...
the intensely knowing glance
of someone who has known you... intrinsically...
The glance that let's you know
that there are things deep inside of you,
that have never changed.
It's the look that identifies
the links in your histories,
and that reveal your very core.
The look that says I still see you...
with acceptance and understanding...
That fleeting momentary look ...
whether seen throughout a lifetime.
... or a lifetime ago....
That look, acknowledges a basic truth of who you really are.
Acknowledges, that you are truly known...outside of yourself.
It transcends decades
and inspires
both fear and awe in me....
and I think that is beautiful!

As

     the leaf

             falls,

                   words

                           fail

                                 me

                                       again.



Copyright/All Rights Reserved Audrey Howitt 2011

The words I speak are unpopular, unwanted and uninvited
Oh Lawd, pray I not be misunderstood
But then if I am, that too is okay
For I speak not in the vulgarity of this regime
This regiment armed with ******* extensions calling me a renegade
To insinuate that I am dangerous because my body speaks from a position of anarchy

As though anyone was what they looked like
But then again, I am dangerous, deliberate and afraid of nothing
Praise the Lorde, the Audrey Lorde!
**** what I look like!
I don’t care that I look like I was hit by a speed train at the bend
I don’t care that my hair sits on my head uncombed and unruly as though it owns me
Because then if I do I will let you **** me over again, did I say again?
But if you can’t figure me out here please accept my apology for not being obvious
Take from my hand words for your Language Acquisition Device
And devise for your ilk ways of seeing, new ways of seeing me
This is the end of normal, arm yourself
Here an extra pair of eyes
Now drop the pretense and straighten the frown on your face
To act like ‘****’ is too sensitive a word to your senseless sensibilities is hypocrisy
The problem is, I said it and I ain’t no Rick Ross or Lil’ Wayne or some other brother
Whose ‘****’ comes to you as an endorsement to objectify women
To call her everything: a *****, a ****, a ****, a *****
To call a woman everything, but her name
And when you call a woman by name you mean to shame her
Assata Shakur, Angela Davis, Wangari Maathai, Martha Karua
Kingwa Kamencu, , Audrey Mbugua, Wambui Otieno-Mbugua, Sojourner Truth
And this is the truth, black women have not even began to be resentful
of the rise to power of black men but there is a problem
A certain school of thought crafted by Slave masters on the colony
Teaches Black men that for them to be strong black women must be weak
Fallacious reasoning! This here is a product of gross miseducation
And Black men have not even began to unravel their role in the empire

Their counter-revolutionary exertion of a “manhood” that tells women to step back
As though to break off from our colonial oppression, never meant the total involvement
of every man, woman, and child, every-*******-body
As though for us to get here didn’t take the breaking of a woman’s back


Women whose labour terms in developing political consciousness were cast in stone
A time ranging from I-can’t-see in the morning until I-can’t-see at night
O Lawd bless Malcolm X
So this is your to do list for every man
Every man who acknowledges 'Wangu wa Makeri' and Bi Mswafari
in the same sentence with no sense of irony
Every woman who joins in the patriarchal laughter of our television
making fun of the nameless woman in 'Budalangi' begging 'sirikal' (Government) to help
As though her pain wasn’t real and the state hadn’t ignored her, three floods later
Please do yourself a favor, stop laughing
and teach yourself something on capitalist oppression
Stop laughing at the propaganda being pushed around as the truth
About men having *** with cows and hens because it will not be marked in history
that in two thousand and thirteen Kenyan men became intimate
with their food, pets and *****
And stop wearing Christianity as a beautiful coat that covers  your hatred
Because I don’t care how many verses you have memorized to make your hatred effective
For you have a verse to pull out of your pile of cards to justify the way you treat women and gays and Muslims and atheists and people
You see the truth is if Jesus came back to the world, you are the type that would still **** him
Because Jesus was a rogue, a rebel, and a revolutionary who refused to conform to any laws
Your hatred, judgement and self-righteousness must disgust him
because you are the worst thing that ever happened to my poetry
Stop condemning women for abortion and teenage pregnancy
as though there weren’t rapists and ******* priests who still oppose the use of contraceptives
Stop passing down your hatred to your children and other people’s children in the name of Jesus
So look yourself in the mirror and imagine what would happen
Imagine what would happen if we were to be honest in this conversation
and for a minute tried to speak about love as though we invented it
Take off your prejudices as though they hang on your shirt and again,
again and again ask yourself  ‘Who am I?’
And when you take to the streets before you tweet jokes that humiliate real people
Please stop, instead, try to talk of the revolution of love
Like our mothers did, and their mothers before them
And when you raise your hand to hit a woman STOP!
She has been beaten before and your hand shouldn’t touch her the same way
Keep your hand mid air and in that breathe ******* thank a woman

Having style doesn’t necessarily depend on the size of one’s budget but on the breadth of one’s mind and creativity. Likewise, enjoying the rewards of philanthropic giving is not only for the rich and famous. The lovely philanthropist, style icon, and socialite, Jean Shafiroff continues to encourage people to practice strengthening their generosity muscle—inspiring others with her grace, style, and her first book, “Successful Philanthropy: How to Make a Life by What You Give.“

“I believe we all have been given so many gifts. We must discover what they are and share them. Philanthropy is not just about writing checks, but it’s about giving of yourself—your time and your knowledge. Anyone and everyone can be a philanthropist,” Shafiroff said during her book signing party in her Park Avenue apartment.

An inspiring and practical guide to becoming a philanthropist, her book includes quotes ranging from Audrey Hepburn to Albert Einstein; a foreword by Scott Elkins, the U.S. Campaign Director of the Margaret Thatcher Scholarship Trust at Oxford University and CEO of SE Advisors; and a special introduction by Georgina Bloomberg, who started her own charitable organization, The Rider’s Closet, with her love for equestrian sports.

“First, you must start with yourself—start with your passions,” Shafiroff said during the interview for this article at her home, just a few hours before she would prepare to go to the American Ballet Theater Gala. She had a rack of designer dresses waiting for her to choose from.

After you find your passion, “then try to find a cause and a charity that is a good fit,” she said. It’s comparable to finding the right outfit. “When it comes to style and fashion, it’s very important to feel comfortable in what you are wearing. Otherwise don’t wear it,” she said. So when it comes to philanthropy, make sure to contribute in alignment with your passions, your values, and with your vision of the legacy you would like to build.

I always try to be kind—this is very important. I’d like to be able to build people up, in anyway that I can.

— Jean Shafiroff

“Successful Philanthropy” is the kind of book she wishes she could have read when she was younger. While her generous sensibility, like her sense of style, was already well entrenched before she even thought of becoming a philanthropist, Shafiroff now hopes her book will effectively influence anyone, and especially younger generations, to take the essential steps for creating a more philanthropic culture in general.

“There is great reward in knowing that you are helping to make the world a better place,” she said. She then coyly pointed out that being a philanthropist may be seen as a little selfish in that regard. But she said, “I see nothing wrong in building up our members of society. Those who give, build themselves up in the process because they will feel fulfilled, and those who receive will grow. It’s a great gift to be in a position to give,” she said, smiling.

“If people, at any age, are just starting to get involved, hopefully they will get some useful tips from the book. I would never say that I have all the answers, but this is based on solid research and on my experience,” she said.

For years Shafiroff has raised funds for charities, including the New York City Mission Society, New York Women’s Foundation, and Southampton Hospital, and the Couture Council. She serves on seven charity boards, organizes and hosts charity luncheons for various causes—all voluntarily. Having traveled extensively to places as far as Cambodia, China, and Nicaragua, she’s very aware of how much need and suffering people experience all over the world, including New York. “There is poverty everywhere. In New York, one out of three children live at or below the poverty level. These are very serious statistics,” she said.

The antidote to not turning a blind eye to such need, she says, is first and foremost in valuing oneself. It’s the starting point. “We live in a society now where many people are depressed or sad and most of it is because they don’t understand their own value. But everyone has so much to offer to society. Everyone matters—that’s vitally important.”

She explained that most of us participate in acts of philanthropy every day. “If you make the effort to reach out to someone by lending emotional support or showing kindness to someone in need, you are beginning your journey as a philanthropist.”

Shafiroff’s way of defining and reframing philanthropy targets every level of society, from those who barely have any savings but who can offer their time and knowledge to those from the extremely affluent, who may be in need of exercising their generosity muscle more. Overall it brings more meaning in life.

“I believe I can continue to live a good life, but it’s my obligation to give back. When you see people starving and who are barely making ends meet, I think it’s wrong not to do anything. We are not just here to take. Rather we are here to give. If you have resources then you must give, and ultimately we should give more than we take,” Shafiroff said.

While she enjoys dressing up in stunning gowns to attend various social charity-related events, she carries herself with profound purpose, quite apparent below the surface of fashion frivolity. “When I wear a beautiful gown, I feel good. But what is most important is what you try to do to be of help. Also when you go to an event and you dress well, it is a sign of respect and a reflection on what you think about that charity,” she said.

She also pointed out that because black tie events are so formal, people are willing to spend more for the ticket, which means more money for charity.

Fundraising is a tough job, but Shafiroff has all the social graces, stamina, and wisdom to do it well and has done so for many years.

“Volunteer fundraising can be very difficult. Sometimes people can be rude. They do not realize that you are not asking for yourself. There can be a lot of rejection associated with asking. However, a ‘no’ today can be a ‘yes’ in the future. Always believe in the work of the charity—and make sure it is well run—before you do any volunteer fundraising. If you are uncertain, then back away,” she said.

Still Shafiroff wishes she could do more. “I always try to be kind—this is very important. I’d like to be able to build people up, in anyway that I can,” she said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses

A ngel
U nique
D ainty
R ighteous
E legant
Y ears

H eroine
E loquent
P riceless
B eautiful
U NICEF
R ise
N oble

If we were meant to be here
If I am James Dean, then you are Audrey Hepburn
A fairytale that only comes in a dream
If I am prince charming
If we were meant to be
Then I would James Dean
And you be Audrey Hepburn
Like a Disney Movie
I'd be prince charming
and you be my damsel in distress up on top a castle
You be my love forever
That can't be broken by Jafar

I watched “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” last night - we’re going to be reading Truman Capote’s book after the break and I wanted to start thinking about it. The movie rewrites Truman Capote’s story, turning it into a romcom, completely eliminating the book's gay themes. I’d seen ‘Breakfast’ before, but now I’m a little older, and as a single woman, I can better appreciate it. I’m looking forward to studying its socio-****** themes. These are some first thoughts.

Let’s take the opening of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” The images are iconic and some of the most widely repeated in pop-culture today (Hello, ubiquitous dorm room decor), but they’re never used in a way consistent with their function in the film. Instead of seeing a horribly depressed girl who has nothing left in her life but pure escapism, people see a beautiful woman with apparent access to luxury.

When “Breakfast” came out (in 1961) there was a sense, within the press and wider public, that even a neutered version of Holly Golightly represented a cinematic moral nadir that posed a threat to society. Whether Holly was a “moral character” was up for debate in countless reviews of the film. Today, this seems absurd.

Today, Holly is seen as an aspirational figure. With her opera gloves, her intricate updo, pearls and Givenchy little black dress, she looks like someone who belongs at Tiffany’s (of course, the casting the euro-elegant Audrey Hepburn didn’t hurt). Truman Capote wanted Marilyn Monroe as Holly - that would have been a very different movie.

Watching the film, I was struck with how contemporary Holly felt. She seems so familiar - so similar to the countless imitations we’ve seen since. People watching the movie for the first time today may be underwhelmed, but Holly seems so contemporary now, because she was so ahead of the curve back then (just over 60 years ago).

If you look at the popular romantic comedies that surrounded ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, like “Pillow talk,’ ‘Gigi,’ and ‘Giget’ - their leading ladies were nothing like Holly. Being a heroine in those films meant you strived for marriage, you saved yourself for your one true love and, as a woman, you avoided certain subjects altogether. They imply happiness only comes from following a certain good girl ethos.

An example of what could happen to a girl, if she strayed from that path, was shown in Elia Kazan’s ‘Splendor in the Grass’ which also came out in ‘61. Its theme is the consequences of ****** repression, and it outlines a specific cinematic binary. There are good girls and bad girls. The bad girls were usually presented as sad and mentally unstable - and they paid for their sins in the end - usually by dying by some karmic punishment (car wrecks usually).

Holly sits somewhere in between good and bad, complicating the cinematic binary. Because Audrey’s elegance plays her as classy, warm and accessible, she doesn’t come across as a dangerous wild child - although she makes all of the bad girl choices - like partying, drinking and having ***.

For women who grew up in the repressive 1950s, Holly represented a new path forward. Holly lived on her own, she didn’t crave marriage above all else, she didn’t want to live in a cage, and she managed to have a good time without being victimized or doomed. Holly was noticeably different. The pill came out in May of 1960 (one of the watershed events in human history). Holly was Hollywood's first post-pill heroine, representing the ****** revolution before Betty Friedan’s ‘Feminine Mystique’.

I look like my dad.

My mom looks like Audrey Hepburn,
with a dash of Twiggy thrown in
for good measure,

but I,
I look like my dad.

(My dad, for the sake of clarity,
looks nothing like Audrey Hepburn
or Twiggy.
He’s more the George Clooney type -
which is a great look for George Clooney
and for my dad -
but not
for a girl who wanted to look like
Princess Di,
or Cindy Crawford,
or  Julia Roberts,
or Gisele…)

A woman now,
wiser now,
older now,
I look in the mirror and know that -
all things progressing as they usually do -
a time will come
when the mirror will be the only place
I will see his face.

And I hope,
when that time comes,
I can still remember

how to look at myself through those eyes
that knew I was beautiful long before I even knew my own name:

How to look
like my dad.

my *****-drenched Valkyrie,
you're a star, pirouetting around
Pluto, gamboling amongst galaxies, you are
terrible to behold, awe-inspiring in your
beauty and petrifying in the same.
a mouthful of liquor, and eyes
near-translucent; I can see your
soul, and I have never loved you
more. you are
silly when sober and
downright derelict when drunk,
a crumbling monument to
late nights and
later trysts; railed out
lines of Xanax
internalized through paper money:
this is the life.
this is what we wanted?
we aspired to more than we were, we
flew too close to the
moon, our wax wings
held up to solar scrutiny, but our
intentions
did not; we were
only kids, but that's
no excuse. just because you've
reached the
Age of Majority
doesn't make you any less of a child
of the universe,
scrabbling in the dust for a
semblance of meaning:
I am Sorry, you were Right, but
it doesn't matter now.
hold my hand.
please. I am
afraid to die
without you by my side.
with your fingers
clenched around mine,
I feel less alone.

You gotta take your shoes off,
mother just washed the mat,
and she'll tell you,
'I just washed the mat'

You gotta remember to floss,
God chose not to give you teeth with enamel.
It's not your fault,
it is your responsibility.

You gotta study hard at school.
Your brother works at a coffee shop,
your sister is thirty two thousand dollars in debt,
do better than them.

You gotta be kind to your mother.
Her past stretches through dark times,
and her present is filled with shadows,
your father is blocking the light.

You gotta be wary of your father.
An accident occurred
and then his brother made a mistake,
and now he suffers, he does not grow and he will drag you down.

You gotta be tender with your oldest brother.
He doesn't know where his heart lies.
He believes the greates sin is to not love
and he loves no one but you.

You gotta understand your God.
They may be different than your brother's
(lets hope They're different than your mother's)
but you need to meet them on level ground.

You gotta stay soft,
the world is hard, it'll get harder each day of your life,
but you must remain like water.



Is it better to roll off the hard surfaces, the ones that cut, or is it better to cut them instead?
I pray that I'll know when you grow old enough to ask

Dear Ana
Bid me adieu
In your arms, you hold
The heart you abhor
Set me free
From incessant misery

These are poems for the victims and survivors of the Nashville Covenant School shootings.



Nashville Covenant Call to Love
by Michael R. Burch

Our hearts are broken today
for our children's small bodies lie broken;
let us gather them up, as we may,
that the truth of our Love may be spoken;
then, when we have put them away
to nevermore dream, or be woken,
let us think of the living, and pray
for true Love, not some miserable token,
to command us, for strength to obey.



For a Nashville Covenant Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails, when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream while winter scowls
and nights compound dark frosts with snow?
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?



Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live nine artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...


Epitaph for a Nashville Covenant Student
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



As springs’ budding blossoms emerge
the raptors glide mercilessly.
—Michael R. Burch

I wrote this haiku-like poem on 3-27-2023 after the Nashville Covenant school shooting massacre.



This poem is for mothers who lost children at Nashville Covenant and in other similar tragedies...

Childless
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
Of one fallen star.



I Pray Tonight
by Michael R. Burch

for the Nashville Covenant survivors

I pray tonight
the starry light
might
surround you.

I pray
each day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere the morrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.



Nashville Covenant Call to Action
by Michael R. Burch

We see their small coffins
and our hearts break,
so we ask the NRA—
"Did you make a mistake?"

And we vow to save the next child
for sweet love's sake,
but also to protect ourselves
from such heartache.

The lives, safety and happiness of our children depend on our ability to persuade the NRA and its political lackeys to stop exalting money and political gain above the life, liberty and happiness of innocents. What is the cost of banning assault weapons, compared to the ultimate price innocents pay when they are used by madmen playing Rambo in classrooms and theaters? Ironically, just hours before the Sandy Hook massacre, in a weekly column that I wrote for the Nashville City Paper, I pointed out that right-wing politicians are not just demanding the "right" of citizens to bear loaded handguns into restaurants that serve alcohol and bars — a combustible mix. No, people who call themselves "conservative Christians" in collusion with the NRA and its gun lobby are demanding the right to carry assault weapons everywhere ... which "logically" means into universities, high schools, grade schools, kindergartens, pre-schools, Sunday schools and maternity wards. When I wrote this, I was speaking ironically — I thought — but then a few hours later the NRA and its political minions made me seem like a prophet.



Sandy Hook Shooting Gallery
by Michael R. Burch

If we live by the rule of the gun
what can a child do,
but run?

Sixteen of the students who died at Sandy Hook were six years old; the other four students were seven. I wrote the poem below for another child gunned down by a madman. While we cannot legislate sanity, we can be sane enough to legislate away the "right" of serial killers to purchase assault weapons so easily. We can defend many small victims from such carnage, if "we the people" have the wisdom and the will to defend them.



Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch

a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born
on September 11, 2001 and died at age nine,
shot to death ...

Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm — I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring — I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the brutal things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short ... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here ...

I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bear them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.

The Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings left 27 students and educators dead, and question our nation's sanity and resolve to put children's lives above money and politics.



This haiku makes me think of the students and teachers of Sandy Hook, who were trapped in a war zone:

War
stood at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
—Watanabe Hakusen, translation by Michael R. Burch



Piercing the Shell
by Michael R. Burch

If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we'll discover what the heart is for.

It seems to me that the NRA has declared a war — an open season — on our children, by insisting that assault weapons must be available to every Tom, **** and ***** Harry. But what will we, the people, say and do?


Whence Now?
by Michael R. Burch

Grown darkly accustomed to grief,
will we ever turn over a new leaf?



Something
by Michael R. Burch

Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
and finality has swept into a corner where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

The three students shot and killed in the Nashville Covenant School massacre were all nine-year-olds. They were identified as Evelyn Dieckhaus, Hallie Scruggs and William Kinney. Three adults were also killed in the shooting: Cynthia Peak, Mike Hill and Katherine Koonce. It is no longer good enough to talk about loving our children and praying for them to be safe. We have to protect them from mass murderers armed with assault weapons. The alleged serial killer, Audrey Hale, was reportedly armed with an AR-style rifle and an AR-style pistol. In more civilized nations citizens cannot legally purchase such military-grade weapons. The Nashville Covenant massacre marked the 19th shooting at an American school or university, so far in the first three months of 2023, according to CNN.

Keywords/Tags: Nashville, Nashville Covenant, Nashville Covenant Presbyterian School, school shooting, shootings, massacre, children, kids, students, child abuse, gun control, America, United States, USA, death, deaths, ******, serial ******, massacre, bereavement, class, classes

A simple, well-cut black dress with pearls and up-swept hair. So, Audrey Hepburn.
The way the Japanese drink traditional and ceremonial tea.
The shape of a ballerina.
French manicures.
Horseback riding.
Victorian dresses.

You are my heart and upon it
I have etched my secret hopes for you:
My hope that you burn brightly, and long—
That your most heartfelt desires lash themselves
Upon the winds of passion
And that your heart’s love flows
Out of eyes and mouth to the tuneful ears
Of those who surround you.
That hope survives and blooms in the inclement weather
Of disappointment—
That you find and etch your secret desires
For your own child—
And that when I am gone,
That in a flowering corner of your soul
That you feel my love for you—


Copyright/All Rights Reserved Audrey Howitt 2011

heart filled with love,
head on she is tough,
one direction always up.
her mind no doubt smart,
she sweet some ****,
her life a perfect piece of art.

she might be short ,that's length
when its sight she sees into the future.
she might be dark, that's skin
inside she is supernova.
the brightest light even in the darkest night,
look into her eyes you see the sparks.

to God I am grateful,
hope she will ever be cheerful ,
success she is a handful,
one more thing thank you.

I didn't cry writing this,
maybe because if I could I would have to cry everyday.
she deserves the same,
I will try what ever I can until im zero strength .

her name is Tendai that means thank you.
thank who I ask her , thank Tendai
she is my sister.

FROM PAPA

I remember when we first met, downtown crossroads.
          The streets were filled with people shuffling from one art gallery to the next. Jazz was played on the corner of the streets, causing the noise pollution to die down a bit. People listened and danced.
      You grabbed my hand and swung me towards you,  and I realized, just in the shortest time, we were swing dancing.
       We ******. We couldn't dance, but just the fact that you were touching me and I was touching you created  a gate that held back all my negative thoughts and feelings. You were the only thing that was there. It was just the music... And you...
        This "relationship" we had was slowly turning into a war. You cheated and I stayed.
Staying with you was a simple mistake that I had made only because I thought that I loved you, and you made me believe that you loved me back. Every single day since you forced your lips against that other girls, I have been nothing but jealous and hurt, but I didn't distribute my jealousy as much as I did my sadness and anger.
       You, put me through more than I asked, In fact I asked for nothing that involved pain and suffering. I only asked for love and caring.
We had many good memory's, and many photographs were taken. I will never forget the great times we had.
I will never forget you.


    By Audrey Lucille Pendergraft
10/22/20013

It’s cold out,
But I want to lean over the side of my bed, grab my blue flannel pajama pants from last years Christmas, And slip them up my skinny legs for a drive.

I would pass up the dim, street-lit highways to arrive at the airport.
I would leave a note on the granite counter top for ma, to explain that it was desperate times escorting my desperate measures.

I would arrive at the gate with my flannel pants, my mobile diary, and my heavy hanging shoulders with my puffy tired eyes.
I would board my plane, eat my peanuts, and since it's Thursday and Thanksgiving is a weeks past, spread myself out across the row of emptied seats.
I would get two hours of rest to wake up with frost on my side window, and the snow of Denver to keep my chilled company.

There I would board my bus for my fourtyfive minute adventure to Boulder.
Thats where we would meet, you with your Audrey Hepburn hair and perfect pearl smile,
A cup of coffee in your left hand and a cup of cocoa in your right.
Me with my flannel pajamas and oversized jacket
With nothing else to offer--except for my presence.

We wouldn’t say much
Just giggle and give some hugs in the dead of Colorado’s bitter beautiful nights,
Before heading to where you call home to cuddle and hide from the rest of winter.