Annick (my 28 year old sister) came down to NYC, from Boston, for a day visit. It was one of those warm, cerulean days between Christmas and New Years. Annick’s in a surgical residence, in a pandemic, but still somehow, she got away.

We’re dining on a shaded, outdoor, sundeck - I arrived first, by a moment but then the elevator opened and Annick emerged, looking like a model - familiar but I don’t know - more completely adult - more than ever like my mom. It was all I could do not to weep for happiness when we hugged.

After that long hug, Annick gave my clothes a slow, censorious looking-over. When my mom and I shopped for “school clothes” last year, in Paris, I bought some stunning designer (Anna Molinari) clothes - only to find out they were completely out of place at Yale. Now they’re sentenced to a trunk under my bed and my replacement clothes are from FatFace and Patagonia. Ordinary clothes, bought for their ordinariness.

I’ve been dressing to disappear but I wanted her to see a “new me.” How I’ve survived in a rough, academic country - not just survived - but thrived. I also wanted her to think her sister was beautiful and hoped I didn’t seem too strange. She cupped my chin - just like my mom does - “You look wonderful,” she said.

Annick mentioned we’d have company for lunch but she was alone - then this tall, fair-haired, man was with us. He slipped his arm around Annick’s waist and they smiled, together. I’d never met one of Annick's boyfriends before so this was a little disconcerting - part of me wanted to pull her away and say, “MINE!”

Annick made the introductions, “Anais, this is Gerard - Gerard, Anais.”  Gerard leaned into la bise then half hugged me, patting me bearishly on the back. I decided he was too tall and too handsome and began to examine him for flaws.

He wore a dark-charcoal-gray cashmere suit with a light-gray oxford-cloth shirt. “Are you always so dapper?” I asked? “I wanted to look substantial,” he said, with a very slight French accent. He held me at arm’s length. “You’re definitely sisters,” he said, smiling.

We settled in. At first we were a little stilted with each other, uncertain how to best introduce ourselves. Annick said that Gerard is a “Child Neurologist.” “Funny,” I said, “you look older.” and he laughed. I was warming to him.

“How’s school going?” Annick asked later, moving some of my fly-away hair out of my face - a trace of the maternal in her solicitous fussing - but I liked it.
“Easy peasy,” I said, the lie warming me like an ember or black magic.

There’s no real sibling rivalry between us. Imagine you’re Beyoncé’s sister, what are the odds that you’ll eclipse Beyoncé? Yeah, it’s ZERO.

“Ha!” she laughs, “you are such a little fibber.”
“I am NOT,” I hotly say, but my defense is ruined by my laugh. “I’m doing ok - but it’s a lot,” I say, to erase the fib.

They’re ENGAGED!
I tried not to act stunned but I doubt I was very convincing. The news thumped me like a gust of wind. Suddenly, I knew. Our yesterdays were no more substantial than a story we’d read together growing up, that you can mourn and rejoice at the same time.

Otherwise it was a family lunch, although at first I was a bit nervous around Gerard. At one point Annick says, “What are you doing?” as the table gently quivered.
I smiled wincingly, “Making circles with my ankles,” I said.
Annick smiled knowingly.

Never trust a man who tells you he has never measured his *****

Mirror mirror on the wall
Why must i be so tall and slim
Mirror mirror on the wall
I dont even go to the gym
Mirror mirror on the wall
Why do i look like waist
Mirror mirror on the wall
Im so shrunk and defaced
Mirror mirror on the wall
Why do i have a double chin
Mirror mirror on the wall
I just wanna grin
Mirror mirror on the wall
Why do you lie to my face
Mirror mirror on the wall
Making me displaced
Mirror mirror on the wall
Why do i have no friends
Mirror mirror on the wall
Im looking through your lens
Mirror mirror on the wall
Why do you say fairest of them all?
Mirror mirror your a ****** fibber
Why are you even hanging on my wall

I realized to my despair
that I am a terrible liar,
notorious fibber,
and compulsive embellisher.
I deceive
without my knowledge
For my empathy is so pervasive,
so consuming
that when another is experiencing
grief and suffering
and vexation
of the spirit
That, like the tissue I offer for their tears
I soak up every gnawing sorrow
and suddenly
I become in sync,
In belief.
Twinned disturbance
leads to expression
of experience
And soon I'm telling
others of what has just happened to me
when nothing has actually happened at all.

Could someone please relieve me of this torturous empathy?
Its turning me into a fallacy

Gloom rocks back and forth in that old rickety chair,
Weaving a noose in her lap when Perfection draws near
Singing a song of cheer.


"Hello, Gloom!" he greets.
"Hello, Perfection." Gloom greets.
"What may I do for you today?"
"No, Gloom." Says Perfection,
"What may I do for you today?"


Gloom sighs. "Well,
Your fingers will do well to weave this noose for me,
Won't they?"


"Aye! They will!
They will knot a noose so fine and well
It will be the finest noose ever woven!"


"Well, yes,
I suppose so.
Here, the noose.
Have a seat,
While I go to snooze."


And upon getting the noose,
Perfection weaved...
And weaved...
And weaved...


"Curse it! No good!"
I must unravel this!"
And unravel this, he did.
And his fingers went to work a while.

"Ahhh...look! A piece of fiber!
If not perfect, I will be seen a fibber!
I'll weave this again!"


"And again!"


"And again!"


"Oh, no!
Not quite yet.
Argh! my brow has broken a sweat!"
Time and time I have spent!
Why will this noose not be perfect?"


"Oh, Gloom...
Her work imperfect be
And now mine alike.
Oh no...
I cry. I cry.
I'll tie this noose and die!"

Here's to folly, to the great valley called love
Which reminded me of forever through imperfections,
Hardships and disappointments, of falling deeply
Into discovery from self-doubt, of reaching freedom,
The bore of a goal like contentment.

Here's to pain, the antithesis of the stars,
Of pretensions and incompletion, the middleground
Between the starts and the endings, the covert catalyst,
The grand surrealist, as we dread to know
The fullness of our sanity, of our souls,
Our fragility, of our very being.

Here's to the machinery, the agitation
Called dreams, the sweet fog of distant memories,
Or the dark smoke of passion sometimes,
Cunning as ever, like a freight train,
Like wind, like havoc, like thypoon,
Oftenly deprived of conclusive destinations.

Here's to art, drama and poetry, the mystics,
The sons and daughters of the grand mystics,
Of philosophy, science and religion, not to mention
History, the grand infidel, and mythology, the fibber.

Answers overwhelm us, test us, and divide us,
They appear when we're most not ready,
Yet the questions keep us sane, ever growing,
Ever sun, ever moon and ever cloud.

Only time will tell and would not,
The old grey, the clear dark, the pale light,
It never learned a language,
It only learned to live, noticed
But never quite understood.
How diaphanous. How vague.

So here's to the confusion, to the uncertainty
Like love always has been.
Here's to us, to our ambitions,
Our possessions, the treasures which speak
Permanence in our hearts.
Here's to the violent, the meek and the indifferent.
Here's to the society and the humanity
That's left in it. Here's to those who hate me.
Here's to our faith and our fate.
Here's to the poems that will never be written again.

Here's to you, my love, my true.
May we stay kind, mad, and human,
Or something more, whatever that means,
Despite the opposition, and deception and progression.
So here's to the Universe.
Here's to the grand riddler called existence.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Hey, I know you
Your infectious simper
Your zestful spirit
You're an unwitting fibber
With a simulated first blush
The universe beguiled by this facade
Little one please hush
I know you
As clear as day
And I hear them all
The rumble in your sighs
The couch in your tears
And your silent cries
But in the midst of it all
I stand tall
Reaching out to you
As your first love
Echoing in your head
That all I've ever said
Shall be fulfilled
In due time
Just give the time some time
And always remember
That you're never alone
Hey, I know you
Your infectious simper
Your zestful spirit
You're an unwitting fibber
With a simulated first blush
The universe beguiled by this facade
Little one please hush
I know you
As clear as day
And I hear them all
The rumble in your sighs
The couch in your tears
And your silent cries
But in the midst of it all
I stand tall
Reaching out to you
As your first love
Echoing in your head
That all I've ever said
Shall be fulfilled
In due time
Just give the time some time
And always remember
That you're never alone

Oh heavenly Bible,
he stood there holding you
A fibber, a republican, the people choice
So many times I saw him at the podium
Jeering and coming up against the people of God.
Yet, not a bible near by>>

A hope of promise to his followers
A curse to the dark, yellow and brown foreigners:
He often said that he inherited a mess
So were my father exact words
After he brought a second hand old Wolsey car
Back in 1967: he too inherited a mess

Now the crime in the land is uprising
More regrets than before: is servicing
More bombing than the Vietnam War

How shallow can one be?
How detached is he from his constituency:
The fear of the ego, and the power of the spirit
A poet ponders, about his next tweet or text

Such men behind the wheels:
means a nation will suffer,
God children pray
for justice and for peace.

They wealth kept on
growing from the backs of slaves
That is why we grieve?
Each and every day

An apple tree without fruits,
Cows without milk,
chicken without eggs
A well without water, those little things
we took for granted, is like a nation without
Patience, kindness and loyalty

Proverbs 28:11
The rich man is wise in his own eyes,
But the poor who has understanding searches him out;
!

There he stood on the podium, clutching a Bible. I hope some of us can recall that day—a day of disbelief, a day when we wondered, “What the heck is going on?” A fibber, a husband, a Republican—some might say he was the people’s choice. Now he’s running again, vying to lead his party. For his followers, he represents hope; for others, he’s a curse. The light, the brown, and the black foreigners—the ones who will rewrite history. Will they say this time that we’ve inherited a mess?
When I’m uncertain about my writing, my mind often returns to my childhood focus point: the poem “The Pied Piper of Hamelin.” It holds lessons to be learned. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light”—our fragile nation teeters on the brink of failure. To understand its message is to believe in the legend. Our nation’s wealth grew from the backs of slaves, and we grieve the injustices throughout history. An apple tree without fruit, cows without milk, chickens without eggs—a well without water. These little things we took for granted are like a nation lacking patience, kindness, and loyalty.
Proverbs 28:11 warns that the rich can be blinded by their own perceived wisdom, while the poor, possessing understanding, see through their delusions. It reminds us to seek true discernment beyond our own perspectives.
Crisis upon crisis—our dogmatic nation grapples with challenges.

mypoetryforumDOTcom 25.06.18

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