StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XIII, No. XXVII

What say you,
Shall we dance,
Continue our promenade
Around the floor
After we say I do?

The Moonlight is grand
In New York, I'm told,
Even black-eyed Maryland
May soon be fine,
Let's say we dance then
And tell Virginia
To go fuck itself,
If they can.

There are those among us
Who are culturally insensitive,
Unable to distinguish
A crumpet from a sangiovese
Or a sashimi from raw fish;
Cultural barbarians who are not
As well educated as we are,
No doubt clinging to their guns
And small town religions:
Why can't they be as progressive
As we are?

When the floor groans and creaks above me,
I listen carefully so I can determine
Whether Cedar or Sharon is moving
Towards the stairs and possibly down.
Then I remember Cedar is no longer here
And  become lost once more in memory.

— Lisa Jain Thompson (June 2012)

Humid,
There's the word,
Orange and red alerts;
Lung choking humid,
August temps in May
Weeks before the summer hits;
A mild January,
A record warm May,
The summer may send us all
Simpering into agreement
On Global Warming.

Something so simple as returning from the store
And opening the door and not finding Cedar
Waiting patiently to greet us,
Checking out all the fine smells we've brought back,
Watching on alert out the open front door
To make sure our groceries are safe and our passage
From car to house and back again is without incident.

Everything seems lost at the moment
And Cedar wouldn't want that,
So somehow we must move on
But not yet,
Not nearly yet.

Seven undistinguished years in the Illinois senate
Two years campaigning for President
   While absent from the U. S. Senate
Four years blaming Bush for his problems;
Only he truly understands the issues,
Spending evenings writing papers on Foreign Affairs
While complaining he wasted hours talking to Congress.
Such is the measure of our President,
   An enigma wrapped in disappointment;
Vision isn't enough for a President,
He must lead by example and inspiration,
Arrogant, conceited, egotistical and vain,
Above all amateurish in politics and diplomacy.
I would not bet the ranch on his re-election.

The Fourth, with Family,
With cheap fireworks and cheaper beer,
My Father-in-Law's birthday,
Outdoors at my Aunt's with my grandparents,
More a picnic than a party,
Talking about the Giants
And whether Mays could hit sixty this year,
A child of immigrants
   at the turn of the century,
A child of immigrants a hundred years
   Before The Revolution,
Gathered in celebration of our country,
One with Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin..

Mothers of Invention

On the Fourth of July,
Eighteen Hundred Twenty-Six,
The Fiftieth Anniversary of The Signing,
Jefferson and Adams, hours apart, died,
The last best minds of The Revolution,
With Washington and Franklin, fathers to us all,
With not a little help from Jemmy and Dolly.