It doesn’t take a lightning bolt or
cosmic jolt to spark the dark side
of womankind and change an angel
to a she-devil and transform that shy
child who never thought to be wild
into a wanton adventuress eager to
exchange those gentle pastels for a
firey red dress.
It doesn’t take a potent concoction
from a witches caldron, a love potion
or occult incantation, a voodoo spell
or the old “candy is dandy but liquor
is quicker” mantra to unveil the
feminine mystique and send it
dancing in a midnight dress through
an ecstacy of black magic madness.
It doesn’t take sorcery, but whispered
sweet nothings and a loving touch.
In my cheap room, lit by a TV screen,
after I climb five flights, each night,
up a stairway to nowhere, I sit and
stare at Hollywood daydreams, which
feature movie queens, heros and villans,
happy endings. Each one showing, that
in the USA, the bad guys lose, truth wills
out, the righteous win — which keeps us
going. It’s how we survive these hard
times, as we sip our beers and eat our
popcorn in a world that’s broken.
Even in this dead town where misery
abounds, and jobs can’t be found, and
what was up crashed down, like so many
Humpty Dumptys who can’t be put back
together again, not even by our constitution,
nor our institutions, or our business leaders,
rabbis, priests and preachers, nor our
politicians, who all have other eggs to break
and fry, as they scramble those happy
endings for their busy lives. Which have
nothing to do with our sorry stories, because
they don’t have to live them. They don’t
even have to watch them. They can select
another station. They inhabit another nation.
Reprinted with permission from Amor y Sabor.
[Photos © Eliza Alys Young]
In the days since the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, we have, as a country, struggled to make sense of it all. Every parent has thought of their own children on that day and are grateful they are safe. Some are grateful for something else — that it wasn’t their child who perpetrated the violence. Others pray that there is no child like Adam Lanza at their school — a ticking time bomb of potential violence. …..click here to read more
The church bells toll as the storm descends.
Shanty Town is shrouded with snow.
Crystal castles, and other fairytale marvels,
cover the ramshackle houses, shabby store fronts,
clap trap shelters, toppling tenements.
The dreary mill atop the hill, glitters in the maelstrom
like a diaphanous dream dome (afloat in a cloudland).
Shape shifting spirits dance off the drifts,
fly with the flurries, twirl and pirouette.
Even the shacks and shanties, the rickety sheds,
conjure up post cards cottages and nativity scenes.
I bundle through the blizzard, bowed against the swirl,
a fragile ghost in a dream, beckoned by the bells.