Let’s call this one, “Live Music on a Friday Night with the Jerry Thigpen Trio,” or maybe just, “Good Times.”
Here’s a little bit of one of their tunes:
Let’s Have a Show of Hands
Yes, another political post by someone who doesn’t talk about politics…sorry.
I hate the way politics makes me feel. What I feel borders on rage towards the candidate who exemplifies everything I think is wrong with America: corporate greed, corporate bankruptcies, tax breaks for the wealthy…don’t get me wrong, I’m also disgusted with the opposite end of the compass: the population who could work but choose not to, and instead take from government funds which are paid for by people like me.
What makes people like Trump different from those on the opposite end of the financial spectrum, those who find ways to defraud government programs like welfare, food stamps, social security, unemployment benefits, and even college grants for their children—leaching on programs that middle class taxpayers fund? I don’t see a difference.
I feel compelled to address the latest argument of Trump defenders. They site the astounding fact that…
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Garden
Tend your garden
Weed the rows
Deadhead the roses
Scare off the crows
Rake the leaves
And employ the hoe
Mistress Mary
Your garden grows.
A trellis tall,
Vines wound ’round
Holds court o’er all
These fertile grounds
Beans and corn
Iris and mums
My pleasure found
In nature’s crumbs.
Don’t Jump Off a Clef
Under Water Blues
Submerged in despair
an ocean’s weight above me
blue green light suffused.
Lungs filled to bursting
an ache of throbbing restraint
once exhaled, peace found.
Do not cry for me
I longed for this deep silence
the heart’s true stillness.
An Open Letter To Donald Trump From Some Angry Women.
Yes. And yes.
Dear Mr. Trump… can I call you Mr. Trump? Is that ok? I want you to be happy, that’s very important to me.
Before I get started, let me say this letter isn’t from all women. The Trumpettes surely won’t approve of this message. But this is from most women.
We see right through you. We have all known you at some point. Your ways are not unfamiliar to us. We see through you because we’ve been dealing with you our whole lives.
We heard you call women pigs. And disgusting. And stupid. And bimbos.
We watched as you called a former Ms. Universe “Ms. Piggy” and then spent four days continuing to insult her.
We see your weakness. Your lust for attention at any cost, your need to denigrate women. We see all of it. And we’re mad.
Yes. We’re mad. And fired up. And here’s the thing about us……
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I Know What It’s Like
I know what it’s like to be
unfriended
boycotted
disenfranchised
I know how it feels to be
on the outside
looking in
separate, not equal
I know what they mean when they say
I’m a bleeding heart
liberal
hippie
I understand they don’t mean that
as a compliment
in a pleasant way
with respect.
It hurts when old friends pile on
hurling epithets
hurting feelings
disregarding my rights
But I won’t back down because
my voice counts
I’m not stupid
I won’t be silenced.
Weavings
Drag me down to your level
Hold my face under water
Until I gasp for relief
A mockery of sin’s daughter.
Slow the drum’s beating
Thump, thump, and roll.
Shame hangs on the shingle
Silence fills the hole.
Ride on into a bad dream
Fail me not in the gloom
A nightmare’s path undecided
Woven into the loom.
Little Things on the Occasion of My 60th Birthday.
I’m going to admit to starting out this first day of my sixties feeling a little sorry for myself. Yes, I’d enjoyed a surprise birthday weekend with Studly on the gulf coast, but today was the DAY and I had nothing going on. No party. No family here (except for Studly). No cake. No dancing. Poor pitiful me.
My long time friend, Hunny, turned 60 on the third of this month with a flourish. Her kids threw a surprise party and there was live music and her grandbabies were in attendance. I might have felt a twinge, ok, a rush of envy, knowing there was no way I was going to be feted in such a manner.
But on my way to work this morning I got a FaceTime call from our youngest grandchild who sang her special version of Happy Birthday. Then in the office at the school where I’m working a second grade boy told me he thought I was pretty. Just out of the clear blue sky. When I thanked him and told him that today was my birthday he said, “Well, that explains everything!”
Throughout the day I’ve received hundreds of birthday greetings from friends on WordPress and Facebook, and each one makes me smile. I also have two gifts to open later tonight and Studly has promised to take me to dinner.
On my way home from work I was listening to John Fugelsang’s show and his guest, one of my favorite poets, Taylor Mali, read his poem, My Deepest Condiments. It was as if this poem was meant just for me today. So I’m feeling pretty awesome. No more pity party. It’s great to be 60.
Here’s Taylor Mali. Enjoy.
http://youtu.be/P8NF6WJw50k
Peace, people.
Pre-Sixties Inventory
‘Twas the night before sixty
And while tossing in bed
I considered my body
From my toes to my head.
My arches have fallen
My calves ache with fatigue
Poor ankles are swollen
Oh, where’s the Aleve?
My thighs nicknamed thunder,
Hips ache all the time.
Stomach pooches with abandon,
Breasts droop, it’s a crime!
My neck’s crepey like a chicken’s
My face wrinkled like a Sharpei’s
But brown eyes still a’twinkle
While brown hair’s turning gray.
The changes have been gradual,
And not overnight
Thank goodness I’ve had time
To deal with the fright.
Today’s the day I kiss my fifties goodbye. I’m really looking forward to this decade. If it weren’t the middle of the week I’d go out dancing until 2 a.m., drink my companions under the table, and run naked through the streets singing “Born to be Wild” at the top of my lungs. Good thing it’s Wednesday.
http://youtu.be/xm5DPlNCmtk
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 