Author Archives: TheRealTamara

For an opinionated woman such as I, blogging is an excellent outlet. This is one of many fori that I use to bloviate. Enjoy! Comment on my commentary.

It’s a noise

There are frogs in the kitchen
As the percolator burps its brew
In the quiet of these rooms
It's a noise.
Out the window, cup in hand
I spy a flag unfurled in the breeze
Lightly waving in the glow of
Early morning sunlight
It's a symbol taking symbolic action
On a day we're remarking that
America is not for sale
Will we be heard in the quiet
Of these rooms,
Of these streets?

important notes

It is important to document my thoughts. My memories have an even more important place. It’s important to remember.

We drove over the roads
Winding through small towns
Named long ago but unknown
To me, conjuring recollections
But still unfamiliar. We drove
Through towns, Amy and I,
Where I had been years ago,
Familiar to her in their autumn
Splendor. These had been the
Byways I drove years ago, we
Drove, my mother and I, our
Girls' trips, years ago, those
Last six months. We drove 
Through trees emerging in the
Springtime, a farewell tour. 
Today, I remember, I celebrate
It will not be for the last time.
We'll drive here again, Amy 
And I, and remember.

Like Aeschylus

Shakespeare was clever, his
Language precise, but cheeky.
He was not a muse, he was a
Legend, an icon, one to envy,
One to emulate. To dream of
Emulating, a beacon and the
Star in a firmament of English
Poets, Marlowe, Jonson, Dunne
I am done and undone but I,
Like you, try, and want or wish
Or hope, to bend my English to
My thoughts, to trail in the vein
Of the Masters who have so
O'ermastered their English that
My trials are vain, and in vain,
Vainglorious, the Poet might
Say, but not to mock me as I
Try to follow a path that I am
Doomed to find harder than
The Bard's whose prose was 
Poetry and poetry unerringly
Human and complete. I aspire
Where inspiration will not go

Now that you’re gone

A lament, an apology, a resolution

I am sorry I could not
Sit with you after you
Passed. My vigil was
For your life, not your
Death. And, yes, I was 
Vigilant while you still
Drew breath, alert to
How precious a gift it
Was to watch over you 
Of how precious our 
Life together, our love
Was. I sit with you now
Still. I hold vigil in my
Heart's remembrances

How it unfolds

Me, but also all of us

The rest is just rearranging
The notes of our songs, or
The furniture in our rooms,
The clothes we wear or the
Jackets we discard. It's all
As expected, as it was set
Down, jotted once, so we
Can play upon a template
To make it our own, ours
To make it the music that  
Is the backdrop of our life

You

Rhythm runs your heart,
Beats out the time, taps
Down through your toes.
Its syncopation rides in
Every movement, you're
Smooth, gliding with a
Grace that's memorable
The counterpoint sweeps
Everyone off their feet

Us, you plus me

The rearrangement is the
Arrangement, the timing 
Is right on the beat, the
Counterpoint moves so
Effortlessly, melodiously
You feel each note move 
Through your heart, I can
Rewrite a chapter, change
A word or two so its all in
Rhythm, a drumbeat that
We recognize as ours alone

Ouriborus?

What's the word for that
That snake biting its tail
That perfect circle a self
Immolation, a destroying
Eating itself to what end
No pun there, move on to
The dictionary. What's the
Word for that symbol, an
Image hard to forget even
As the word is forgotten
Representing the forever
What's the word for that?

Mark of time

We see others age and fade,
Never holding that mirror to
Ourselves. Their youth, even
Though they are younger now
As then, than are we, dwindles,
Lost in wrinkles. Our eyes see 
Only a twinkle of humor when
Looking upon ourselves. Our
Lines become us, theirs make
Them look old. We see others,
Never spying our face in the
Mirror of time passing, aging,
Fading, youth receding into a
Memory of our years gone by.

Fix it, fix-ins, fixtures

So much madness, crazy 
Stuff, so crazy you only
Can call it shit, crazy shit.
Just reach for the sides,
Sweet potatoes, they will
Save you, I like mine with
Out the marshmallows, I
Know, sweeter maybe is
Better, especially now, I
Agree. Pass the brussel
Sprouts, please. There's
A chandelier at the Met
That just makes me feel
Good, feel better. These
Lights go up before the
Curtain does. At the Met.

Cliché

I need a cliché to anchor
My poetry to a real world
To bounce off of what is
Real and what is not, or 
Just to add verisimilitude
To what I say, or maybe to
Add significance to mere
Words, we know that they,
The mere words are not as
Substantial as we expect
Them to be, as we need 
Them to be. Mere words