Why? Well, there is a competition I tripped over with a glorious prize that includes the publishing of a book. So my goal is 100 poems in 10 days, those unposted on the web, because that counts against you, even if you are relatively unknown. The censorship ensures something new to read, but I have so many I wish I could send. For the cheap cost of $25 to $50, you can enter and enter different contests until your checking account cries “HOLD.” My account always seems to cry hold these days.
I want to be published. I lean on the windows of libraries, wishfully seeing myself in a display. One must enter, though, to find a means to be seen. My website, offline during the political recovery the last three years has suffered, is now back in the forefront. It will take time to regain my followers, and that is understood. But for a brief time, I must leave you again. Wish me well. The writer in me is sliding out to pay ball in the competitions. I hope I have the luck and skill the Nationals had with the World Series. I hope to score a home run.
Ann WJ White, aspiring….
Can I do without your call?
Making arrangements to survive,
To ignore the rest of strife, freely given.
Can I do without your song?
The snow arrived unasked, unsummoned,
With the feeders empty and promises, also.
Can I do without your cheer?
Here in the gray land of between,
Where the silver bells of registers
Ring the advent of poverty, competition,
Fool hardy expectations of man, not beast.
Here I find you, still cheerful, still singing,
Your small talons grasping at the dirt,
Looking for that last pillbug, that last seed.
Your flock only humors me,
As the camera whirls, clicks,
spits and spats, leaving talon prints
as they settle for the night in snow.
They wait, they linger until sure
That the warmth of yesterday is gone
And the time to fly free and warm has arrived.
I cannot live without your song,
Your calling out of peace and forgiveness
All for the price of a seed or two.
I cannot live without the holly trees,
The magnolias that decorate with red seeds,
The pines silent except between creaks of wind.
I need your cheer of simplicity.
Catastrophic bees in tees
Seek the edges of green lawn,
While night workers, oblivious,
Try sleeping behind drapes
Of white noise.
Teams of green clad
Buzzing monsters attack,
Tool driven, belt drives engaged,
Soon replacing one buzz
For an informal hum.
They are a constant.
A suburban flock
And Grasshoppers, snails,
Slipping competition for wages.
Grooming nature, using comb,
Scissors that are automatically
and Mysteriously changing in form
It rained, grew, and in growing
Fertilized the minds of the Suburbian.
Nonsense you might cry,
But you'll never be heard.
Seen and unseen as they mow,
Edge, and disappear
Rush hour will never see their like.
The grass wars have begun.
Who is the cheapest?
The fastest? The meanest?
The honest? The overpriced?
All on paper, awaiting signatures
Of concession. Sign here, please.