Today’s contribution to the Tupelo Press 30/30 commitment:
Face can be lifted
Arms covered with long sleeves
Hands plumped with injections
Eyebrow and head hair dyed
You really know you are old
when your pubic hair turns grey.
aging
This Morning
It’s almost gone:
Time.
I must print poems for inspiration
before the website goes down.
The early morning sun filters
through windows, warms my back.
The printer prints.
I smear even complexion mask
over my aging face.
Where did my beautiful skin go?
Can I fix it?
Arid climate, too much suntime, what?
Must I admit to aging?
Must I see grey roots
beneath the dye?
I walk by the photo when I was 37.
What happened to that face?
I want it back!
The printer prints.
I look in the mirror, distressed.
In my family, I can expect
another twenty years.
Twenty years?
If I don’t do something to this face,
in twenty years…
The printer prints.
Fun, Food, and Community with Vegetarian Enchiladas
A couple of weeks ago, one of the blogs I follow, getsetandgo, created a post about “community” with photos of an Indian festival where all sorts of people come together to celebrate–a community. She requested others post photos of their community events. After reading her blog post, I decided to tell about my attempt to start a monthly “community” :
Several months ago, I reached way out of my comfort zone and started a monthly potluck. When and where I grew up, inviting people over for a potluck was socially unacceptable. If you invited people over, you cooked everything yourself. If people wanted to bring something, insisted, well, ok, but otherwise, no, no, no. Because of work, writing, and singing, I invited a number of friends over only every few months. In September, I decided it would be far nicer to see people more often and invited some friends over for potluck. They asked if we could do this regularly so a monthly ritual began. More and more friends keep asking to join. It remains a type of hit and miss thing. Sometimes 16 people show up, sometimes only five. My most recent event was a week ago. Because some of these friends are vegetarian, I invented a recipe, vegetarian enchiladas, just for them. I also made pork roast and chicken enchiladas. The vegetarian enchiladas disappeared quickly and everyone wanted the recipe.
Vegetarian Enchiladas
Six tortillas (I used whole wheat)
1/2 purple onion, chopped finely
1 large poblano pepper, chopped finely
1/2 medium sized red bell pepper chopped finely
1 package cream cheese
Olive oil
1 tsp Mexican spice mix
1/2 tsp chipotle pepper, ground (I used Spice Appeal-adjust to hotness desired)
Shredded monterey jack cheese
Red enchilada sauce–I used canned because my cooktop is awaiting repair
Saute onions and pepper in just enough olive oil so they will not stick or become too dry. Mix in cream cheese and spices until thoroughly blended. Fill the tortillas, roll up, and place in an 8 inch casserole dish. Cover with a light layer of enchilada sauce. Sprinkle enough shredded cheese on top to cover. Cover with aluminum foil. Place in a 350 degree oven for 30-40 minutes.
In the spirit of the getsetandgo blog, I took photos of my friends as we talked and ate. The enchiladas were all gone before it occurred to me that it would be nice to have a photo.
Additionally, I regretted not taking a photo of three of my women friends with long hair. Another friend who has spectacular, very dark grey, long hair and just turned 70 recently told me a story about how a mutual acquaintance came up to her and told her no woman over 60 should have long hair. It annoyed me so much in an odd sort of way that I now wear my hair longer than usual.
The Girl and The Woman
The Girl
She stands alone by the train tracks.
Watching and waiting and dreaming.
Hobos no longer exist.
She remembers reading stories of life
when her great grandmother lived:
hobos begging for food, gypsies stealing
children and telling fortunes, long days
working in the corn fields, chopping weeds.
Her own family praises:
tractors, riding lawn mowers, herbicides, pesticides,
electricity, TVs, dishwashers, muscle cars, MacDonalds,
diet Coke, cell phones, computers, DVDs, iPADs.
Now the only excitement lays in Grand Theft Auto,
guns, and sex. She watches and waits and dreams.
The Woman
She stands alone on the rim,
watching the moon rise,
wondering.
Life flies by on wings
outstretched.
She remembers rich years
filled with long joys, living,
loving,
and temporary sadness, divorces,
moving here and there,
Narrangansett Bay, Utah mountains,
Veracruz,
babies held to breast, blond
and chubby, cafe con leche.
She remembers girlhood longings
for far horizons, traveling
around the world, lovers,
husbands, shades of brown
beauty.
She’s learned to make
her own excitement,
singing Goddess songs,
dancing on the rim of wonder.
Photograph by Anabel McMillen and Painting by Lahib Jaddo
Aging
“Rage, Rage, against the dying of the light.” Dylan Thomas
Custom says, “Age gracefully.”
Are they crazy, dumb!
Who wants to look
old
wrinkled
grey?
They lie!
All of them.
Who wants a broken mind
confused
unfocused
lost?
Shoot me!
Burn my bones.
Scatter them
in the desert sands
to feed
desert willow where
rattlesnakes lie
searching for shade.
Hot Pink Toenails
The day I met Tom my toenails were hot pink.
A big mistake!
He called me the lady with the hot pink toenails.
I am not a hot pink person.
They should have been red or orange.
I am an orange person
mixed with lots of red.
It took me two weeks of looking
at those hot pink toenails
to paint them red.
Am I happier now?
Not really
but I know
it is the real me,
my own toes when I look down.
When she painted them pink
the woman said,
“Old ladies want red toenails.”
Will I be able to look at my red toenails
even though I like them and
not think “old lady”?
Will I have to find a new color?
Probably.
Maybe orange marmelade or cinnamon spice or burnt sienna.
These toenails are painted Cajun Shrimp.
writingontherim 