WICKED! (Poem)

My latest poem in honor of Halloween and the "lost souls" of Cape Cod's sailors.

(In honor of All Hallows’ Eve and those spirits who are still with us)

WICKED

A wicked gale, 1841,

Took all souls, both old and young.

Among the shipwrecks off the Cape,

No sadder story leaves mouths agape.

Seven ships were swept like splintered trees as

Sailors fought the rising seas.

Fifty-seven lads left that cursed day,

From Truro Harbor through Cape Cod Bay.

With farewells to families and prayers of thanks,

To fish for cod along George’s Banks.

Headed nor ‘east at full sail,

The hopefuls met that dreaded gale.

Soundings dropped as winds blew wild,

And fear spread from man to child.

For closer their vessels approached the shoals,

Which cut their hulls with ripping rolls,

Nature took victims without remorse,

And most were lost who’d set the course.

Legend has it that on autumn nights,

Amidst Truro’s moors, below the heights,

Ghosts of sailors mourn their ghastly plight,

With frightful wails across the night.

So if you dare to brace that wicked wind,

You may hear cries of those doomed kin,

Brothers of the sea who dared to go,

Where others still venture and fight the foe.

NOTE: This poem is based in part on real events off Truro, MA in 1841 (Source: Provincetown Banner, June 28, 2009). The legend is fiction.

LET'S ". . .MARCH TO A DIFFERENT DRUMMER!"

The flag has been thrown. Now its time for those who have inner rage about what's happening in Washington and to our country to act.

Veterans who won't receive their much-earned benefits; the disabled and retirees who are in danger of being cut off and living on the streets; the impoverished, including the new "poor" or our dwindling middle class, who struggle to make a living wage. When will the "entitlement" proponents that believe these people don't deserve government assistance realize that the majority of those who request help have contributed a percentage of their own wages to Social Security and Medicare. That those who have become disabled or need to feed their children may become the homeless people many of those politicians step over or throw quarters into dirty waifs' cups.

Those who don't fit the Tea Party's mold of what an "American" should be have also been disenfranchised: the minorities who have been pushed aside for decades so that the 10%, mainly white males, could earn the 90% of income in the U.S. Or the immigrants brought to this country to harvest crops, clean houses, sweep school floors, work at fast food restaurants and pick crab meat out of shells who work three jobs to survive. In essence, the men and women who carry the load of jobs many won't touch.

To begin this People's Crusade, we need to take a public, vocal and active stand. Ask our communities or raise, funds through word-of-mouth, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, YouTube (watch for video blog soon) to help support the travel and lodging expenses, or those with special needs to go to Washington.

Where are the celebrity activists who come out for natural disasters but stay mute on the possible destruction of our country's economy, democratic principles and decent standards of living for all people? College students, mental health advocates, teachers, farmers, or environmentalists who warn about global warming but aren't out there demanding change?

Please pass this "Shout Out" to everyone you know and anyone whose presence would garner attention in the media: bloggers, viral You Tube posters, newspapers, local politicians, advocacy groups, and most importantly those in our country who can't speak for themselves. If we work together for the good of all, our government will have to listen. If we protest peacefully yet vocally in high numbers, change is possible.

March for the 90% and let the 10% know that we will not tolerate oligarchical tyranny any longer.

For your information, I write as a member of the disabled; a community left to fall between the cracks. However, this outcry is not for me. I've fought my battle to be heard for three years and have finally received the help I needed, though any day that may disappear. No, I write this opinion for the quiet ones who use any excuse not to participate. We must do whatever we can to ignite the People's Crusade and make Democracy Strong again.

LOVE IN ALL ITS GUISES

Read the headlines of any newsworthy site and you'll find multiple stories using the word, "love."
For war: "For the love of my people, I shall exact revenge."
For propaganda: "What I do, I do for love of my country."
For casual sex: "I love her body."
For cause celeb: "I love helping people." (Sometimes genuine)
For crimes of passion: "I killed her because I loved her so much."

In my journey as a reader, novelist, blogger and poet, I've seen the word "love" diluted, deconstructed, dissipated into absurdity. Eugene Ionesco, if still with us, would have plenty of fodder for his plays of the absurd: "We have not the time to take our time." No truer than today. For this post, I'd like to focus on how "love" has been thrown around without thought and diffused of meaning.

Today we've reached a period in our cinematic and television history where romantic comedies have become so cynical; sophomoric, embodied in "classics" as Hangover (and its sequels) and Two Broke Girls, that they are taken at face value. Their popularity as comedic entertainment is arguable; however, young and some older fans often take away the commonly accepted mantra: "Who needs love, when you can have sex?" Any meaningful moments in contemporary romantic comedies are either ignored or left to a few lines of dialogue at the end of the movie or episode: words glossed over like the lighting speed listing of names during the end credits.

I'm no prude, and certainly not a hypocrite, like many growing up during the sexual revolution, I wanted to explore that new-found freedom but I hesitated. During my teens and college years any romantic notions splashed across the big and small screens, along with personal demons, undermined any attempt at being non-chalant. Subconscious vibes of wanting "commitment" turned away most boys and it wasn't until I moved to New York City, after college, that I accepted love wasn't part of early stages, if at all, so why not accept what most other women had: "Stop thinking and just have fun!" "Lower your expectations and take control." "Life is too short. Find happiness when you can."

Decades later, limited excursions have barely produced a feeling of "freedom." Romantic notions that feminists and experts have dismissed as childish have left me spent. I've even become a proponent of Peter Pan or Wendy, the syndromes, I mean. Watching When Harry Met Sally today makes me cry because I can't believe in romantic love. Let me emphasize, though, that I am fulfilled in my career and life experiences; I have few regrets.

Still when I remember my childhood before The Kardashians had taken over cable television and the Internet; when stars tattered relationships weren't splashed in garish detail in once respected newspapers and news programs; to a time when the words of the Bard or the songs of Sondheim/Bernstein were among the first I read or heard, I have faint recollections of what real love could be. Love may be thwarted, broken in these great interpreters of romantic tragedy, but it lives and continues to do so underneath the disillusionment. Yes, another film remake of Romeo and Juliet is soon to be released and I'm surprised that I'm rejoicing. I have extolled the classic story of young lover's; however, I'd also argue, as have others before me, that Shakespeare's intent hadn't been to romanticize love but to warn his audience of love's consequences, a theme explored further in the musical West Side Story.

I hope the Romeo and Juliet box office take will soar the opening weekend and beyond. That more people will see movies such as Silver Linings Playbook or The Notebook, or earlier films such as Monsoon Wedding or Bright Star, where love isn't always easy, complete or happy but always present. Better yet, indulge in Shakespeare's love dramas and comedies or a modern drama like Stoppard's The Real Thing. See the remake of Porgy and Bess. All of these dramas embody the meaning of real love in all its guises.

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Wendy

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