Turn Off That Screen!

It’s a crapshoot –
self-aggrandized,
charity-loving,
ostentatious celebrities
polluting developing minds
masking panic;

collective agreements
re-violating, prodding
drive elaborate schemes
to improve our living status
personas discomforting
to future generations;

what entertainment –
bait and switch tactics
proclaiming worthy causes
grand venues depicting happy
disguising uncertainty
loss of societal innocence
overshadowed.

(Image: media-values.blogspot.com)

 

Irony

Used to be a teacher –
socially respectable –
graded papers, set
lesson plans, passed.

Now, locked out, I am
tossed like dirty laundry
heaped atop the sullied
citizen pile – a dirty,

tangled mess in need
of cleansing – those
indistinguishably ill
usurpers of public money.

Once, knew definitively
the standards set by
ministry guidelines,
curriculum based goals

now, am dispossessed,
mind lost, unable to focus
on details, angered by
trivialities, a nonentity.

How I miss the certainty
of rubrics, daily routines
set by hours of sweat –
sweet organization.

I am the student now,
submerged in this disarray
of emotional churning
unsolicited learning

environment in which
achievement is seldom
honored – no A’s awarded
for surviving life tests.

(Image: nutleywatch.com)

A 60’s Childhood

Formative years were more destruct
than construct; contradictions riddled

the foundation of our familial structure:
one man tyrannized five females while

in the news, women marched for equality;
called the likes of him a male chauvinist.

Aunt drove a forklift truck, looked like a man,
chalked one up for women’s liberation, didn’t

talk about her sexuality; shadow of illegality
hovering around her – no one dared to ask.

At nine, I questioned the fairness of being
born a girl in a man’s world, felt impassioned

by feminist cries, yet feared my mom would
leave the nest, abandon baking, domestics;

leave us to fend for ourselves – the warm waft
of fresh-baked goods greeting us each day, gone.

Watched my sisters flaunt their womanly ways
for virile young men who flocked to see bikini

clad bodies, ripe and tanned by the sun – who
was reducing whom to sex objects? And when

my mother’s family came to visit, why were the
men’s hands so invasive, their tongues equally

misplaced, and was this what women in the streets
were crying out against? I wanted to be free, explore

my future prospects – open road ahead – but Mother
said boys will be boys, and men don’t like smart

women, and better to drop out of school at sixteen,
get a secretarial job, and be ready when your prince

arrives – so I rebelled, cut my hair, flaunted my
intelligence, spoke up about inconsistencies,

such as why is a God a He, and why Aunt didn’t
ever date – did feminist mean celibate? and why

when women were so oppressed and men had
all the power, did my father wish he could be one?

Formative years more destruct than construct;
a deviate imprint tainting normalcy’s prospects.

(Image: retrochick.co.uk)