Attached - who me?

I've often spoken about attachments on this blog and how our attachments affect us because with attachments come inevitable loss. Kind of the way of life, including birth and death. This is a difficult process for everyone. I'd be the last to preach about attachments. I've also spoken in my poetry about how people places and things only have the meanings we attribute to them and the power we give them.
This is a story about a book, The Gospel Of Buddha by Paul Carus - copyrighted in 1894, that strangely came to be in my possession and led me this digression about a transgression.
Some 30 years ago I was attending Columbia University for my undergraduate degree and was in love with this young Hungarian bike messenger who moved in with me. We were both avid readers and he knew I'd studied and followed eastern philosophy.
One day on his bike messenger travels outside of a fancy mid town - east side office building he espied this book on top of a box of trash and took it. He said he'd imagined I'd love it and that he couldn't think of anyone else who would appreciate this text like me. And he put the book below in my hands. I carefully accepted the gift as the book cover was already worn. The cover feels like leather.

I began to go page through this book and above is what I saw. I was enthralled by the hand drawings illustrating the text.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I saw how old it was and that the illustrations were so lovely.
This is a 1917 edition by The Open Court Publishing Company and is only available in libraries and online pdf of this edition. If you'd like to read the entire book online with the drawings - click here!

Suddenly I realized this book was not only old, it was ancient in the publishing world. It doesn't even have an ISBN number. I searched for the copyright  and found 1894 on the preface above.

Occasionally I read the book. A while back I went to retrieve the book from my shelf and it wasn't there. I missed the comfort I feel when I handle this book. It's become imbibed with meaning.

I realized that my more recent ex had taken it with him when he moved out. I trusted he'd leave my things be when he moved but I was sadly wrong and I was unable to locate many items. It actually took me some time to discover that this book wasn't where I'd kept it.
After our break up I was overwhelmed with trying to get my place my life and my records back in order (and it's still not) and many things slipped by me, like my membership in the National Association of Social Workers lapsed and later it was very difficult to convince them to give me the retirement rate. Five months passed before I realized the book had gone missing. I contacted my ex and he paused before he said he "believed he could locate it," Another month passed before my beloved book was returned to my hands. Guess I'm lucky to get it back at all.
So now here I am with my lovely ancient leather bound volume with original illustrations so I decide to do an internet search to see if it has any value online but in my search for the monetary value (I figure I won't be here forever to enjoy it) I discover uncover Mr. Peter RF Brown and his amazing website, Inter-disciplinary Publications of Peace and Great Souls.

Underneath his title is the following greeting:

WELCOME YOU ARE! to this ... Small Island of Inner Space 

and to the right side of this little tidbit is the following:

"There is a mighty mountain pass,
the causeWay of the sun;
to whom all earth gives homage,
for whom the days began."

mountainman,
deep Himalaya,
1976-1977

Actually the way mountainman has the text from my book laid out on his site is how poetry is laid out which is nicer than my book but Carus' translation is untouched on both. My book also has wonderful hand drawn illustrations.

For those interested in reading reviewing or exploring - esotericism - this man's site would be an excellent place to browse about. His topic listing is extensive and ranges from Western Science to Western Mystics Poets and Religions to Eastern Mystics Poets and Relgions and much much more including but not limited to the Dalai Lama, Australian Aboriginal insights and the Universal Declaration Of Human Rights published by the United Nations General Assembly. I am impressed by the depth of the subjects offered and the quotes Peter R.F. Brown, the designer and everything person I assume, who maintains the site. It took me a second to find him.

For those wishing to know more about what I'm going on about - check these links below:

Inner Self: Esotericism - What Is It? Andrew Schneider

On Wikipedia 

Other online books by Paul Carus

Cambridge Centre for Western Esotericism

TUPELO HONEY

JoAnne is one tough broad,
Italian Irish descent
from the Northeast Bronx
Through sacrifice and dedication
JoAnne is now a nurse at
Presbyterian Medical Center

This is her story
bout a methadone baby
born addicted
on JoAnne’s ward
This boy had tupelo
honey colored skin,
and hazel brown,
almond eyes
Birth mama’s blond and curly haired
A blue eyed Nuyorican
Daddy is a dark skinned African

Mama named the baby Shonequon
The nurses called him “Sweet”
Sweet’s a boarder baby who
lived on the ward
for 2 and a half months
BCW tryin to decide
what to do with that tiny
methadone addicted baby

Now me amiga esta sin ninos
she has no children
e quiere uno mucho
she wants one very badly
so she fell in love with Sweet
talked about him constantly

JoAnne said,
Sweet is cryin all the time
He holds his body rigid
his cryin is so fitful
Kindled by the pain
cause Sweet’s addicted to meth
and this is how he sounds
eeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet’s tiny fists
are always clenched
his spindly arms crossing
his scrawny chest
This baby can’t relax!
He’s got a monkey on his back
Sweet’s addicted to meth

The Doctor confides
he wishes he could
keep Sweet tranquilized
cause he’s screamin so fretfully
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

JoAnne loves to nurture Sweet
She embraces him reverently
comforts him with
the rhythm of her heart
she whispers soothing sounds
cajolingly,

her voice falls like soft waves
caresses tender hollows
of his frail anatomy
her soft warm breath
glides down his velvet neck
Sweet responds with purring sounds

JoAnne’s gentle devotions
linger on
like a mango blossom’s scent
fragrant on a breeze
Sweet watches her giddily
clinging with his
tightly gripped fists

Yesterday Sweet smiled for the
very first time
JoAnne bragged
as though he were her own
Sweet, my boarder baby
is delayed in his response
yesterday was the
first day
God graced me with his smile

Her eyes rimmed with blurring droplets
Dewdrops silhouette
I love him, she said
I want him to be mine
Even though he’s HIV
Even though he surely won’t survive
I want him to be mine

Child Welfare lets his Mama visit
she hardly came at all
Daddy was there
every day
he was always drunk

Today they let her come and
take my Sweet away
Honey, JoAnne said,
This baby’s in a lot of pain
he suffers from anxiety

You don’t have to hold him
24 / 7,
but you need to let him
see your face
smiling, talking
into his

Sweet’s Mama answered
I know mucho more than you do
let me tell you somethin’
You don’t know what I been through
All my kids are born on meth
and that’s the way it’s always been


The baby started fussin’ then
his spindly arms
clenched across
his scrawny chest
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet opened his eyes
he focused on JoAnne
reached out to her with open scrawny arms

His Mama reached the baby first
and took him from his crib
Esta te quieto, nino
she said as she rocked him
dispiritedly
to her methadone beat
Esta te quieto, nino

It’s gonna be okay Mama said
Grandma said she’s gonna help,
She’s carin’ for my other five
My oldest girl’s gonna be there too
And like I told ya,
All my kids are born on meth
And that’s the way it’s always been,
but we know how to get by.

First published (where it can be viewed in its original format) GRIST ON LINE, 1995, an online edited web publication http://www.thing.net/~grist/golpub/golmag/gol7/gleftow2.htm

Friends awarding me too

And I would like to pass the awards on to the list of THIRTEEN random awesome poets below, who can choose either or both awards. Some of these multi-talented bloggers also publish other creative fare –  so get all their goodness at their one-stop shopping locales!
The following recipients may fling these awards with joy to the moon, or wherever!
1.  Joaquin
2. Joy Leftow
3. Paige
4. Talon
5. Snaggletooth
6. Davina
7. Ana Goncalves
8. Glenn
9. Fireblossom
10. Sara Healy
11. Mama Zen
12. Thomma Lyn
13. Mad Cat Lady
I look forward to meeting more poets and reading great poems over this weekend!!  And maybe even to linking up new poets in future posts, if I do the Thursday Poetry Rally again.   Thank you.

In Commemoration of 9/11

I have to tell you
Nothing’s changed from 7 years ago or even 15 or 20 years, many more
A cockcrows, pseudo psychos run our town, our entire country betrayed by nationality
Threats weighed in all around
We stand our ground
Another bomb can drop anytime
No more Hiroshima mon amor
We never know how long
Victims never expect the expected
We destroy ourselves again and again
A full course in humanity
Educators told to slow the word holocaust
Like if they don’t use the word holocaust that means it never happened
It happened again tell me your ancestors didn’t get here by slave ship
I hope it’s a different
new nation under god
9/11 is different
We never knew
They knew and had ideas but hid it from the populace
We never know exactly when a bomb will drop
Isn’t that the point of terrorism
Only those dropping it know when the bomb goes KA – BoOM!
They claim millions didn’t die and we helped them pretend we didn’t make it worse
Our World Trade victims shut in from escape
Sent back from exit doors to their deaths
Why did we do that why why I cry over and over
The first estimated death toll was over
6000 reported they didn’t match any lists
why then did they find 10,000 unidentified bone and tissue fragments
now they say 3000 more unmatched to any dead or missing list
Our brothers, our sisters, our mothers, our people told to stay put to prevent a rampage –
not good or sage advice – it’s our government right or wrong
kept my brother caged to die inside the world trade center
Killed by accident – friendly fire – at least half would have made it had we let them descend and exit the building
How many dead at Hiroshima
How many lost to the gas chambers in the holocaust that never was
Besides 6 million jews, homosexuals now called gays, Romani citizens, soviet civilians, prisoners of war, Poles, Jehovah witnesses, so many more
Pushed to the brink of extinction
and now they say there’s no more holocaust
no more prisoners of war

* Written to commemorate 9/11 last anniversary 2009 and I didn't post then - guess I should've & would do if I had it to do over again.

I Want Some Tanqueray

Tantalize me tranquilize abnormalize my soul to eternity
Eyes on the prize no more lies scrumptious skies
revise and improvise a nobel peace prize
Before I crumble away and decompose I want to weigh less
Portray the prepaid finance for a valet in France
A strawberry soufflé sorbet to lighten the ash gray drab day
Morosely foreboding forbidding decay on a field day
Make a bad thing worse
It’s not a fucking curse
Amy Winehouse is coming back as black as she wanna be her white is right she’s got the blight but she’s gonna make it through to you
I have faith in Amy – she’ll make it through her blue day in spite of the cockamamie
I still reminisce on JonBenet - pray her killer will find judgment day
Lost and found is not the same as a red river running flowing
Amber to red hysteria widespread another unwed mother
no area Lumeria Manchuria maria listeria peoria
It’s dangerous out there advantageous ambidextrous ambiguous and amorphous.
Not a shred of evidence analogous barbarous
Hypochondria indicanuria
She said he wants to be disabled and not work only because he sees how much fun it is to be around you
Hmmm… Interesting theory
I wish I believed that
cabled fabled labeled and tabled enabled and mislabeled then unlabeled
Poetry controls me inside my head

Perception and Misconception

Ur so stabile she inquired so where does all this
Anti-establishment rage & anger come from
If she only knew what we’d been through
Starting six weeks ago she wouldn’t stand there
Asking the same silly questions over and over again
Holding the mic under his nose
As though I didn’t exist
And I know for her I didn’t
Even though I’d already answered her question
About how we’d found the reading
She asked the same question again
the mic steady under his nose
When music man deferred camera girl to my response
She then repeated her question a third time
Pointing the mic at his mouth
Not realizing we’d already given her the answers twice

Where Did the Day Go?

My morning begins with a whirlwind I start a poem and leave it in mid construction
I make coffee, wash cat dishes, my plates, saucers and cups, clean some Tupperware
Do a wash - separate Cleo from Magic pass the litter box remind myself to clean it and continue on my way to pee I’m busier than five buzzing bees
Then I spy some jewelry and figure out a way to reconstruct it to a different form
I conduct a search for the missing parts
I look outside at budding trees raise the window and stick my head outside to try to feel a breeze and see a blue bird nearby
I look for my glasses then remember to search for those movie theatre passes and hang my keys
I return to the poem to find the word and discover I’m lost in my mind confined and in a bind it’s totally intertwined I have to unwind
I clean the litter box listen to my neighbor play the sitar I think maybe I should make some apple fritters to kick the day off
I pick up my see through blouse think about sewing it tighter I’ve got to get out of the house by two to make that deposit I hang the blouse in the closet
take out my new dress I guess it’s time to rhyme I pin the hem to make the dress more feminine what’s the crime in that
I want to mend everything seems to blend I think the stress is getting to me
I return to the computer to try to find the word I was looking for before but forget what it was or what it meant I need roto-rooter in my brain to stay sane
Continuing to look for the word I search the net betting I can find that set of dishes
I light some incense the smell is intense and I get the foot cream intending to rub it on my feet but place it on the countertop as I pass by
I pick up and eat a sweet on my way to feed the cats and take a shower
five minutes later keeping neat I scrub the tub and try to remember where I put the feet cream down I search all around clean the toilet seat, I’m a bit over heated and overwhelmed I remind myself to put the clean sheet on the bed instead
I pull a pair of white panties from the drawer and stare at them in disgust and decide to go bleach them in the sink on my way to the kitchen to get water for the plants
I just can’t seem to get things in order so many chores before I get myself out the door
I dry myself off and put the towels in the washer the wet wash in the dryer and scramble around like I’m running from fire
I vacuum the bathroom floor clean the second litter box
on my way back to the bedroom to get dressed I pour bleach in the toilet and sink and remember to sip my coffee
Run the vacuum over the living room rug and the word returns to haunt me
So I run back to the computer picking my glasses up from the counter when the phone rings disturbing my linguistic delight and the word takes flight I see the light
I keep moving until the middle of the night
Maybe some adderall will solve it all

gcast up front again

G Cast doesn't work or exist anymore. It was a recorder that played my music and poetry. Now you can hear that right on my front page - click here.

Steig Larrson and me

Steig Larrson, the man behind the stories that gave him his name fame glory posthumously led a fascinating life. Larrson could be one of the characters he became famous for writing about in his millennium series. Fighting to right Nazi wrongs in Sweden, he was a well known journalist who founded Expo, an antifascist magazine. Here in the states people don't usually think much about the Nazis but in Europe people give more importance to World War II and the havoc it created in history. In Sweden, its importance is even more meaningful. According to Lev Grossman in Time Magazine, "Fascism is a live issue in Sweden, and fascist groups have been known to attack reporters who investigate them." This makes me wonder if someone stuck him with a needle to produce the heart attack, especially as he was a well known Nazi hunter and Sweden is known to have sheltered Nazis seeking refuge and places to keep their bounty. And who would have known?
Larrson was a known target as the founder of Expo, the antifascist magazine he published. Larrson had built himself quite a reputation as a dragon slayer and his daily life and that of his life-long companion, Eva Gabrielsson, were affected by the backlash. Since Larrson was well known as a journalist and a political activist, most of his writing was reporting. His life was quite stressful because of his political affiliations his widespread writings of unpopular subjects. He was a feminist before men were allowed to be defined as one.
Now another drama ensues from his untimely death:  inheritance issues complicated issues of control surrounding other things in his estate, including his writings. Because Gabrielsson and Larrson never married in spite of being together over thirty years, the Swedish government has given his birth family all rights in spite of the fact that Larrson had very rare contact with them. Not a good situation for the bereaved partner. What deepens the suspense is Eva has a copy of the number 4 book on his computer in her possession. I watched her speak about this in a recorded television interview. Apparently they've always worked together and she edited most of his work.
I first felt compelled to read The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo because of the colorful cover plus all I'd heard and read about it and the author. Then after I'd read, I became enthralled with the mysterious powerful heroine. Larrson's gone and passed on but I love his shit!
Larrson wrote fiction to relax and he loved detective stories. I guess it gave him a break from the harsh reality he faced daily. Strangely even the aftermath of his life reminds us how life is often as strange as fiction.
Larrson proves that writers can create anything. Like my friend Anthony Whyte recently said over coffee, you can take a usual situation where people are sitting at a table drinking coffee and all you need to do is put a gun on the table and boom - the center of attention changes drastically and you can do what you want with your characters. All one has to do is let things fall into place and put things where they should be to add a little drama and spice.
Hooked on Lisbeth, the heroine whose intelligence and resourcefulness never fails her, I sped read the entire book submerged in the characters and events. Little Lisbeth, my heroine, is barely 4 feet 9 inches and 94 pounds soaking wet, is an exceptionally skilled computer hacker who survives impossible circumstances. She is lithe, super strong and can kick karate ass as well as Sarah Michelle Geller plus can defeat any enemy intellectually as well. I also love "Kalle fucking Blomkvist" another main character in the trilogy who could be Larrson's alter ego. Together he and Lisbeth could solve any mystery.
The wording is sometimes a bit dry but according to Grossman, that may be due to the translators facility with subtleties but it didn't damage my attention span or interfere with the excitement. This fast paced thriller kept me spellbound like a movie playing in my head.
After this I was compelled to read number two of the Millennium trilogy, The Girl Who Played With Fire, the perfect mix of action and expository to drive its thrust. Now I'm going to read number three next.
It is fine writers like Mr. Larrson who excite me to write. His characters are so finely tuned and defined that we know them as intimately as our closest friends. For those who don't know the series, I wasn't surprised to see Lisbeth buried alive at the end of part two of the trilogy. Lucky for me the first chapter of part three is included at the end of part two. I can't wait. I'll keep you updated!

Pain travels & travails ...

OK I did expect a play about mental illness - that's how it's advertised after all. I've known Dan Berkey for many years, since 1993 to be exact when we met at a poetry reading. We've been in touch on and off since then and more often now that we've discovered the pleasures of email.

I am Dan Berkey a schizophrenic actor in remission he announces as though we were all together at an AA meeting. Hi I'm Joy and I'm crazy too which most of us are but how many of us have spent time in the psych ward being evaluated and treated and let go again and come in again and again. Some of us slip by this maneuver by the hairs in our nose - we manage not to be there, but somehow this play makes me feel like I signed up for a degree in craziness please, which in some ways I feel I have but not purposefully or at least consciously. I just am crazy enough to be a magnet for people who need help and seem to have a natural ease to understanding their dilemma.

Berkey jumps through so many hoops and has so much energy it unnerves the audience, puts us on edge as he sits on the ledge ready to hedge through the next interlude minus the quaaludes that used to be so popular in the 60's. He leads us through his life showing us what it's like to hear voices and drink to suppress the voices but instead in Berkey's head - alcohol only serves to make the voices more rambunctious. I sat on the edge of my seat as Berkey announced he "would touch" us which he clearly intended to do physically mentally and emotionally. I longed for his touch and dreaded it in the same breath just as he predicted I would.

He exposes his childhood calamities and what appears to be a childhood rape but it's unclear as to whether the rape is real or imagined. He lies on the ground humping the floor and speaking to someone asking them to stop then threatening to tell mommy. The other voice threatens back and his resistance to tell is quelled. In my head I'll go for this is real and the culprit is obviously someone very close - family or close friend. How do I know this? Because I've spoken to over a hundred abused kids, many of them sexually abused by their step dads, uncles, or mom's trusted boyfriend. This particular issue is enough to make me cram my fingers down my throat. While working I got so I could just meet a teen and know she'd been sexually abused. Eventually this work became too painful for me and to make it through my last five years at the Department of Education I had to switch to pre-k - 3 to 5 year olds. Not that they aren't abused but not to the same extent as older children nor are they as verbal as their teen counterparts.

Why did I want to see this play? Because all my life I've worked with and helped people with problems. Forget about the diagnosis - Diagnosis -shmiagnosis. I can talk about that too but that is never what interested me. What always did interest me was motivation and introspection. I find the I in others and examine myself there and there's the rub and fascination. If we can find the whys of our behavior we have a chance of understanding the whys of others.

We were brought full circle as Berkey finally let his pain go along with his medication and alcohol abuse. He chose to be alive be healthy and to be in remission. If he had kept drinking he would've been dead by now. Not only was his liver fucked but he had pancreatitis too and we can't live without those two organs.

Does that mean one chooses to be ill or chooses to be schizophrenic? I think not but I think Dan Berkey has a point about it being in the best interest of the medical profession to keep the ill ill because that is what maintains them - not recovery. I asked Dan if he thought stress had anything to do with his remission and as far as he is concerned it's a mystery where recovery comes from and where illness goes, but his healthy lifestyle combined with clean intent with meditation and yoga practice are certainly factors that help reduce stress. Another factor that influenced his remission is his attitude of letting the pain go, letting the illness go, letting the voices go ... well if you let go of things - those things can no longer influence or control you.

Riveted to Berkey's voice as he took us through his adventures, his sex addiction his alcoholism his bike messengering job and through his successful acting career, I watched him fly through the air, do somersaults, share his inner tumult, and swing right back into the rhythm of himself as naturally as a dog shakes off snow from the winter storm and curls up by a warm fire inside himself. His props are quite creative and strangely believable, especially the bike I imagine I saw him riding, but it's actually strapped to his head and chest as he runs around the stage - showing us another page in the life of ... whoever is running inside my or your head, please make them stop - it's getting sore from being trampled on. His message is loud and clear. We do need to be our brother's keeper.

I know, I'll go do some yoga eat a double nut fudge sundae and watch the fringe while contemplating on the me in me and the me in you and the you in me and us together in society.

Seriously folks, there's only one show left this coming Tuesday and if you're in New York or plan to be and have any interest in the subject matter - go see Dan Berkey in Remission at PS 122. When you're through you can visit Enchantments across the street and pick up some candles and incense like I did.

award winning poetry sites

These are the last 5 awards I received plus a great place to check out many other poets:

1. http://www.onlineschools.org/top_poetry/#Joy_Leftows_Poetry_Blog         Winners for your 2010 Top 35 Poetry Blogs award were announced on July 8, 2010.

2. http://www.guidetoartschools.com/tips-and-tools/poetry-blogs the top 40 poetry blogs on the web, May 2010

3. http://www.accreditedonlinecolleges.com/blog/2010/100-best-poetry-blogs/  link now dead because they do not publish this any more
100 Best Poetry Blogs listed under female poets.

4. http://www.onlinecolleges.net/2009/10/05/100-great-web-sites-for-poetry-lovers/ listed with 20 other blogs

5.  Kreative Blogger Award The Seven Kreativ Blogger Awards May 2009
Joy's Poetry Blog - Joy Leftow is an inspiring and intuitive poetess who is also capable of lampooning or exposing society for its ills and shortcomings, she also provides insight into a host of important topics to the contemporary world.

Joyce Kilmer save me please - we got history

The dead stay talking to me I feel as helpless as a tree
They speak through to me
and I’m definitely not a tree
and they are most definitely dead
I’m forced to be an embossed embassy another Berlin a magnet for their raw charms or languished cries
Explaining longings telling me where he expected to be if it weren’t for this one little thing but in my dream he didn’t know he was dead he was a wannabe alive guy
Hats off to Manny
telling me his plans like everybody else
Voices vicariously strewn like spring flowers falling from boughs outside my window
The scent of dead flowers buries itself deep in my veins
I breathe it out and in
I am I am a tree
Voices from the past exist in my head I ask for more put them on play - replay fast forward exit start over again and again
The hypothesis of life over again replay
A come hither look
Think deeper
From way back to before birth infancy a fantasy I’m torn in two
Should I stay or should I go a lifetime of going ahead
instead of staying and regretting is what I do best at my own behest
I’m challenged trumped set ahead to go make that next jump if not literally than figuratively
In my head I jump a hump
Ahead to where I don’t know where I am or how I got here
Yet here I stand
A tight bright white light goes off fast in my head flashing faster red green green red yellow stop on yellow hit those brakes or barrel through it
Careful take the next step and do it
Just call me
Crashing catastrophe meets the coroner on the corner for the very last time

A shout out to Ninua at facebook's networked blogs for their tireless energy and help in keeping these blogs organized. If you're on fb so should your blog be!

A shout out to Bob at Apple for helping me solve the mystery with his tenacity and alacrity. I love apple.


A shout out to my readers: this blog is for you, the you inside that hurts and wonders about the way we choose constantly - the you and me who seeks more...


my writing is me - what you get is what you see


Joyce Kilmer and Robert Frost were the first poets I memorized in elementary school. They both wrote short poems. Even back then my mind jumped a lot and memorization was difficult. Ironically I can recall words from ancient conversations at will.

totally going crazy

I already am

A publisher recently told me he'd been waiting on my short story for a book - little did I know he'd never received it. My life feels unsettled like a hurricane hit me.

I just realized my blog is fine it's my email that the problem.
I can't start over with a new url - it's too nuts and will make me more insane.
I'm changing it back.
I'm sorry I'm so crazy
the good news is I've come through with another solution!

one aggravation after another

I can't understand it.
Like lil abner a cloud follows my head.
I've been dealing with lost emails and sent emails that never go anywhere and from what I just learned this has been going on for many months. Now on my end when I send an email it makes that nice whoosssshhhh sound that apple mail makes and then they disappear into cyberspace. It took quite some time to realize all this was happening.

This time I did it on purpose without realizing it was my intent.
How could I do it again? – I followed the tech person’s instructions exactly.
And when he said do you mind deleting your email downloads I didn’t realize he meant I’d delete every drop of my email sitting on my desktop like a cold winter moon night letters disappear with morning light.

The simple solution would’ve been to create another box to dump my emails there. After I’d gone through every piece of email every day and cleaned it up spotlessly and saved what I needed over two years ~
Why would I delete it if I knew that’s what I intended to do in the first place.
My mailbox is clean and I still can't send mails out.
What a pain only a few days remain ...

For some reason I 'm the chosen one to be made the example of. Road runner finally admits they're the cause of the problem. I am no longer permitted by road runner to use my blog links in my emails. Can you imagine sending your emails daily and they don't go anywhere? Hrummmpph!

I called Road Runner some time ago. Told the tech man my problem but they kept insisting it wasn't their doing. They had no idea what caused the problem. The second or third tech didn't know either. The third time I called they told me to reset my password at road runner. These fixers worked for a minute and then people began complaining again about my mail. Road runner man did not ask me to back shit up either. It took the apple tech Bob and his crew to figure out why no one gets my emails.

I turned to apple time after time. I've been working with Bob for a few months on this email issue. I have eliminated my mail several times trying to resolve this. We'd reset the mail program by throwing out the mail from preference panes plist and by trashing mail from the library. These were the same steps the road runner man took me through too. After each restart mail would work for a little while and then stop again.

Bob and I tirelessly tested variation after variation seeking the answer to my misery. Yesterday Bob and his team figured it out. Bob said the problem was my server, that different email addresses get assigned different servers and that this server must be identifying my links as junk mail or unsolicited advertisements. So we tested this theory and found when I eliminated my blog links - low and behold, my mail mailed! I even sent boyfriend's links from my mail and that was received by the tech person. I set up a mobile me account and then any links worked. The apple rep said maybe road runner can set the server to accept my links.

When I called road runner I had to go through three people to get to the top tech who said my links are indeed blocked. He told me to write road runner security a letter which I did.

This is what I wrote below. I had to make the links clandestinely to show to them as you can see. Perhaps now I should do it like that in my letters too so they will go through.

Dear Sir or Madam:

Below are the 2 websites I use with my signature on all my correspondence. I am sending them to you so you can see they are poetry sites, not commercial spam sites.

h t t p : / / j o y l e f t o w s b l o g . b l o g s p o t . c o m


h t t p : / / j o y l e f t o w . c o m

I wrote a few more things but they never responded except for a form letter saying they receiving my correspondence.

Last night I went back to the drawing board and back to road runner. Last night a high tech person told me road runner is considering me a spammer when I use my links. When I said everyone else uses links Sam said, "you must've sent many mails with links. Eventually everyone else will reach this level of sending emails links - theirs too will be blocked." Sam said it also has to do with the popularity of my link.

To make a long story short I'm stymied for a second.

Don't you always include your web links in your emails? What's this world coming to?

TRANSVERSE THE UNIVERSE THROW THE GEARS IN REVERSE

I was thinking of all the things I had to do
And then I started thinking of you
And lost my memory of what I was supposed to do
Because then all I could do was think about you
That’s just the way it goes
sometimes I hit all the lows
The highs are left behind
I refuse to leave well enough alone
The next climb’s all my treat
Yes I’ve finally done it
I’ve gone and lost my mind
I heard it through the grapevine
No longer will I be mine
I wish it were just fine but it seems
things go from bad to worse
So I try to put things in reverse eliminate
Jealousy creates boundaries
I rewrite herstory and tap the cinnamon of life
into my coffee after steam frothing lactose free milk
I tap the nutmeg of my soul
to rife up the spice
dissolve artificial barriers between me and you
eyes set deep in my face I trace the lines
on your face revealed and sealed
I’m healed by the power my words wield

Wow - Another award!

This award is even more noteworthy than the last because my blog was chosen to be included under The Top 40 Poetry Blogs On The Web.
I'm doubly honored and blessed to receive this award because only 40 blogs were chosen and Joy Leftow's Poetry Blog is one of them.

Here's the letter I received:

Hi Joy Leftow,

I am writing to inform you that Joy Leftlow's Blog has been featured on Guide to Art School’s list of the Top 40 poetry blogs found here: http://www.guidetoartschools.com/tips-and-tools/poetry-blogs. We hand-picked a list of our favorite poetry blogs and outlined the unique reasons why we love them. We were impressed that you manage and publishe your own poetry on your blog site. We also noticed that your poetry is updated frequently and touches on a many different ideas and issues.

Yay Joy - go Joy way to go...
I have to be my own best publicist since I have no one else to do it for me!

Mine is listed under Other Fantastic Poetry Blog. Here is what they say about mine.

Joy Leftow's Blog: Joy Leftow's manages and publishes her own poetry on her site. The blog has a fairly large following. Her poetry is updated frequently and touches on a many different ideas and issues.

Awards

For two years in a row I've been awarded the 100 Best Poetry Blogs by Accredited Online Colleges. I am so grateful to receive this honor once more. My blog is listed under female poets with a group of a dozen others. I'm so proud to be included among the best of the best!

The categories for 100 best poetry blogs are:
Poetry Basics
Poetry Commentary
Published Poets
Female Poets
Male Poets
Poetic Teachers
Photographic Poetry
Fun Stuff

What it says about my blog is this:
Joy Leftow’s Blog: Get access to hip and fun poetry, as well as spoken poetry here.

one more pill to help me chill so i don't kill anyone

Like Alice in Wonderland I roam the desert of my mind trying to find a way out
Every day I reinvent myself wondering whether or not to take the next stand
I keep seeking another line a better design a brand name
Imbibing the sands of time
I become restless longing for success I confess it came to possess me I digress
I used to be somebody now I’m someone else
It boils down to our animal instincts, survive and thrive
Reassessing my past I contrive to start anew
The meaning we attribute to things is what
gives them power over us
A universal bower a tower of confidence
It’s a matter of perspective - probably our entire planet is like this
Alice absorbs me perhaps another pill will cure my ills
Lusting on the edge of a consonant I meander through adverbs synonyms and antonyms
It’s a fucking weird word disaster
I dig my heels in deep trying to steep my words in a heap before I leap
but instead my words are torrential existential tangential
they move me
treading through river recesses of despair to find the answer but it just aint fair they don’t care they’re hateful of our flair
I dare to emerge I don’t want to submerge on the verge of a nervous breakdown I merge into another artistic urge with a surge of energy
Sunk in a funk in another God forsaken mess I process the stress the excess of the day wears heavy
Don’t transgress the finesse of the noblesse
I speak in riddles and rhymes to observe the times
Thunder explodes a hazy curtain of rain splashes the pavement
soaks my clothes through to my skin
as I begin another spin

Working To Save My Flow Blow-By-Blow On A Paid Word-A-Day Work Flow Pantoum

I sat at my computer with a cat on my lap to help me relax
She flew up from her seat like the cat’s a bat outta hell bent on a personal attack
Reacts as though she saw a rat on my lap instead of a cat
Like a spoiled brat she makes me put my cats on lock down

She flew up from her seat like the cat’s a bat outta hell bent on a personal attack
I put on my thinking cap try to resolve the problem - get it down pat
Like a spoiled brat she makes me put my cats on lock down
I frown at the crackdown - locking the cats out of my computer room is wearing on my nerves

I put on my thinking cap try to solve the problem down pat
I want to tell her scat she deserves no reserves
I frown at the crackdown - locking the cats out of my computer room is wearing on my nerves
Sets me all a gloom a sense of doom pervades my bloom

I want to tell her scat she deserves no reserves
I’m unnerved and need to conserve my energy, my synergy
Sets me all a gloom a sense of doom pervades my bloom
I upbraid her try to turn myself into a mermaid to escape her

It would be in her interest to understand the facts
Reacts as though she saw a rat on my lap instead of a cat
Please try to understand I’m your worker not your doormat
I sat at my computer with a cat on my lap to help me relax

Gimmee Money

That beat gets heated in my head
Never felt like this before cause its never been this bad before
Financially
I’m feeling those fiduciary blues now
Things are getting worse all the time
money aint everything it’s true but it sure does help to pay those bills
Money it’s what I want – gimmee money it’s what I want
Money raining down on me
money ain’t everything it’s true but it sure gets its hold on you when you need to pay those bills
A little thrill that bill got paid - a huge frill with bitter pill thrown in

The details are lost in my mind, awake in bed, mountain out of molehill
served with foreclosure papers 5 a.m. delivery
Reality sets in, bleakly I get quirky, relay the bad news
The bills are due again
money can’t buy everything it’s true but it sure does help to pay some bills
it’s getting bleary in here and I’m getting leery because I need things to get better,
today I got another foreclosure letter
But from what I hear ain’t nobody but the crooks doing better than me
money rain down on me today
I want that money it’s what I want anyway
Gimmee money – it’s what I want lot’s of money, gimmee lots of grimy money
Bring it on home, baby
so now - you say what I say- do what I do

(to audience - hold up your hands and say) “repeat after me” (Hold up 2 fingers)
money rain on me today! Money it’s what I want - gimme money lot’s of money
money rain on me today! Money it’s what I want - gimme money lot’s of money
Sing these money blues along with me today
to pass these blues away
we’re praying for our money
so we can take care of our children, our needs, if you work you can’t get things free
give us that money for free today- spread the word around – money lost now found

I want that moolah that’s coming to me
More of those extras some food stamps I don’t qualify for
but I sure am hurtin enough to use em
Only disabled can have more money and qualify for welfare too
But life’s hurtin for everyone out here these days and maybe you feel like me
It’s that money it’s what I want – gimmee money lots of money
Money can’t buy you everything it’s true but what it can’t buy you probably can’t use
I don’t know what this blue ass world is coming to
I sing these money blues today cause I know you need that shit like I do

so now - you say what I say- do what I do

(audience participation - hold up your hands say) “repeat after me” (Hold up 2 fingers)
money rain on me today! Money it’s what I want - gimme money lot’s of money
money rain on me today! Money it’s what I want - gimme money lot’s of money
Sing these money blues along with me today
Money it’s what I want - Gimme money lots of money
money rain on me today
do what I do - say what I say -
money rain on me today
Money it’s what I want - Gimme money lots of money

This poem is designed to bring money to all of us who need it - the catch is we only get how much we need not how much we want - still it beats a blank
think think think and believe - money rain on me today - yay - it's working for me and it can work for you too!

living in poetry

In a little café just the other side of the border between
Washington Heights and the city wilderness
my words linger like a midnight smoke foray
alive in Salvador Dali
What if people stopped paying their unfair subway fare?
What if a million people hopped the subway and walked on buses and nobody paid would this society go away I wish I were back in the days of Abby Hoffman, Coltrane and Lennon
What if everyone who went shopping at wal mart stew leonards and costcos put 100 items in their cart and declined to pay as they walked out the door

Dominican Dudes selling fruits en la esquina, hablo con ellos en me español roto
speak my broken Spanish
Swish my way past - wish I could have a kasha knish
Jimbo Burgers, La Caridad, Inwood Xtra Pizza, Quick Stop Bodega, ten-tan Chinese and Amy’s
All your needs fulfilled below the elevated train
El Camino for auto supplies, El Mirador serves wine and beer Y comida latina but no bagels or knishes, my favorite dishes
So many things to see, wish there was no anarchy wish I was free
I’m not as free as a tree - I want to be as free as a summer breeze
Blowing continuously at ninety degrees
like the summer rain cools the ground and mists around
like rain formed rainbows I want to be the rainbows in my mind
wounded to the core my to do list keeps growing exponentially
I’m in time for round fourteen hundred forty four more
On the southern sea shore island in my mind
I’m there in a flash of fatality, the infidelity, the totality of a unity,
I sense danger lurking - I stay steady working
I languor leisurely in my laziness until a licentious mood leads me to lavish lust
From dawn to dust, I play the game of life continuously readjust,
recently read about my poetic genius, don’t give me the bum’s rush – wow- that sounds so cool I just don’t understand it.
race and religion as subjects cause despondence and glee.
Like a glacier rotting away I sit here eating my cappuccino fudge sundae – how do they keep that fudge so soft ice cream talking disaster, my world degenerates while faster rhythms
Sets my thoughts
Flowing like lava rain drenches meeting a ceremonial master in the Arabian Desert
My city rain meets recalcitrant refusing concrete
bring the word to the street - a super salivary sweet treat
Whaddaya’ think, I’ve got the link, it’s sink or sing, a tune in head
An ocean of sound all around, lost and found I keep trying to heal the wounds but they’re cut too deep. my words turn to blood and ooze through holy ground

The Rose Between My Hips – My Other Lips

My pussy folds its lips around your dick’s circumference like a closed rose with muscles behind
folded petals circumscribe to your vibe, grasping you inside
slide against hidden folds of flesh, mold to mold
velvet soft texture
probing finger defined by pussy trembles contracts
Each quiver entices deeper
I wonder if the men who enter me feel as lucky as I do to explore
Smooth ribbed wet crevices inside
Titillate my senses –
Sometimes I don’t understand how men’ll do anything for a bitch
I get an itch to explore that witch inside
If I’m deprived too long
I want to shout eat me out
Do cunnilingus until your face turns blue
Sex is entertaining
– I’m not much at abstaining
from my sex domain
Can’t contain my appetite and stamina
My pussy is unconstrained and untrained
after you eat me out let me take you for deep love ride
Stop slowing the thrust of your penis when I need faster
and closer
Put your nine in there and stop whining about a deadline
Just relax and give me head we’re already on the bed
make me come before I die of boredom
I like extended sexual orgasms
You say let’s watch the moon rise
And remind me to use the astroglide
You say you’re looking for a deeper thrill,
I say my pussy’s tight and talk about skill
You come back with words of love
And hold out the astroglide for a smooth love ride
I say my pussy loves dick better than soul food
You get unglued I speak in taboos you get shrewd
Talk about how it’s soft wet and firm all at once
Perchance parlance your preference is my wet pussy

Welfare’s Still A Bitch

Back in the day I burned loquacious at welfare’s fair hearings
But soon I learned that when you went to your worker you only speak when you’re spoken to
Everything will be held against you
And twice more if you’re white
You’ll be accountable for every damn penny you didn’t spend
How dare you go to Columbia University on our money
You’ll see white bitch hoe
Now I'm at the welfare center again
I’m still the only white one there
thank god it’s not for me I wait here
I watch as everyone demands entitlements
They have their appointments - will not leave with disappointment
The brothers and sisters and me we see others get special treatment
waiting on names and numbers to be called
Liars - they say first come first served but everything seems stalled
I want mine and I want it now - Latinos and Blacks uprising.
The guards are watchful but do nothing
Those who yell loudest – their workers came out and usher them through glass doors to get what’s theirs
they come back smiling
After that it didn’t quiet down till the room emptied out
After they all got what was coming to them
I wish it had been like that for me
I fought at so many fair hearings
To get my claims accepted back in the day
Each time I recertified they cut my food stamps to zero
If you’re white you get less
if you’re Jewish it’s double less because you know all those jews are rich they don’t come from any Warsaw ghettos and it’s a damn lie any of them were killed in any fucking holocaust

those kikes are Fucking Christ killers is what they are
heard it all my life
A voice inside my head
Each way I turn
Sometimes I forget who I am

And it all comes rushing home like a river overflowing with leaves silt memories
Someone will bring it home to me no matter how long I live

Ladies and Gentlemen: we’ve gone back in time to the 60’s – prejudice crackles like fire in the air.

We need to get our heads turned back to the streets to take back what’s rightfully ours

We need we need we need – medical care money a place to live and survive
So sad - right back at you with the blues tonight

The Time IS Coming ...

They say the time is coming in my lifetime. I want a revolution but there’s not quite enough desperation yet although everyone’s in a state of exasperation – I get the impression through open discussion that there’s been no preparation for any revolution. Our great nation under direction of a new world order. I’d like promotion of peace to be the solution to the problem and I try my best to add my contribution to the plate.

I wonder how we’ll have peace without a fight for our rights? They’re not gonna give us what’s ours because they want it and they got the power. At first I thought the new world order was a joke, with the growing euro the new world order is a threat to our economy.

Puppets run our government. You tell me how many of the current run of presidents emerged from the slums or city streets?

We’ve never even had a Jewish president and probably never will.

Global warning is a conspiracy? That’s what your government wants you to believe. How can all the harm we cause our mother do her no ill? We pull her insides out – all her hidden jewels and resources and tell me this doesn’t affect our earth?

You stop drinking your one large cup of coffee everyday and tell me you feel nothing?

Everything is connected somehow – is it free will or coincidence? I like to meld between the two.

Do you think there are no connections or is it all random selection?

Gehinnon is only 12 months not eternity like for Christians and you have to do so something unforgivably bad – some big sin that most of us won’t do I like to think so anyway

I keep promoting peace in spite of people telling me revolution is blowing in the wind

Caught in a tailwind spin, we’re all blind on a work grind, and stabbed from behind. Everyone knows being taxed this way is illegal and was meant for corporate America not us poor working class shmucks who can barely pay our rent.

view of washington heights in NYC on a snow day

Shirk A Hard Day’s Work

Night filled with red light energy from softly lit candles all aglow
Smell the spell of delight, a complimentary southern belle
Cell phone perfect in my sight, a knight without his armor – it’s worth another write
No sense being polite when I’m shaking with stage fright
Uptight dwelling in resort new york, my crash pad my quarters my crib
Just because I’ve been a good little soldier all these years doesn’t mean I wasn’t tired of it
Let loose is what I say
As the intruder compels me to my computer
I have the link whaddaya think?
the living never run out of to do's,
only the dead do, got to keep up with the joneses – no flaccidity only morbidity
run the washing machine with some caffeine sprinkle of morphine
I wasn't here - brought the cats to get them care
If you go to jail don’t depend on me for the bail
My new york voice jams with music for free provided by gcast puts me on blast
Hark the herald angels sing – glory to a newborn king
I left my grad degree in Tennessee for all the good it does me
I had my first degree from the school of hard knocks
I’m not suicidal – my life’s a tidal wave – I’m a matinee idol who’s homicidal
My crows’ feet don’t impress, I’ve lost the scent as I bless the winter cress and pray for a stress less success to reassess I won’t confess – I’ll digress again
My bridal suite awaits, no more tweets, it’s not a balance sheet of vanilla velvet draperies
My new wedding dress, the press release went out yesterday
The ring's a perfect fit – diamonds are a girl’s best friend
The noblesse requests to attend, progress to a soft caress, a recess to excess, suppress the acrid taste of fecundity laced with equal parts serendipity and alacrity, laudably posted digested and vested accessibility perhaps a touch of civility blended with acceptability
The North Star, a bright white light providing the spark to find my way home in the dark

ADVANCING ON SATORI

Been waiting all night 

to hear your poetry, I said 

You’re that beat generation 

spewin that heat and light

Pure energy, that scene 

You were on the bus or off it 

I should’ve been there 

with ya’ all back then 

You were hardly born then, you answered 

probably just born in tha sixties 

No, I said, I could’a been there 

I was born in ‘50 

I shoulda’ been there 

But somehow I never went anywhere 

I admit it tho, 

I wanted to Be On The Road. 

And one day I almost took 

The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test 

But on that day, I was absent from life. 

I should’a been there 

But somehow I never went anywhere 

I cud tell you sometime, ya said 

why you never went anywhere 

You, with your omnipotent self 

How would you know anyway? 

I wondered, Did ya really know 

why I never left home? 

It was a prison 

     built of fear 

         loneliness 

             emptiness and despair 

I never had a life 

A child’s needs unmet 

never given what I longed for 

I couldn’t have what wasn’t there 

Fuck it, I’ll say it, it was 

     abuse, neglect 

     comes in so many forms 

        eats away your self esteem 

Made me weak, 

     slow, scared to go 

Robbed me of my faith, 

     my soul, my glow 

My inner harmony, 

     my sanctity 

     my sanity

I was a prisoner of fear, 

     a prisoner of war. 

I met you, read your sixties words 

your suffuse charm 

emanating from your Hobo soul 

I wanted to possess your poetry 

    your style 

         the 60’s and the 70’s 

         poetry of hope 

         An air of romance 

         a taste of escape 

A breath of fresh air 

     from a smog-filled street 

     the smoke and stink 

     rising slowly like gases 

     from the filthy pavement 

I was a prisoner of war 

Your words bring back the time ... 

Words like book, crib, jibe 

a stone’s throw away 

the sun low-fives the trees 

God damn! Your words excite me 

    Sex talk, like poontang, tallywhacker. 

    Wow man, I never heard it, 

But it’s cool, I understand it. 

Your blatantly primitive lust 

your licentious eyes

devouring me 

Staring at my sagging breasts 

cruising over my body 

    smoothly, 

as though it were highway 59 

Resting on my nipples 

    tingling 

like a jellied door buzzer 

my fallen butt and 

orange peel thighs 

Only served to fuel your lust 

my allure waved strong 

snagged by your naked desire, 

    your lust 

as you gorged on my scent 

teasing my libido 

A test in trust 

Your tongue flicked against your upper lip 

What’re ya’ havin’ babe, ya’ said 

No thanks, refused the drink 

Been waitin all night to hear your poem 

a moment abundant with heat 

stifling humidity 

complaints about intensity 

panties clinging damply 

Unbearable, prolonged 

I want to hear the poem 

my date languishing in time Y

our glass passed to my hand 

Contact, your eyes implored 

    lust and soul 

Give me sixties or give me death 

symbols of peace, 

Baby you’ve got heart, 

Go with the flow 

no looking back 

no sorrows or regrets 

resolute to recreate 

a life renewed

reincarnate 

more chances to fulfill the goal 

Don’t hesitate 

Go on! Get on the road 

Don’t worry if the bus is full 

Symmetry of faith 

advancing on satori 

will get you there 

    explore, 

search for more 

no more prisoners of war 

First published in 1995 in Grist on Line one of the first online poetry mags that came into being. At that time several people accused me of being a "post modernist" and I had no idea what that was so or more importantly who it included. I immediately began reading post modernists to understand what I was being accused of.  I couldn't format this right for blogger but on the linked version above, the formatting is correct. This poem is a throwback to the sixties generation

PSYCHIC ABILITIES, PART 1

Both parents had psychic abilities,
I’ve come to see it runs in my family
this ability now passed on to me
I’ve always seen what will come to be
I see people on the other side to say goodbye
In death I’ll meet family once more -
My sister came in a dream to me the night she slipped away
I saw her sixteen again. Farewell Georgette
Shaking her finger scolding me with scalding anger
Although religious she neglected Jewish mores
turned from temple’s door,
In death, she’s left behind her miseries, her disease
I hear her voice lingers on a sweet breeze
I wait to hear her eternally
once again we’ll meet - our destiny

recent reading at La Pregunta

Thanks to Marilyn Thomas King for hosting La Pregunta and a kick ass show. Thanks to Dean Washington for videotaping. Thanks Fred Arcoleo, accompanying on guitar.

Life's Work

I don’t want to work another day
Hear people talk behind my back and say
I don’t work as hard as I ought to
I left early - got caught - lied and said I was in the library
after the children left
My work was done
Why should I stay
Bereft by 3 pm each day
driven to exasperation
complaints follow me
I came late I leave early
They tell me talk to Thomas who is 5, a year older than the others in his class. He picked up a chair and threw it somewhere. Luckily it hit no one. I could talk to him till I’m blue in the face.
Thomas needs to be in a special setting I'm betting they want some magic answer
They tell me call his mother get her in here
The mother comes in
cigarette dangling from her lips she says what can I do I have to go to work I have to make money. The espresso with milk she sips matching her own brown color, a drop drips down her chin
Downcast eyes
She patiently repeats I have to go to work, I have a family of 4 to support
she's got to hold down the fort, it's not for sport -
tomorrow she's got to go to court, she says- and that's another day lost
I have to pay my bills, what time can I go to my job
working working I talk about Thomas
She shakes her head - she doesn't know what to do
I pray I cry for me and others
I want to live free - I watch her sip her coffee, a cold winter day
My energy dissipates I anticipate our fate, acclimate to
another day, another school, a 15 year old girl is hearing voices, she’s afraid of someone in her head, a neighborhood Santera
A plethora of voices in her head make her scream
I hold her head to allay her pain told her to imagine a beam of white light, God supreme protecting her
no one else knew what to do
So they brought her to me, grateful they said Friday was their day for me
She held my hand and prayed
using strange erratic and loud routines
I told her she’d be ok, I'd keep the demons at bay
told her the saints she prayed to would help her
teachers and students were scared they were glad I was there
They called EMS tell me
I should take the girl no one knew was psychotic to the hospital
They called her parents
I got in the ambulance with her
They were afraid she’d go ballistic again is why they asked me to go with her.
At the hospital they say she was only calm with me cause I entered her world so perfectly
Helped her hold on for hope, played her band-aid, her nursemaid
There are times when there’s no place to go but inside someone's head
join them inside to guide them, I do it so easily it’s because I too am crazy
I long for the american dream - as we glide downstream in my capable hands
my sensibilities attacked by another breaker wave
It’s hard out here for a social worker

Poetry of Pounds

My pounds circled me like a shadow of darkness
I wore them like a protective shield
They accompanied me everywhere I turned; I carried them
A labor of self- hate evolving from my prison
Longing to be free from weight and worry
Pounds surrounding and grounding me holding my spirit
Hostage within the layers of fat,
so t’was fate on November 5th
When Mongo insisted we’d enjoy Gay Poetry Night
& I met the love of my life

These pounds were faithfully gained, a labor of distaste which at the time was resentful
I didn’t do it for me – I did it for him but in the end it killed both of us
These pounds were gained over time; it took a decade for me to begin to emerge again
These pounds were made for sitting watching TV and eating,
They weren’t meant to see the world
They weren’t made to write poetry prophetically or prolifically
These pounds were made to enslave and hold captive
They did their job well

Suddenly I was hired for a new job
Recently retired, all the time in the world
The position offered no benefits or pay only love, sex, & inspiration
Would you take that job? I did

Someone saw beneath the layers of fat shielding my spirit
I saw myself in his vision, and began to shed pounds
A different me began to emerge from my shell
I stand before thee and thee and thee and thee
Judge me no more – and go the way of the pounds I discard


© Joy Leftow 2007

Dead Long Ago

All those people? Dead long ago. Most of `em anyway
They ate up all the lead, used so many drugs
Their bodies shot to shit, they’re all dead
Some’s left, see em once in a while
walking down the street,
Standing in the rain, trapped
Stuck on their methadone, loving it, not moving on

Heroin was good in the 60’s, plentiful and cheap,
My friends and acquaintances died from o.d.’s
Me? I never used it. Uhh ... O.K., I tried it once,
You know what they say about birds flock together
I flocked, beats me what for, but I did,
Truth is that flock was better n’ home
What? You want to know if I had a good home?

I thought that flock was better n’ home,
14 years old hanging with the addicts.
So sorry, at 14 it was alchies. Alcoholics.
Yeah, tried that too, didn’t like it none
Having babies for a black man, angry alcoholic
He became a junkie. I saw him not long ago

Asked him when I saw him,
“Why were you so mean?”
“Don’t know,” he said to me,
“Couldn’t hep myself, I guess.”
He tells me, “I’m HIV now, got a hernia so bad
my balls swoll up down to the floor.”
He was a god-damned strong man at 20.
I saw him press 250 pounds. Handsome too,

6 feet tall, 180 pounds, muscular, well built
He had lots of girls. Gave me gonorrhea 30 years ago.
30 years ago I told him about our baby
“Shoe box size,” he said when
I held my hands up to describe
“Coffee color with lots of cream,”
I said about the baby’s skin.
Dead 30 years ago.

In the middle of the night they came, 2 a.m. or so,
Said “Your baby’s gone, you can see him now you want.”
Gone, born 2 days and a half ago,
“You can see him now you want,”
the doctor’s hand resting on my shoulder

I birthed him glimpsing his coffee
colored skin with lots of cream,
They took him away,
never `lowed again another see
“His lungs were half formed,” they said,
“You can see him now you want.”

Begging for 2 days and a half, not allowed.
“You can see him now you want.”
“What for?” I said, “I wanted him alive.”
“Too bad. So sorry. You can see him now you want.
At least let us do an autopsy.
Save some other woman pain like you.”

So Sorry. Trapped in a time warp.
Childhood? What Childhood? Childhood what?
So sorry. Never, ever heard the word.
Can’t imagine what it means.


© 1993 Joy Leftow

Ramblings Of A Dead Poet Revived

I’m your dream that drama queen you wanna be because you’re too damn scared on your own
so you talk about me –
My life shot and framed at every angle, a show and tell story of gory glory
A fit of reality TV evening drama
Me, an item to be discussed while you pine away
dismay pitted against your boring display of ridicule and scorn
a fine young thing wasted by the sideline of fate
a doorstep away
from where I stand
another miserable life invites me in
inciting an indictment in flight with a slight itch on the right side
another spiteful blight, pitiful, truly a fight to recite in the red light district of my mind
be polite do a rewrite be an anchor of light at first sight, sit tight
stay upright, only a bit contrite that my
knight in shining armor is all in my head
I have a legal right so join me in breaking bread maybe
Tempt you to try a
glass of organic Oregon Chardonnay instead
my life can’t be that exciting that you spend your time wondering when I do what I do and how I do it why do you care about my theatre life on the big screen
my life's a Sartre amphithreatre
play and I am the spectre at the center of the fuss
I reminisce I exist
the bliss a swiss- chocolate kiss amiss to a soul kiss
the calypso discussion
I disinvite you to an airtight conclusion

Madonna Likes Kabbalah

Nowadays everyone wants to be a jew; pop stars madonna
it’s popular in comparison to Catholicism Christianity
The biggest thing is
There’s no hell
It gives me sensation stimulation
Lucky me ~ born jewish
no hell
an undying inspiration to my senses – gratification
escape the backlash of hell
death offers indefinable possibilities
we all think this way
why is it this way why why
is it this needle in a haystack
is it a fact Jack
is it sinful to think
we’re part of the same cycle of things here today gone tomorrow
Wouldn’t you rather believe born again
I sing the blues today for cold wars for inner peace overcoming conflicts and prejudices, represent repent longed for - a baleful cynical haze
The crypt of tomorrow laid waste in a haze another fast faze of a circulatory phase
Around the planets
I’m agnostic –
It’s impossible to know there’s a god,
Now I’m atheist
I have no beliefs regarding our demise
Or knowledge that god is or isn’t - if the same god is the god inside each of our soul’s travels
Planting itself like a blossom waiting to bloom
Like a candle in a dark room
I sit here waiting for you to come on home
God’s a self combustion-able, - mutin-able futile activity
Sometimes I I I I
Wonder if I and I I I I
Will be
I I I I wonder the curiousity
The point is when you’re a jew like me you don’t have to worry about hell or the hereafter likely you believe your soul will see your loved ones after
Ooops gots to keep my bases covered
Jews ~ we have no hell we practice kabbalah we try to be our best our very best
and most of all I try to enjoy the beauty of life, I try try try to enjoy
The beauty of life I I I I
Do
Do Do
you you you

I Am: Part ll

I am the sun, the moon and the stars
I am everybody - daughter of the gods
I am a rainbow of color
jutting through reality
butting heads with jupiter
I am a fantasy of delight
Energy and lightning
all rolled into one

I am your mother, the goddess of time
I am your father, the god of anger and regret
I am your little sister who wants to be Ellie Mcguire
Jewel and Aliyia all rolled into one
I am your brother who longs for daddy
who says he will grow up to be the doctor
daddy always yearned to be
but never had the heart and guts to become
I am all of them yet I am me, I am one

I am your grandmother who guards
the memory of her son when he was free
and dreams that someday soon she will
awaken from this nightmare to find him
beside her where he rested
his head thirty years ago
upon her breast

I am your father your mother
your sister and your brother
your grandpas and grandmas
I am all the people you’ve never met
and have dreamed about
In your dreams we have met
I am them, I am me and I am you
we are all one, one together
not separate from the other

I am this dream you deny
Your closest ally, a sweet goodbye
A quick reply an outcry
Grab the redeye to Shanghai

I chase a moonbeam metamorphosize into a morpheme
in your dream I gleam
like polished silver surfer
I am your most titillating fantasy
I am love
I am who you want me to be

© 2006, written for my Beacon Center Saturday poetry students - grades 2, 3, 5, and 6 - to inspire and teach them how to write a list poem.

DANCING LIGHTS

Myriad colors of flame shimmered
all around the walls of my room
This brought back memories of you

How we watched together
these reflections,
Rainbows of colors
Shimmering on my bedroom walls

Chanting praise to the zig-zagged rows
of shimmery sequins on my rainbow dress
Reflecting vibrant lights
in kaleidoscope colors

Shimmering reflections of cut crystal,
Prisms of sun's light reflecting through
my western window I move through the
shimmers, the glimmers of colors,

Reflecting on my pale white skin,
No, not translucently white,
You know there are many colors of white

Getting into here a diatribe of colors.
I'm white you know, but my skin has a pinkish glow.
Yeah, you can see my veins sometimes,
in some places, but not in all places all the time

But lets get back to the reflections of myriad colors
Dancing in kaleidoscope lights across my bedroom walls
Me walking through these colors butt naked
Rainbows of colors reflected across my naked pink

Glowing body in kaleidoscope lights
Red, purple, gold, orange too, even blue and green lights
I feel like a multi colored leopard
Padding around my rainbow spotted room

Think of all these colors in uneven splotches
Reflected in my big bedroom mirrors,
Crystallizing dancing lights
All over my pink glowing body
As I dance to the dancing lights

© 1994