Be gone, you bastardly bully,
vacate the youthful frame that lives inside
Deliver me from your hostile embrace,
evil talons digging into
my right shoulder.
Seize not my knees. Don't peck my neck,
and let my back unkink
silently each morning.
Harass me not (you punitive punk)
with twisted fingers or
You rude interloper:
Do you think you own this joint
and all the others?
You vault from limb to limb,
dispersing pain, rabidly
Observe the dancing branches
of the lovely maple tree until
the creaking sounds of winter come.
Just watch me swing from the rafters
with Cirque du Soleil
(in my mind).
See me soar toward the stars,
light the sky, blast a tune; I'll email you often
from the moon.
Taunt me, curse of age.
This is war -
you will not win.
The raging winter storm killed the power throughout the town,
plunged us into darkness with swirling snow and silence (save for
savage sounds of wailing wind.) I wish our stove were gas and I
could cook in Braille, that melt-free ice had been invented, saving
food supplies from spoiling. Hot buttered rum would sure taste
good if I had any hot water, rum and butter that wasn't rancid. I
wish for heat – from gas-powered electric blankets, battery-heated
gloves and socks, but my most fervent wish is for Johnny Carson's
return… Johnny, who cracked me up from just his look while some
visiting animal perched atop his head, whose off-the-cuff remarks
make today's contriving-manic comics look like fools. I miss that
guy. I wish I could find that damn lantern so I might more safely
stumble in the dark instead of tripping over furniture and smacking
into doorframes, uttering curses that would make a sailor blush. I
wish this raging storm were just a dream. And I wish global
warming would hurry up, halt the wind and make those windy
meteorologists quit talking about the weather incessantly. I wish
for bluebirds in the spring but not for those pigeons that dive for
French fries in McDonald's parking lot; certainly not the preening
Canada geese that honk in competition with cars and expel ghastly
green goose turds. I'd wish to live in Florida if not for their
hurricanes and hoards of senior citizens careening around in golf
carts. I wish my husband would quit shoveling the driveway,
courting falls with concussions, strokes and heart attacks. I would
never wish for a Hummer to navigate through treacherous trails
and trials because I would be unable to park the thing and would
have to drive until it ran out of gas. Snowshoes might help but I
would probably break an ankle, lie trapped beneath the snow with
freezing frostbite, end up hospitalized, injected with infection and
suffer an untimely death. I wouldn't mind if Ed McMahon
came along to introduce Johnny. Alas, night is in control for many hours
until daylight comes; the raging storm persists. How I'd love to
have a gas stove, a lantern and Johnny Carson to light the night.
Jean Youkers loves to write fiction, humorous nonfiction and poetry. She is a member of the Wright Touch Writing Group and the Red Dragonfly Haiku Poets. Her work has appeared in the Beach Days, Beach Love and Beach Fun anthologies, as well as in the Delaware Beach Life Magazine, Cicada’s Cry micro-zine and local publications. Jean was selected to participate in the Delaware Division of the Arts Seashore Writers Retreat in 2016 and 2018.