Poetry Corner: Original Poems by Cynthia Morrow
Humility
We watched for it all afternoon,
Welcome and unwelcome,
That sliver of light, a clearing, not quite a sun break,
Merely a fog of pale gray minus the spitting of intermittent rain.
Cup still brimful of tea waits cooling on the counter,
Rubber shoes at the ready by the back door,
Hooded sweatshirt draped over a kitchen stool
Now clumsily tugged around my reluctant body
As I set out to face the yard.
The yard. Two acres of muddy grass,
And always me in it.
Me, prepared to conquer what's made mush by the rain,
Me, a penitent, the one who argued for big dogs,
"The bigger the better," I said,
Now armed with brown paper grocery bags
And long-handled tools meant to make it easier, more efficient.
But it's not.
The puppy mistakes barely clue you in,
Only present you with infantile versions of the horrors to come
Once the fluffy, tail-wagging adorableness wears off.
But by then you're helpless,
Ensnared by your glorious band of hairy warriors,
Greeters and sloppy kissers,
Gentle with the cats,
Huge paws offered for reassuring massages
When long looks and "Good dog," aren't enough.
Too late you learn that you are co-owner of what large animals become.
A factory.
And you, you are no longer the admired professional,
The respected elder, the lover, the teacher,
Or anything remotely else that might lend dignity to your chore,
The repetition and meanness of it relegating you
And all that you believed you were
To mere serfdom.
No, you are not even as remarkable as millions before you
Who, churned under like so much chaff,
Their promising lives reduced
To paying at the end of a shovel
For the hope of another day, another meal,
Paying until they couldn't with unheralded labor, suffering, and loss,
No choice for them, but not you,
You pathetic whiner.
Look up, woman! Find gladness in the doing.
This is your yard, and these are your dogs
Whom you chose and would choose again. All part of the deal,
This interlude between drizzle and downpour,
Be grateful for the raindrops that will release you from your humbling task
For now.
-Cynthia Morrow
Oh Come
Oh come, no more diets. Enough is enough!
Won’t you join me in soul-filling pleasure?
Though conscience may riot at such heady stuff
The palate says, “Taste of good measure.”
The butter they slathered, the gravy they poured
At banquets and feast days of yore!
Were maidens with appetites less than adored,
Or did lusty swains love them more?
Did fair Cleopatra, midst honey and figs, say,
“Sorry, my dear. None for me,”?
Can you picture her munching on grasses and twigs
While Antony scarfed at high tea?
The forest primeval was crawling with game,
Not yogurt or oat bran or rice cakes.
A meal with the Druids might just be your last,
But at least they served mead, ale, and spice cakes.
And how do you think those sweet Medici girls
Convinced their poor suitors to drink up?
It wasn’t the velvets, the silks, or the pearls,
But every rich dish they could think up.
Now aren’t you tired of counting the grams
Of heart-stopping fat on each label?
My friend, life is short. We’re all doomed from the start,
So why should we starve at the table?
No more ghastly penance. I am what I am
And stand unconvinced of our sin.
Let’s put ourselves outside whatever you'd like,
Tie bibs on, sit down, and dig in.
-Cynthia Morrow
