Jacqueline Czel - 2

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​Meteor Showers on
​my Monitor

​There are too many.
Too many fresh faces,
too many fly by night
rock stars and movie stars,
and athletes living
in too many places,
and I can't keep up with
nano second, filtered paces,
the scandals,
vamps and vandals
and purveyors of
public disgraces;
Care not I,
for sub second celebrities
whose names
mean naught,
nothing,
and utter nonsense,
because they can't fix my roof,
or mend my fence,
offer any meaning,
and come flickering
onto sidebars - at my expense.
They're often half naked
and more often
than not - half baked,
their chins and cheeks
are full botox
and their breasts
are always fake.
Oh, yea - I see
many a false prophet,
bad actors and
pretty product launchers,
modelling snake charmers
and fantasy peddlers
leaning back on
photoshopped haunches.
Here and there for
no more than 1 minute,
and surely gone by 2.
garbage, clashing ions
in the atmosphere -
what's a web user to do?
​

When I Grow Up

I am going to become
an emblazoned battle-axe,
a busy-body biddy,
and a foul-mouthed fishwife,
who speaks her mind.

I am going to become,
a fate, a fury, and a fussbudget,
who doesn't waste any time.

When I grow up,
I am going to become a venemous virago,
a gorgon, and an old war-horse too.
And I'll make sure I'm a crotchety pain in the ass.
That's just what I'll do.

And I am going to boldly,
just tell it like it is
because when I grow up,
I won't be wasting time,
trying to figure out, how to live.

I'm going to become,
a white-haired witch,
perhaps a scholarly sage.
A reader of the seasons,
and moving tides,
and certainly more than a digital page.

I am going to become,
a beldam, a grand-mom, a dowager, hag or an old bag,
I am going to be - as stubborn as a mule,
and - Oh, the best of nags.

I am going to criticize
quick fix cooking,
and the ways of the waist whittling world,
and predict if children in still flat bellies,
are indeed - a boy or a girl.

When I grow up,
I am going to become,
a most discerning crone.
And I am going to be able to hear
brewing tempests and my children's sorrows
in that distance on the phone.

I will be somewhat weathered,
and withered - but very, very wise,
and I will detect the follies of youth,
with my laugh-lined eyes.

When I grow up,
I will become a crazy old bat, a cantankerous crab, or an eccentric old bird,
and I will no longer worry about purpose, or gold.
I will become the Totem - blessing the family fold.
​

Bed Head

​My thoughts
are disheveled
this morning,
knotted and
twisted,
lint littered,
a little wild as
as the constellation
quilted blanket
of night is
slowly lifted
by long slender
fingers of light,
the warm hand
in the window,  
beckons
as I bid my
fading dreams,
with a lover's
long parting,
a goodnight.
​

The Poet in Love  ☊

He said, you don't see it, when I work,
and tinker with tools and gadgets to install.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it, when I shout,
vent and vote out injustice at the town hall.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it, when I scream
and rail on the couch at an uncaught ball.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it, when trash and
all things truly heavy is left for me to haul.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it, when I want to
love you and leave you limp like a rag doll.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it, when I refuse to
beg and resist the urge to verbally brawl.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it - All that's good
and the long love letters I mentally scrawl.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it, when I accede
to coldness, as you once again stone wall.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it, when I'm out
with the guys on an innocent  pub crawl.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it, when I cry in my
drink for want of warmth and begin to drawl.
It's pure poetry - Oh, it's poetry after all.

He said, you don't see it, when I mutter and
mumble as I stumble, and sprawl after I fall,
b/c you don't know poetry - poetry at all.

Song for a Sparrow

I took a break
from all social chatter
and the evening news,
I took a break - thinking,
I wouldn't chirp
the same old sorry song,
or trill from my tree,
the same old sad blues;
but at last - at last,
I know I must sing,
for the Sun,
the new morning,
and all the hope it brings.

My Criminal Record

Trumped up charges,
oh, my eyes accused,
my vision called in
for cold questioning,
my interest abused,
by another's worries,
his insecurities; but
how do I plead, me?
A woman, who can
very clearly see the
intricately carved
beauty which catches
my eye at every turn,
but I've been unjustly
profiled, my passion
and my sincerity
suspected, stopped,
and bested by officer
Doubt who's got me
handcuffed and
ready to be booked,
fingerprinted, and
jailed for committing
the crime of expressing
affection, yet again
I, a repeat offender,
have been arrested.

Jacqueline Czel's profile
Go to page 1 of Jacqueline Czel's poetry

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Breaking News

The Right turns left,
The Left turns right,
perhaps,
I'll turn off
the news tonight,

But
first, first,
last, last,
they're counting votes
as hours pass.

Then
win, win,
lose, lose,
some poor
coach is singing
the blues.

A
bitch pitch,
mud slings,
no news - foxy cues
an agenda rings.

And
black, black,
white, white
a little race baiting
to boost ratings
in sight.

Not
good, good
it's
bad, bad
war, war,
more than
a little sad.

Posts, posts,
by
hosts, hosts,
hollow commentary
from
teleprompter ghosts.

Ode to an Immigrant Grocer

Oh, I can tell
     by the skittish look in your eyes,
and the trembling of your camel-colored hands;
     you are going to hate me too.

Your clumsiness clearly indicates
     that you have never actually met;
a Black, a Latino, an Asian, a Catholic, or even an American Jew. 

But you are going to ease on into
     a movie marketed American-ness
by doing what only the worst kinds of WASPS do.

You are going to listen to old wives tales,
     vote for vitriol, and adopt the
more un-American points of view.

Because like the millions of immigrants
    who have landed on these blood-stained shores before .....you;
You are going to try, real hard, to hide the fact
    that you are brand spanking, novice new.

You are going to assimilate through abhorrence,
so no one suspects you.

In Green Pastures

Dare the roaming scapegoats live or die?
Dare fat ewes and young lambs bleat or cry;
where carcasses and silver casings are strewn;
and warm pools of crimson slicken shades
of ochre, ecru, marron - ebony and brun?

Corpses into cut grass many mothers lower
while o'er hills, patches of civil rights fade;
A star, a badge, a scythe - a swift mowing blade.

The Honeybee

Towards
my hive,
I drive,
I drive,
and all too often
I sit and wait
in traffic,
and at
slow red lights
and behind
archaic life forms
called,
retired old ladies
that
make me late.

Towards
my honey comb
I speed,
I speed,
a worker
who wads up
bits of padded
paper,
and attends
buzzing meetings,
to pay for
a vassal's needs.

Towards
my colony
I race,
I race,
pass
my busy swarm
and
across
the sticky,
grey carpet
to find
my cubed place.

Towards
my waffle,
I fly,
I fly,
winged ideas
fanning others
as I productively;
chew
and spit,
and
chew,
and spit,
re-purposed nectar
until the day
I slow,
I slow,
and die.

Method Actor

TOO
many
clean
years
have gone by,
running together
in one long line
of littered lingo,
words on a page,
a well
scripted,
scripted,
something
to say,
to memorize,
needling
and wheedling
words
for many
strangers
curious eyes.
in the
boom lights,
a lit up site,
a stage set,
another
shoebox
diorama
on the shelf
scripted,
scripted
THE END
THE END
for him
and his actor's
alter ego,
a dramatic
catharsis
pushed upon
himself,
one final,
heart stopping
performance,
viewed by
no one else.

(Rest easy Phillip Seymour Hoffman)

Getting Closer to Mercury

Today as our orbs meet
I'll finally get to study
up close
the nature of the wild winds
beneath his feet.

Today as our spheres collide,
I'll finally get to see
up close
the burning supernovas
in his bright eyes.

Today as our globes greet
I'll finally get to feel
up close
his heavenly messages
on my skin, his heat.

Go to page 1 of Jacqueline Czel's poetry

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