You Can't Ask a Lady

You can’t ask a lady
to reveal her age
Without risk,
Without offense,
Without being rude.
But the question isn’t crude.
It’s real and easily understood.
Why then do women think
That if they reveal their age
Something about them
Will sink and they will be
Less than,
Unworthy,
Undesirable,
And should be ignored.
It is a cruel rule,
A horrible yoke
Upon their shoulders.
No one has the authority
To issue the rule:
“Hide your age.”
Does the Crone
Have no value
In a Man’s world?
Who says
An older woman
Does not excite
Does not titillate
Does not arouse
The sexual hormones
In a man?
Why do women acquiesce?
And pretend
They are not the wise crone,
The experienced elder,
The women of knowledge,
And power?
When they were six
They were proud
They could read
And run faster than the boys.
They showed their license with pride
When they reached 21 years of age.
Men don’t conceal how old they are
When they are 30 or 40 of 50.
They are always
Desirable at any age.
At least to their way of thinking.
People tell me
I can’t ask a lady,
“How old are you?”
She will be offended.
Why?
Because she bought the line
Hook and sinker
That once she is past
Twenty-one
She is of no value.
That is ridiculous,
Obnoxious,
Sexist thinking.
When we devalue
Any aspect of who we are
We cheat ourselves
Of the cooperation,
The power
And the wisdom
Of half the human population.
We rob ourselves
Of the wisdom of the Crone..

Backyard Autumn Blush

People Who Die Rip Us Off

People who die 

Rip of us off. 

They really do. 

Not intentionally, mind you. 

But their death, 

Their departure,
Our awareness of their absence, 

Robs us of their presence

Of their touch, 
Of their aroma. 

Death gets up in our face,

Nose to nose, 

To dare to declare 

That we, too, 

Shall surely die 

Someday.

There is no escaping,
No eliminating,
No having an immortal body.

Fear of our very own death 

Is hard-wired into our psyche. 

Grief buries itself in our muscles.

Therefore, we must

Talk grief out of our bodies, 

And out of our minds. 

Grief hides deep in our hearts. 

It desperately needs a voice 

To work its way out.

When we gag the mouth of grief

It chokes and rots deep within us. 

Grief then manifests 
In unsavory ways. 

It will bite every helping hand.

It will chomp,

And chew,

And spit out all joy,

While stomping on everyone 

Who would attempt 

To make us feel better. 

Our voice is a magic salve 

Use it
To squeeze out our grief 

A little bit at a time. 

Poets