April 9, 2010 A Girl at Sixty

Here is the prompt for April 9:
"For today's prompt, write a self-portrait poem.Other artists study themselves to create compositions (not all of them exactly flattering either), so it is only natural that poets, who are word artists, write self-portrait poems from time to time. In fact, some poets make self-portrait poetry "their main thing." For at least today, make it yours."





Self-Portrait of a Sixty Year Old Girl

Inside me lives a girl.
An adventurer who
Wears skirts just a skosh below her cheek-line,
Holds a microphone with absolute command.
Babies at her breasts, overflowing with mother nectar;
Dances in the sand,
Street,
Or backwoods tav;
Shoots pool, plays poker, rides biker mama,
Challenges cowboys, cops and all authority;
Hitchhikes at freeway on-ramps;
Writes letters home
Telling weary lies;
A seamstress, farmer, carpenter,
Who forsakes aging
And won’t surrender
To swollen knuckles,
Stiff ankles,
Bloated belly,
Sensing the girl within,
Noting surprise
At the unfamiliar old woman
In the mirror.

Inventory

Sixty. I don’t feel sixty. Nor, have been told, look sixty. But the facts are there, in black and white, on parchment paper and family bibles.
I have not accomplished my life dream and though I realize many go out without even knowing what their true purpose in life is, I am not one of them.
However, to begin the course for my next chapter of living, I have some tasks to accomplish.
Today I will begin the process of elimination. That is: eliminating things I have collected and schlepped around over the decades. I must sort and dust and decide.
There are… photos albums and overflowing boxes of images that begged to be catalogued and will now be purged. Dishes: crystal, china, silver, plates, mugs and ceramic bowls made by my erstwhile teenage potter, her name etched carefully on the bottom of each. Toys; some that were hugged and abused by my own babies. Books; reference, novels, children’s, bios and guides; loads of these. Curtains, blankets, linens, serviettes and table cloths, and delicately embroidered pillowcases. Projects; half finished, unframed, requiring mending, long forgotten or purposefully ignored. Art. (The word stands alone.) Framed photos, large and small. A sizable music collection of CD’s and cassettes, even vinyl, a few long out of circulation and some painful to the ears. Electronics, furniture, and computer paraphernalia that will always mystify me. Files, papers, drawers and cabinets full of information, useful and obsolete. Clothing, the easiest perhaps. Trinkets, mementoes, tchotkes. Memories, sorrows. Joys.
Sixty. A few days ago, I celebrated this benchmark with a group of dear friends. I’ve taken inventory of the past six decades and find myself bewildered as to how I even got this far. I often joke with visitors who ask “What brought you to Mexico?” Yes, a plane brought me to Puerto Vallarta; and at times a car. Now the joke’s on me.
A series of complications found me back in Vallarta this time. I have an FM2, a visa that allows me out of Mexico for only 90 days. While this is a hardship in certain ways, it also permits me to own property and not pay capital gains (28%), once I sell. Since I am trying to immediately sell a piece of property, I became hogtied by Mexican immigration.
My era here has past. It’s time to open the door to new and more innovative, cleverer, more ambitious people than I.
So I will be a homeward bound angel. And I will diligently search for that elusive agent and publisher for my books; perhaps produce a chapbook of my excellent poems and continue to write, for the amusement of myself and hopefully others.
I’ll take that 28% loss. I thought it might be painful but there are things other than money that impinge upon the emotional spine.
Money and time; the ultimate equalizers. One, perhaps negotiable, the other, never really. Not having much left of either, I am encouraged to make a new plan. It won’t be the first and with any luck, not the last.
Thanks for reading.