Neil McKay's Shared Poems

Maybe we were wrong to praise the little ones when they wore princess costumes and super hero outfits,
"Oh, you must be a real princess," we said, hoping to see their eyes light up with pride.
They grew up believing that if they only had the right costume,
They would be liked. They would be loved.
Later, it was not spiderman or cinderella, but Michael Jordan, Madonna,
Snoop Dog, and the adorable queen of the manic pixie dream girls,
Zooey Deschanel. All those bangs and oversized black rimmed glasses and summer dresses.
Being yourself will never become a movement because it's not done as a group.
The media can't find an archetype of individuality and if they try,
We flock to the stores to buy their costume.

I learned back in the days of jeans with a star sewn on their pocket
Back in the days of Peter Frampton and Farrah Fawcett
The costume doesn't make you cool
You have to start with something.
Probably money.

That robin and his persistent call of "Marco"
I answer with "Polo" and the game is afoot.
It's early, only January, and frost still covers the grass.
His loneliness has brought him out in the cold.

I am happy to befriend him and tell him so.
He will meet others of his kind later,
Likely even a lady who will want to get to know him
In the way that robins do.

But for now, it's me and him.
Marco and Polo until one of us grows weary
Or cold and moves on to other sport
We two frosty playmates.

Every time I make a joke,
It's like wearing a hat,
Shading my eyes,
I cover my graying hair
With riddles and limericks.

My witty banter is just
Vertical stripes to give the
Illusion of slimming me down.
I am holding my stomach in
With every pun.

Without the laughs,
I stand here naked,
And really, who wants to
See that? No one,
Least of all, me.

Nature will kill you without thinking twice,
There is a long term plan that you are only
A small part of, as long as you stay within
Her parameters. I'm talking to you, T-Rex.

Nature is not worried about your feelings,
If you are in the way of progress, she will
Let you know by wiping out you and all your
Friends, do you hear me, Hipparion, you three-toed horse?

And if you are driven extinct by the foolishness
Of some other species, don't look to Nature for help.
She has other things on her mind, Passenger Pigeon,
Your last three kin will live under glass.

Nature does not tolerate dissent.
It's just a matter of time before we all get
Our come-uppance. Someday our names will be
Added to the list. If anyone is still keeping track.

In the old days,
Everyone was a poet for a few months.
Everyone wrote on Steno Pads
With EraserMate Pens with Erasable Ink
Putting their thoughts onto paper
Then removing them effortlessly.

In the old days,
Poets would keep their poems
In a shoebox under their bed
Relishing the idea of their unexpected death
And the aftermath when their old flame
Is handed the box. "You should have these,"
She is told. And then she must keep them forever.

In the old days,
Poems were raw expressions of unrequited lust
Misdiagnosed as love and
Given undeserved Shakespearean weight
As though no one had ever before considered
How the moon laughs at lovers.