Four Poems

by Jane Blanchard

Mama to Son

Well, you do have a curfew,
And it’s one o’clock,
Not half-past, not two,
So you’d better be home

When the clock strikes one,
Or you’ll soon find out
That home’s much better
When mama’s not mad

About finding you out
So late with a friend
That her mama gets mad
And then calls here

To relate, friend to friend,
At half past two
That you can’t call there
Till you don’t need a curfew.

The Desk

I bought it in an online auction, then
paid more to have it stored until it could
be trucked from Jersey to the Georgia shore.

At last it takes its proper place—in the
best corner of the larger bedroom of
a renovated condominium.

Made of mahogany, it has two shelves
for books and folders, plus four drawers for pens
and papers so important to my work.

Its surface holds both a computer and
a printer—neither large enough to block
the view of waves on rocks along the beach.

Its legs resemble lyres—suitable
for sounding poems to be written there

as tidal cymbals clash and crash outside.

for a résumé

“I can fold a fitted sheet”

is insufficient

but around the house such skill

has more than ample value


I’ve never gone to Disney World,
     Nor have I wanted to;
I’d rather visit some resort
     That caters to the few.

And I am not a Facebook friend
     Of those who do post there;
Instead I write or call the ones
     Who genuinely care. 

I power off the Super Bowl
     Soon after it’s begun;
Except for ads, the game is not
     What I consider fun.

And Real Housewives or Jersey Shore
     May have devoted fans;
I am not one, and so it goes
     For the Kardashians.

I seldom fill out feedback once
     I purchase stuff online;
I like to save the time it takes
     To write “just fine” or whine.

And I refuse to “comment” on
     An item in the news;
I much prefer my rant or rave
     Get fewer public views.

In any conversation I
     Stay very true to type;
I shun each subject that becomes
     Objectified by hype. 

It’s strange that I am willing still
     To wait upon the Muse;
Someday, perhaps, I’ll recognize
     I’ve fallen for her ruse.

JANE BLANCHARD divides her time between Augusta and St. Simon’s Island, Georgia.  Her work has appeared in Southern venues such as James Dickey ReviewPembroke MagazinePoetry South, and Thema.


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