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

Bio

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 Review, Pembroke Magazine, Poetry South, and Thema.