Permission is granted to make and distribute verbatim electronic copies of these poems for non-commercial purposes provided this notice is preserved on all copies. For any other use, please contact the author directly: Helen Estes Seltzer, c/o B&R Samizdat Express, 33 Gould St., West Roxbury, MA 02132. seltzer@samizdat.com
For the Estes-Cary-Moore Genealogy by Helen Estes Seltzer see www.samizdat.com/gen.html
Tonight I discovered some wonderful lusts
That are pure and innocent -- some even just,
And thrilling to an nth degree.
It all happened while watching a mystery
Starring that favorite actor of mine
Alan Bates -- one who gives a performance divine.
Then I mused, "I might have with him a common factor.
"By George, he may be my cousin, this actor."
For on my paternal Cary Line,
By God and the fates,
My great, great, great grandma was
Sarah Langhorne Bates.
Forgive the sidebar --I just happen to be
The writer of my genealogy.
As for this word "lust" of which I'm so proud --
It had been covered by me in a heavy shroud
Of ignorance and biased word-snobbery,
Miraculously altered by this mystery.
It was one of those wonderous, humorous tales
Laid in grandfather Griffith's Wales. . . .
This family referral must come to a stop --
We' ll switch to "Cousin Alan" again
As he enters into a quaint tiny shop --
That scene sent me into a another time,
And a longing for those Welsh roots of mine,
And caused me to myself remark:
"I love little shops like that. I lust for more travel."
What a revelation! -- right out of the dark
I had disected and experienced "wanderlust."
And felt traveling again was an urgent must!
And at once I was lust's inventor" -- the word was mine by rights.
And I raised it then to even greater heights.
And now I'm enjoying my contemplations
Of the many glorious "lust" creations
There are to discover, and their magic employ:
So, to you, with passion, I say, "Long live the word 'lust'.
And I urge you to dream up some new adventures:
Then to jump in, lust away, and with impunity enjoy.
There I was living in a dream world -- in my own outer space.
Had kept myself looking younger
With pale blonde frosting to erase
Some dowdy dark brown.
I seemed like a queen with a golden crown.
Then I had to suffer through
A virtual hell
In a lovely but terrible, fateful hotel
Where there came over me an age-shaking fear,
in England's Lake Country Windemere.
The setting: the bathroom;
The culprit: a mirror in the ceiling
Which evoked in me this strange new feeling.
It sent me crashing down to earth,
And to stark reality gave birth.
The "jig" was up -- My natural "wig" was up --
And the villain was a spotlight-fixture
Starring in that fateful picture.
'Cause, there before me, finally exposed,
Never by me ever even supposed,
Was my own true "salt and pepper" thatch.
And it sent my well-ensconced happy illusion
Spinning 'round my mind in total confusion --
As it wrestled with that false smug delusion.
Then, finally, in the mirror of my mind
The replacement took hold, and cloyed and cloyed.
I was let down two decades -- or should I say "up?"
To say the least, I was annoyed!
How horrible it was of that unwelcome thatch
To rear its ugly "head"
And awaken me to the awful truth
That
My hair and age are,
In stark reality,
An unmistakably perfect match!
>From Memoirs of the Union League Glee Club's Singing Tour, May l999
I want to go to Hong Kong
Before the British leave.
I want to go to Hong Kong
With my heart upon my sleeve.
I'll save my hard-earned money;
Upgrade my clothes and hair;
Book on the poshest trourist trip,
And bag a millionaire.
I want to go to Hong Kong;
Ride in one of those rickshaws.
Enjoy the sights and night club life
While its under British laws.
I want to go to Hong Kong
And buy myself a suit --
Handmade by Hong Kong tailors --
And I'll get two skirts to boot!
I want to go to Hong Kong.
It sure won't be the same.
When China takes her over
She may even change her name.
When we're young,
And always right,
Everything
Is black and white.
But . . .
As our years
Are on the wane,
Stiffened concepts
Bend in twain. . .
And our mind sets,
Which once
Were day and night,
Blend into sunsets --
Mellow times,
Twlight.
And, as go our hairs
To gray,
So time molifies
Our whole --
Thoughts, behavior,
E'en our soul,
And erstwhile
Prejudices may,
In one big happy
Melting pot,
Come to match our hair --
All one glorious blend
Of gray.
The truck and driver were Goliath;
David's Harley his slingshot.
Face to face
They rounded their corners,
Motors blaring.
The millenium was different --
So were the odds:
This was the twenthieth century.
Born of parents nearing forty:
David,
A perfewct face topping a godlike body,
Ever sweet and docile.
Eyes smiling.
A bold, yet shy, grin
Crinkling his noble countenance.
He got his own head,
'Twas natural.
All melted 'neath his charm,
Carefully fored for two decades
On the anvils of handsomeness
And diplomacy
This David towered
A full two inch above six.
Another fraction'd tipped
His ideal image.
The height of the driver?
No matter.
Civilization ruled out
God's own criteria for battles.
No street people, just street noises
Like music in the air,
As hucksters and hawkers
Called out their wares.
And quanit cobbled streets
For safe-footing of horses.
As their wagons they drew
Up those long, hilly courses.
And, like in our gang,
When the dog catcher sprang
After our pets,
We scampered 'round wildly,
Our eyes wet with tears,
Yelling out warnings,
Like small Paul Reveres,
A life and death mission
Our dog-friends to save --
Each of us strong and proud
And brave.
There were lamplighters, icemen,
And bread, fresh each day.
That was the East Falls
Of that great yeterday.
---
*A neighborhood of Philadelphia, PA -- Gracce Kelley's neighborhood before the 1934 new area was built.
Soulful eyes show a troubled soul --
There's an empty space
Where the spirit had been.
There is no sparkle
Or even a gleam
Fromt he place out of which
Joie de vivre did stream
"The eyes are the windows of the soul"
But this is also true --
They beam forth the owner's intelligence --
And it's there tha the genius slows thru
So, look for the light in your eyes every day --
There are those in your life --
Who might steal it away.
Safeguard that spirit -- it's the vehicle you
Can use all your life to carry you through.
Always stay with the up-beat -- avoid all those downers.
And don't waste your time on those spirit-killing frowners.
It seems to me a forest tree
Gets more attention than human me.
A poser widely used by all
Is that, if a single tree should fall
In a forest with no one 'round
Would it be heard?
That's a problem quite profound
And I'm jealous, think it absurd
'Cause insignificant little me --
My words are falling constantly
And there's my husand by my side,
Looking like he wants to hide.
While my words are falling, fast and furious,
And he isn't even one bit curious.
So I shouldn't envy
That fabled tree.
I'm as unheard as any tree can be
With someone sitting right next to me.
I have a City Window with a view
Of an entrance to a part.
As I peered out one frosty morning
I was alarmed to see
Five separate lonely snow piles
In the early morning dark.
I thought, "These are street people,
Huddled under their blankets and clothes."
And, struck with deep feelings
Of empathy and grief,
I rushed to get my glasses,
And, to my great relief,
There were disclosed:
Five God-sculpted
Snow-people,
Lounging about in swaddling clothes.
Now, listen, girl, and listen good;
I want to make this understood.
This advice could mean your death or life
Whether daughter, sister, lover, wife.
Have I now got your ind and ears?
Listen and I might ease your fears.
first: how familiar should you get
With your human being, love-mate pet?
Do you always hurt hte one you love?
Sure -- the closest one is the one you shove
So, keep you distance -- hunker down -- be content,
'cause familiarity breeds contempt.
And never tell all -- it will come back to haunt you;
He'll long for new stories and no longer wnat you.
Now, listen, girl, and listen good;
I want to make this understood:
Don't play the weakling, the "Patsy", the pawn;
Those girl-beaters are cowards under that brawn.
Just play it cool, baby, cool, and you'll never be used;
And chances are you won't be abused.
suggested lines for a standup comic --
Throught history, veyr famous women, who were outstanding in many fields, missed one event enjoyed by privileged girls in modern times, a debut, also known as a "coming out" party.
For example:
Eve, that wily woman of Eden who got an apple from a snake in the grass, and invented the first picnic, but had no plumbing for after-showers ... never had a debut!
In ancient mythology, the Medusa, who had a headful of snakes, but oculdn't get a rattle out of any of them... never had a debut!
And Helen of Troy, whose face could launch a thousand ships, but her body was afraid of the water... never had a debut!
Also Queen Isabella of Spain, who gave Columbus her jewels, and threw in a box of her cigars for the Indians... never had a debut!
And let us not forget that the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth I of England, who said to Sir Walter Raleigh, "Shape up or ship out" ... never had a debut!
And we can't over look Catharine the Great -- that sey white Russian, namesake of a famous drink... never had a debut!
Then there's that dramatic French queen, Marie Antoinette, hwo yelled those cruel biting words: "let them eat cake." ... she never had a debut!
Even the Lady Astor, who had a rich and famous horse, but had no handicaps... never had a debut!
I dream of having
The perfect valet
To hang up
All my garments
Each day.
And that little old dear,
Can brush my clothes,
Wash my hose,
And get me a
Frosted beer.
I need a valet
To get me ready
For bed.
He¹ll never from
his duty stray
Will brng me cocoa
On a tray.
To his work
His hands
He¹ll keep
And let me
Soundly
Go to sleep
I need a valet --
But he must strictly
Keep his place
Cause I¹m a gal
Who needs her space
A sexless couple
We will be --
No tra la la or
Fiddle dee dee.
He¹ll never
Violate my bed.
Sooooo
He must be British
Born and Bred.
And faithful to me
To my dying day.
That wonderful
Fabulous
Dream valet.
I grieve for women of ages past.
Today's abuse is but a shadow of their tortured pain.
They thought their very thoughts in vain.
Too long their suffering has been sealed in silent graves;
So, I dedicate this anatomy to these forgotten, tortured slaves.
I grieve for women in ages past.
The men controlled them totally,
And, while barring access to the knowledge sea,
Were proselytizing all male progeny into an "old boy" tyranny
Planning to hold the "females" down throughout eternity.
I grieve for woman in ages past.
Not able to even write a story, they had no chance for intellectual glory.
And, whatever words of theirs were heard, men considered to be absurd.
And who among these males would chance the wrath of the "fraternity",
And dare to honor female thoughts and record them for posterity?
I grieve for women in ages past.
If they'd have had the voice to call for peace and respect for human life,
They'd have condemned male acts of hate, and malice, and strife.
And with peace on earth, and their many contributions thru the ages,
We'd be more civilized, and the history of war have fewer pages.
I grieve for women in ages past.
But the stifling of their genius is man's most poignant disgrace .
For, in killing this cultural heritage, they've robbed the human race
Of classics, cathedrals, and symphonies, to mention just a few
Of countless esthetic pleasures that have been stolen from me
and you.
I grieve for women of ages past.
Let us free their souls from this agony,
As we open more doors for their sisters throughout eternity.
But we cannot blame the men today; for they have come a long, long way
So, together, whatever we do, let it be peaceful, equitable, and true.
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