*****

Recorded Reading: https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/jw0y6orbxqmmvupnofvkk/Soul-on-My-Sleeve.m4a?rlkey=6m0is3z4iw2yaynuh8qu5tg0r&dl=0

*****

(Of late, the poet’s angelic counselors have been telling her she has some residual emotion to purge, lest it cloud future possibilities of happiness. 

Since the poet, after years of daily and nightly torment, had pretty much ~ and very reasonably, too ~ given up on any possibility of future happiness, this made sense to her.

She asked what kind of emotion needed to be purged.

“Well, you’re angry,” they said. “And justifiably so!”

All this made sense to the poet too.

“Any suggestions about how I should go about this purging?” was her next question.

“Well, if you lived on a farm you could chop wood until you had it out of your system. If you were a sportswoman you could ride or slug it out. Some people smack pillows or scream or throw things, but the one time you tried that ~ quietly alone in your van, tossing bits of metal into your miniature baskets ~ someone illicitly recorded it and now uses it as part of his despicable targeting arsenal, among equally despicable listeners who are delighted to watch or listen to anything ugly or degrading about anyone whomsoever.

“You’re a writer. Self expression should do the trick…”

So here it is, folks ~ a poet’s sorrow, rage and despair, spread upon a glowing page)

*****

Soul on My Sleeve

I haven’t worked for money
I haven’t worked for gain
But to bring you uplifting verse
And a glad refrain

I haven’t worked for violent
Or destructive change,
Only wholesome progress
Calmly to arrange

I haven’t lied, I haven’t tried
Much profit to retain,
I’ve labored seven days a week,
Every one in pain

I haven’t asked for warmth,
Luxury, respectability,
Cooked food or comfortable bedding
For my disability

I’ve tried, for what I’ve given,
A minimum to keep
Of returned resources ~ but, folks,
I’m not allowed to even sleep

For less of your good money,
For far less of a fee
Than that small wage which represents
Minimum reciprocity,

I bring to you this product
Of a quality 
Which, preference of styles apart,
Cannot disputed be

I offer you, right from a heart
Honest, true and whole,
The finest of the finest art
To serve the greater whole

Seven days a week,
As many hours every day
As can be managed, meditate
Upon what I might say

Or write, or sing,
My mind I sift,
Searching for something lightening
To give my fellow man a lift

What have I earned, all this heart’s blood
With sacrifice of?
But little money, no respect
And very little love

I hold my soul out on my sleeve
And all that they can say
Is “Hide that filthy thing from me,
And then please go away.”

*****