Lullaby 11/25/2014

Hush little baby don’t you cry.
Even though there’s bridges burning,
above it all the seasons turning.
There, a moon to steer you by.
I sing you a lullaby.

Hush little baby, don’t you fret.
Strong young men will always fall.
Even when one death stands for all
there is more to fight for, yet
I sing you a lullaby.

Hush, little baby, sleeping warm.
Fists are raised in fear and anger.
People sworn to battle danger
fail to keep the weak from harm,
but I sing you a lullaby.

Hush little baby. Don’t be thinking
much is solved by fear and hate.
War begets a warrior’s fate:
Bullet holes and powder stinking.
(I whisper still this lullaby).

Hush now baby. I can hear
through the teargas thousands cry,
under this gunmetal sky.
Hate is not a cure for fear.
Sing with me this lullaby:

Little child, sweet and good,
innocent of greed and malice
drink deep of love, share that chalice
through the field, across the wood.
under bridges, in the park,
through slums, mansions, ghettos dark,
with those who fight and those who pray
and even those who turn away.

Put this concept in their mind:

Fear and anger make you blind.
Be the change that you swear by.
Help me sing this lullaby.

Join Us at the Sterlynge Schola!

Join Us at the Sterlynge Schola!. Com educate yourself, enjoy a sumptuous lunch, and learn something about life in the Middle Ages.

Suffragette? Let’s honor these freedom fighters!

Create a National Holiday Honoring Women’s Contributions to Human rights 

Click the Link above to sign the petition at Whitehouse.gov.

Did you know that NOT ONE National Holiday in the US is for celebrating the accomplishments of Women? The American Women’s Suffrage Movement was a spring board for the rights of minorities, the rights of women overseas, and Human Rights across the globe. And yet our own women were one of the last amongst these to get the right to vote! We can do better! Please sign my petition at whitehouse.gov to declare a national holiday honoring the work of women in forming this country: http://wh.gov/Bv65 25,000 signatures are needed by Oct 29th 2012 in order for this petition to advance to the selection committee and the President. Please sign and freely share this message, so that this country can honor the accomplishments of Women Who Dare to make the world a better place.
Thanks!
Lisbeth Herr-Gelatt

Freedom Pact Part Two

Freedom Pact Part Two.

Go Amye! My friend and former/future teacher, Amye Archer, is promising to ditch her scale and tape measure for a year. Not even if she’s the maid of honor and needs a fitting? Not even if the Doctor insists? Not even if Russel Crowe promises to play her husband in the docudrama? There will be documentation. There will be drama. Now that is brave.

Can she do it? Betcherass she can. Or rather, she’s betting her own. I saw Amye just last night, looking fabulous. You can see her, too. Check out her resolution at the Fat Girl blog.

Psssssst: She isn’t fat. She just thinks she is ’cause that arbitrary measure, the Scale, told her so. Will you join her? I broke up with my scale eons ago, though I haven’t quite figured out how to tell the doctor No. Hey Amye, let me know how that goes.

And the Latest US Gold Medal Winner is……

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to announce a Gold Medal Winner in the Momlympics. That would be me, of course. I know I won, because I received this FaceBook gem from my eldest:
“Is their (sic) a reason why I just read your poem and now know all about your sex life? I tell you to disturb you I however prefer to think Dad is your one and only…Officially grossed out”

Spelling, grammar, and punctuation are not mine of course, though I itch to correct it all. How two beatniks raised such a prude is beyond me.
And what pray tell, was the event at which I prevailed? Why, that often celebrated event known as Embarrassing Your Young Adult, of course. That’s a two-with-one-poem for me, as the poem itself is about the youngest daughter. It is based upon a conversation we had. Not to worry that my ego will surpass the capacity of the room, though. No woman is a hero in her own home.
My first poem in a  professional publication ought to be a celebration event for my family, right?  Not so. Himself, my husband, could care less and only tags along to literary stuff if there is some reward in the offing. Say, ice cream or a new book, and then only if I allow him to run for the car and the delights of classic rock-n-roll the second it’s no longer rude to go. Sometimes, even if it is. He always says that I can stay and talk to my friends (as if I need permission), but it just isn’t the same as actual appreciation. And my girls? Well, one lives away from home in another state. She’s the unappreciative grammophobe, above. The middle one is just too busy. The youngest, who just turned 18, has blocked me on Facebook for posting stupid photos. I RULE at my chosen sport. America has chosen its champion wisely.
Seriously, though, if child-embarrassment is a sport that appeals to you, you should give it a try. Novices often score unintentional and therefore totally rewarding goals. Great strides are being made in the potty training, middle school and teenage divisions. But first, harden your heart. No matter how hard you try, it seems that no one at home appreciates a mother’s efforts.

While you are at it, check out my Gold-Medal entry at Pank Magazine, titled The Book of Manners for Mothers. You can find it there, along with some other truly spectacular literature about parenting:   http://www.pankmagazine.com/category/2011/7-09-parenting-issue/

The issue was edited by Amye Archer, who is the mother of twins. I know many people find heroes amongst athletes and stars, but sometimes valor is measured in the number of stain-fighting  products sitting on the laundry room shelf. Amye, a self-proclaimed perfectionist, has the ability to be a real contender.

Not a “Poetry” kind of person? Worry not. It’s a poem in the sense that it’s boiled down to its essence. But it is also about Moms (this mom) behaving badly. While you read it, please remember that not Everything I write is about me.

Did you hear that girls?

I thought not.

The lastest is…

The lastest issue of the excellent PANK magazine is out. In it you will find not only the excellent work of many up and comers, but also one of my Poems, titled The Book of Manners fro Mothers. Please feel free to share the link with anyone and everyone who may be interested. Note the tagline with a link to listen to the poem. Yep, that’s me, reading.

As a side note about the poem, it sprang out of a conversation with my youngest, as we were walking through a big box store. One or two details of conversations from the other daughters slipped in there as well. There are just so many “Really, Mother?” moments in my life. I believe, on a purely scientific level, that it springs from the unusual nature of teenagers brainwaves, differeing from both children and adults. They have a tendancy to think that their parents are the dumbest people in the world. As they grow older, that changes, and parents slowly become, if not smart again, at least acceptable company. If there isn’t anything better to do.

My youngest has complained bitterly that her two older sisters always appear in my work, and she is invisible. Well, honey, I fixed that. I’m certain you will recognise the results!

Peace, and  have a terrific day, folks!

Lisbeth

Pass it on:

Pank magazine Parenting Issue

MThe lastest issue of the excellent PANK magazine is out. In it you will find not only the excellent work of many up and comers, but also one of my Poems, titled The Book of Manners fro Mothers. Please feel free to share the link with anyone and everyone who may be interested. Note the tagline with a link to listen to the poem. Yep, that’s me, reading.

As a side note about the poem, it sprang out of a conversation with my youngest, as we were walking through a big box store. One or two details of conversations from the other daughters slipped in there as well. There are just so many “Really, Mother?” moments in my life. I believe, on a purely scientific level, that it springs from the unusual nature of teenagers brainwaves, differeing from both children and adults. They have a tendancy to think that their parents are the dumbest people in the world. As they grow older, that changes, and parents slowly become, if not smart again, at least acceptable company. If there isn’t anything better to do.

My youngest has complained bitterly that her two older sisters always appear in my work, and she is invisible. Well, honey, I fixed that. I’m certain you will recognise the results!

Peace, and  have a terrific day, folks!

Lisbeth

Call from a stranger. A poem by Lis Gelatt

The marrow thunders through my bones

ice seizes my breath

acid of a thousand cups of coffee

geyser to my throat.

I want to throw up, collapse, scream.

 

A voice explains:

Ambulance,

Life flight,

Rollover.

In the background, 

pain laced scream of “Mommy!”

I roll into motion,

shout for husband

push of adrenaline

run to the car

tires throw gravel

endless drive.

Endless.

Traffic blocks my path.

I run, purse slapping against my back

useless flip flops slowing me down

until red and blue lights

Trooper offers a rideto ambulance.

Helicopter.

I thank a God

I didn’t think I believed in

that my child is alive.

May God Bless You Now and Hereafter. A poem

    Lisbeth Herr-Gelatt 
04/16/2012. My daughter, the soldier, attends

the memorial service of a battle buddy slain by his own hand. 

American Soldier.

He was Not the first, God no.

It was very nearly tradition.

He lovingly polished the muzzle

ceremoniously blued just days before,

the one that echoed in his mind.

She nearly flexed her beautiful figure, in his mind,

caressed his hand,

in his mind cried out

Choose Me! Me!

I’ll do you good, 

promise.

 

So he picked her right out of the lineup

of eternal lovers,

that collection he n his buddies accrued.

Some of them old friends, some trophies

some clutched desperately

in the middle of the night

against unwelcome company.

 

Oddly, the nightmares receded

once he knew, knew

the direction he’d go with his life.

 

Heh, heh. Funny. He joked to himself,

didn’t think of anything,

pictured cool desert stars at night,

palming her cool thigh.

Saw that towering wall of red sand

swallowing the barracks;

overtaking daylight;

scattering the pickup game;

swallowing sound in that shushed roar;

advancing surely and with infinite patience;

sipping greedily the town outside;

overtaking a woman, small boy,

his gunmetal lover.

His hand.

Himself.

Winter a poem by Lis Gelatt

One Spindly Tree

dark against

snow drifted down

pure sparkling sugar

lines limbs

ground

edge of the

last brown feather leaf

bright sun glazes          through

thin coat of ice

slick braches  quiver

Ice      cracks

to the reverb

Base  thumping in     rhythm

I serenely blaze by

swirl of powder

clatter of ice

Winter silence