Oh, To Be Born in the Year of the Pig

Oh to be born in the Year of the Pig, the Pig

To be born in the Year of the Pig.

Was it Ode to Be Born in the Year of the Pig?

Never mind, the rhythm's fine 

And so is your luck

If you come forth 

In the year of the swine.

Chinese, in thrall to calendar ways

Want babies in this blessed year.

Those who show up will be

Prosperous, fat and hap-hap-pee.

But wait, birth in any year 

In the cycle of twelve, 

Whether pig, or horse or the other ten 

Calls for rewards

So why the hype? Because

This is the Golden Year of the Pig

That comes around once in 60. 

In Golden Years,

Bonus blessings shower newborns.

So all across the Asian land

Hopes and pregnancies

      are soaring

Three million more than normal

     are emerging

Strained hospitals are overrun

      with piglets, shall we say?

But they've got it wrong

All that glitters is not gold

Ah, now we're told

This pig year is earthen.

In fact, 

The last Gold Swine was '71; 

The next,  2031.

Why such a colossal blunder

In a land renowned for skills with numbers?

Pursuing higher numbers (of yuan) 

      trumped common sense

Suppliers of diapers, oils and baby food

Gilded the ordinary year of the pig

And triggered a flood of tiny tots.

Still reeling from the tarnished news,

New parents are not whooping 

      it up in birthing wards

The sudden baby boom

Will up the ante in years to come:

For seats at school, for jobs,

                 but have no fear

The Pig knows not of demographics

And superstition knows no bounds. 

Other reasons will be found;

Other years gilded soon.

Surprise, surprise

In a thoroughly secular state

They will bow down before golden mammals.

© Bill Sypher, 2013

Carvings of the animals of the Chinese Zodiac
on the ceiling of the gate to Kushida Shrine in Fukuoka
Photo by Jakob Hatun
from Wikimedia Commons

Thoughts on Mary's Mother

Where was Mary's mother

In all this birthing?

Was there only cousin Elizabeth,

Old and inexperienced,

To give comfort and advice?

Was there no Jewish mother

To make chicken soup,

Check how the baby lay,

As if she felt Jesus

Moving in the womb?

Was there gossip

In the neighborhood?

Did her mother

Want Mary and her bulging belly

Out of sight?

         In all this birthing.

         Where was Mary's mother?

© Peggy Latham, 2013

Detail of a pregnant Mary in a Provencal creche
Photo by Guillaume Piolle
from Wikimedia Commons

Forgotten Names

That reminds me of...

that film!

You know, 

the one we watched,

that black and white

French film we saw...

with the man who has brain cancer,

and there's that beautiful scene

with him lying down in the back of a taxi

driving to the hospital

and he passes all of the people

that show up over the course of the film.

There was a young man involved in gang violence,

a broken marriage,

a young kid's first day at school,

a married couple moving to a new city.

Each in their own black and white story,

all moving towards "the end."

© Scott Stark, 2013

Parisian taxi
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Catch and Release

iron cuff eyes clinging to uniform

curtails weigh anchor on cruise line confusion.

confrontations of emotional upset commence once battleships sink.

ornamental gratitude decorates hungry hearts breathing

vitality suffocates in doberman demands.

Grass roots honesty spews forth from innocence,

strip lotus nectar from sticky cookie jar fists.

exhausted earth turned servant caves in to pastry cravings

contenders playing 18 questions

asked by kitten curiosity sequential numbers forgotten

as sunshine day dreamers wrap infant arms around poltergeist fathers.

plead Poseidon for safe return from salty coconut travels across the mango flavored ocean.

were i a dolphin, i would loose stranded sailors from deep sea grips

vengeance splits storm protected decks

were i a ship i would hold tight to the nails

hammer together the pieces of vessel i call family

i am instead a raging tidal wave come to crash upon splintered trust and unconditional love.

i am a treasure chest.

unleash your padlocked soul give charitably the wealth of your qi, your love, your fantasies...

please, captain, on this day... share with me

© Sarah Bordeau-Rigertink, 2013

The 'Great Western' riding a tidal wave
Painting by Joseph Walter
from Wikimedia Commons

Heritage

I am nothing to claim. 

White skin and dark hair;

I can’t call myself anything. 

I envy those who have heritage, 

rich and proud, 

black brown and loud. 

Me, I come from a history of nothingness: 

my father born Jewish, 

my mother born Caucasian 

(the word for the occasion 

when they don’t have anything to say 

except you’re white). 

White like ghosts 

you're taught to be afraid of. 

White like cotton 

slaves were forced to pick. 

Had my mother too been Jewish, 

at least I could have possessed that as what I am. 

Yes, I know from where my ancestors came, 

and I have to laugh to this day 

that some people say 

I am privileged to be this color. 

And to those I say, fuck no! 

‘Cause I have to risk skin cancer to 

look as healthy as you,

and I have to wear makeup that clogs my pores 

to make me look alive, not dead. 

And when people speak of the color of snow, 

let’s not forget dirt is brown, 

and in it is where things grow. 

You may read this 

and call it self-hate. 

But my intention’s not that. 

This is just a message 

to which some of us relate.

© Suzanne Saxon, 2013

White and Brown
Photo by Tony Russell