We have eight more poems from our poery jam to celebrate Barbies at Communion: and other poems by Marcus Goodyear. Looking at the remaining tweets to edit, I expect two more posts here for The Barbie Poems.

The Barbie Poems 3

By @mdgoodyear, @papagoodyear, @llbarkat, @memoriaarts, @arestlessheart, @lauraboggess, @cascheller, @mattpriour, @PoemsPrayers, @KathleenOverby, @togetherforgood, @gyoung9751, @mmerubies, @jamesrls, @doallas, @Dancinbutterfly, @moondustwriter, @mxings, @Jezamama, @MarisaLopezzz, and @TchrEric; cameo appearances by @hiscrivener and @duane_scott; edited by @gyoung9751

The Dirt on Barbie

Does she know how to play,
dirty fingernails, sand in her toes?
Was there ever a Gardener Barbie
digging manicured hands in cool fresh dirt?
She could have had a pink watering can,
a magenta spade.
Hon, your feet must hurt at the end of
the day – high arches a pain.
I seldom played with Barbie once she
was dressed and groomed and her
house was ready for the game.

Whither Ken?

Everyone always thought a bit less of
Ken, who nearly always was shrifted
short in accessories until he rebelled and
donned a polyester sweater, and grabbed a
guitar to serenade, “O heck, it’s up to her neck.”
But I had a crush on Ken all my life until I
married the one who wasn’t Ken, and I learned to
think less of beefcake. Ken can serenade
Enchilada Barbie.

I always suspected Ken of being odd. Perhaps
it was the purple leather and mesh vest and the
gold earring on the one, and then there was the
beefcake and the whole enchilada, ever elusive,
left to arches of pain and bridges to nowhere.
The Ken at my house dated Midge. I always liked
Her best. If your Mom knew, they would go
shoppingfor beef, marry men.
Would that have assuaged her?

Barbie’s Not-Ken

My younger brother had GI Joe,
friend of Barbie, nemesis of Ken.
GI Joe has scruff; a wild-at-heart
man to stay instead of run. I was too
old for GI Joe; I almost said alas.
Strong silent type, that Joe,
love that camouflage, always
playing hard to get, um, find. Oh yes,
it was perfect. Who needs Ken?
Ken was a kind of pallid sturgeon;
GI Joe shot people, but my military
dad never let me have GI Joe.
And the cartoon planes only exploded
after ejection.

Career-Changing Barbie

With all your different looks and
Professions, I have a question:
Are you schizo??
Oh where is that little red purse?
I want to be the nurse
but, first
I will be the bride.

Barbie was right. Math is hard.
Oh, I think Barbie
totally knew the math,
39-21-33, a math that will always
be beyond me. Her math gives
me a backache.
Gave her one, too.

Impossible Stupid Barbie
measurement. Like anyone
can get larger in one area and
not another without surgical
assistance. Dog Chew Barbie.
Hamster-hair Barbie, always
undone in inconvenient places

And Then There was the Dream House

My boys want me to build with
Legos. And Dad prefers Legos.
I’d prefer the Barbies, the Dream House,
that shocking pink construction, to
play pretend with sand castles and
real cake. I liked folding scarves into
rectangles and using them as beds for
Barbie and her family. Boxes became
furniture and doll houses for a mussed up
doll, worn out with loving. Quilts are like
that; to keep us warm, it takes loving to
become real.

Old wooden crates? Rooms with a
view of what? Barbie dream house not.
But wallpaper books are for decorating;
she appreciates the good things, neat
house, no mess to create fun, no art to
decorate the heart. It wasn’t for me to dwell
in. Inside my head were many rooms; mother
and father never smiled like Barbie and Ken.
To put on rooms was nothing; we just put it on,
no cost to us. Or her. The box is the
thing. But the demolition was the
devious intention. 

What About Skipper?

Skipper was too flat-chested for
my breast-jealous self. I had a collie
named Skipper; my best friend had a
collie named Skipper. How strangely
perfect.
Skipper was my favorite; she was pretty
and young and Barbie hated her for it.
She could not bend her legs. I do not
want to live without feeling my
body move.
Was Midge the redhead? I liked her too.
Yes, Midge. All little girls had a Barbie
but the one I love.

What Barbie Was Like

My Barbie was silent. So were
my parents when they considered
the Barbie budget. I could talk enough
for all my Barbies; they needed no
voice but mine.
The pain of smile did not reach her eyes;
her fingers, never soft to the touch,
always cold and recoiling. Communing
as façade, girl knife in back, smiling pink
lips drink communion blood. Those
beautiful eyes never reflected the
stars, only your wardrobe.
True beauty shines within.

Barbie Drinks Tea, Too

I never liked tea
till I went to China.
Learned to drink it there
as different among those
black heads
as Barbie would have been.