Here are the “final 5” – the last of the poems developed from our poetry jam on Twitter last week.

On the Butterfly’s Blue Wing 3

By @llbarkat, @mdgoodyear, @mxings, @SandraHeskaKing, @PoemsPrayers, @lorrie58, @LoveLifeLitGod, @gyoung9751, @memoriaarts, and @thegypsymama; edited by @gyoung9751.

The Buildings Themselves

The buildings themselves
a river of activity; a bedroom,
if you must, refreshing windows
of truth; the cafe
a tumult of dishes and pans.
A white tablecloth, polished
silver, empty wineglasses,
slender asparagus speared on
fine porcelain plates.
Slice and roast them,
sprinkle slivers on a plate.

Slivered silver, silvered slivers,
empty glances to fill empty
glasses. Silences without
wine are
always more dangerous.
Testosterone is the roast
that warms the plate,
slices silence
like dangerous wine.
I knew where the door
opened, but no more.

Whispers of Grace

Whispers of grace gently
brush against the curtain; the
faraway comes on the edge
of the curtain, pushed by
gentle breezes.
Your faraway comes in
on breezes of blue.
Near comes on the fringe of lace,
swaying by the open window.

I knew the door,
the faraway.
I knew you would come.
I waited at the edge of time
like a white curtain, trembling.
My faraway comes
from faraway, from
away far away until
I return to you.

My hand, quivering,
pulls the curtain aside,
embracing the night-filled air.
The light shines down on my
fingers, wrapping them in a mist
of moon and time and echoes
of what once was.
I hear you say,
I am a blossom in your courtyard.

In the glanced silence
I find silver confessions
dancing like moonlight
across the emeralded
screeds and hills of
faraway, wispy thoughts
and lacy memories of faraway
Let me confess: it is not true
I waited; I waited/for you.

Hidden Confessions

I know where
you hide the almonds,
where you hide confessions.
I know how to discern
the fire in your heart.
Someday, if the willow
stops her weeping,
if time opens the door,
I will bring you back;
I will feed you almonds
from a faraway time.

Summer blows warm,
it confesses our distance
from the sun is not what it was.
I yearned once, for the dark side
of the sun, the dark side of the sun
that burns cold, always burns,
a mute minister, dumb enough
in the darkness, the dark side
of the sun, filled with scarlett
ice cream, frozen. Tomorrow
I fly, running before the sun.

The Call of the Moon

With blue whispers and
lowered lashes, the greater
moon, the blue moon,
calls me back.
I am in a room with
empty glasses, half eaten
almonds and silver, although
I’m not sure
why the silver.

Yearning for the Night

I yearn for the night to extend
for the words, the poets,
for my lover, but the end
did come like almonds
crushed and blown away.
I knew I must be dreaming;
such are the trysts of a maid.
Now for the washing up.
But for what it is and what it was,
swallowed words buried alive,
I will go smiling, remembering
the yearning of the night.

Below are five additional poems developed from last Thursdy’s poetry jam on Twitter.

On the Butterfly’s Blue Wing 2

By @llbarkat, @mdgoodyear, @mxings, @SandraHeskaKing, @PoemsPrayers, @lorrie58, @LoveLifeLitGod, @gyoung9751, @memoriaarts, and @thegypsymama; edited by @gyoung9751.

A Rose Grows in an Ancient Wall

A rose grows in an ancient wall,
or maybe better surrounded by
21st century Snow Whites.
We can’t want for dwarves
plucking she loves me,
she loves me not
seven times seven.
Not one rose, not
one Snow White rose
plucks surety for me about
you.

There is life on the thorn if
you look close enough, thorn
pricked bleeding weeping seeing
she loves me he loves me not
seven times seven
or maybe the rose in its whiteness
loves me or maybe the night
or not asking he loves me,
he loves me not,
her garden will be bare,
a carpet of white.

Or stop walking, turn
around and around until
the world spins
seven times seven
and you
fall to one side, giddy, loopy,
sick,
shattered surety in the textured
fall as pink to gray to black.
I am sure, now, I know nothing
about roses; not one has lived.

You pluck truth from me
petal by petal
until I am left blushing
daisy bright cheeks
and not much else.
Pay my price; blush;
the roses/in the ancient walls
fear not exile.
What is ancient, but this cracked
concrete wall, stretching
with the seasons.

And then the wall laments a freedom not
known. Let’s go together, glide back,
lose ourselves in the wall of you and me.

Does This Music Love Me, Too?

And this music.
Does it love me too?
This harp, this fountain, this apple?
All are priests.
In the beginning, there was
a word and all these followed after,
flowing before me.

Or did you go to the back door
for the dogs, your whistle a quick
high pitch that draws them in?
A moment of recognition
before it flits away.
I, still calling names, am lost
in the wail of me and of thee.

Olive Shrubs, Olive Branches

Jasmine scented, our mail came,
the tendrils bound in blood,
wound tight round the post.
All blood is a Persian gift from God,
and olive shrubs and
brown postal boxes.
Let’s go as blood
brothers, to the olive shrubs;
let’s watch a tender night;
let’s be free
a lover and her poet.

What is loyal? What is free?
Poetry has no priest.
They have no we; we
have no they.
Nothing is ever free
for asking; everything has
a price enormously high.
You are loyal, you are free;
I see you in the olive shrubs,
calling yourself a poet.

No olive branch to
be found.
Find the olive branch
in me; pay my price.
It is light, almost free.
There is a price to your
blush and
I will pay it.

Old Wooden Words

Old wooden words sail on the sea,
still hoping for another moment
to glide back.
Kind is a word I have heard,
the only free word given away
without thought, before thinking,
released.
The only wrong words are no words
at all. Explain how separate is not
broken; I know, but tell me anyway,
kindly.
We are the opposite of Becket’s anxiety,
over flowing fools, two paths branching
and kindly drifting apart.
We speak of wrongs
together, break silence,
separate ourselves
into one love.

The Tryst of the Willow

Weave the willow into a tryst,
you the slender branch,
I the weeping leaves.
‘Tis said, “Speak the truth in love;”
sometimes to hear in love will do.

I hear in love the willow weeping;
I speak the truth of love to you.
A dangerous silence is shared
between us, waiting for water
and menus.

The willow says
smile, share almonds
instead of tears.
The weeping willow weeps for love,
for want of love, for love’s wants.

Love hews down the willow tree and
makes of it a fire.
What is more dangerous
asks the willow:
you, or poetry?

For last Thursday’s poetry jam on twitter, 10 of us virtually assembled to participate in responding to prompts by @tspoetry. All of the prompts were taken from Mahmoud Darwish’s “The Butterfly”s Burden.” And the result was — rather surprising, at least for the editor. This group of poems required the least amount of editing of any of our jams to date. The first five poems are below.

On the Butterfly’s Blue Wing 1

By @llbarkat, @mdgoodyear, @mxings, @SandraHeskaKing, @PoemsPrayers, @lorrie58, @LoveLifeLitGod, @gyoung9751, @memoriaarts, and @thegypsymama; edited by @gyoung9751.

On the Butterfly’s Blue Wing

Time to walk, time to look
off the side of a blue bridge.
Time to ride memories
on the butterfly’s blue wing,
feminine soles to kiss
the toes of necessary
moments.
Loneliness is an aching breaking
parting of the ways
and the days drift into the dark
of American night
after night.

I hear the dog’s bark/beyond your arms,
I close my eyes,
forget the space between us.
So I sigh
and miss the deep, blue, black African sky.
Let there be no end
to the deep/to the blue
to Africa and starless skies.
The Southern cross calls
a haunting refrain
that draws me home
time and night and night again.

On the Bird’s Wing

Cut impossible down to imp,
cut the river trip short,
load the tubes back in the car,
call the kids out of the water.
On the birds wing I find myself
lost in the chores, far down
the river of dreams.
Fry me some eggs, don’t
change the hash or I’ll be lost.

Cut the wings/birds and chores,
cut the river from the
child, afflict the afternoon by
riding the mower along the shore,
bouncing over stones and
and nettles and nests hidden
in the tall reeds where the dry
ground cracks.

Until the water sings us clean,
treat our wounds with wet and cold.
My night is short like my breath
when I land in nettles,
slip into cracks and cannot
find the shore.
Unbind my wings,
throw me into the sky;
I know the way home.

Like every night, like
every train, like every
handful of change I find in
my pocket, like every penny,
I can be your good luck,
just pick me up, bend down to
where I am and pick me up.
Lincoln has wings too, until the
briny river washes him green, calcified

Silken Waves of Memory

Silken waves crash,
pockets of lost time
tracking away from memory.
Tired of memories early and late,
lessons that appear from nowhere.
Lessons precede tests,
tests precede jobs, jobs
precede life and war and time.
Can time hold in memory
the poetry of our days,
our cracked slips and musical
shreds? No, no. No lessons and
practicums, fewer sums, more
drums, little hums and flee behind
the fountain.
Tear petals from the memories.

Saxophone Sing Me Clean

Sing me clean
with your breath
with your voice deep
like the jazz moan
of a tarnished saxophone.
Write your music on a
shred of paper, bind it
on my foot.

Walk in my thoughts,
brassy saxophone;
briny song that longs to open
my secrets to the night.
Harps play in the distance,
polished souls whose voices
call deep unto deep and still
I am tarnished.

I know this tune.
The whole street knows it.
The sleepers roll and breath a
sigh that hums in harmony.
If I write a poem, will you let it
relieve you of your shirt, will
you let it undress your cares,
your unpolished soul?

The Confessional

A New Jersey Turnpike sunset
makes us fugitives; just as well
close the book, close the door,
grab a stool. Let’s play
confessional via!

You run and I run and we use
petals for mortar via, a
fugitive confessional caught in
the wall of thoughts swirling
apple red.

Grab a confession, bite a cry,
pluck an apple, put it on the
stool; this should be
enough for the priest.
Flee the confession; it is not real.

It is a show you have made for
the priest to pretend you do not
deserve exile. If I twirl the green-tailed
bird, will it give me an apple?
will it play the priest and listen to
my confession of love for you?

 Here are the final four poems from our poetry jam in honor of Barbies at Communion: and other poems by Marcus Goodyear.

The Barbie Poems 6

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

Barbie and Her Pink Bible

I like pink
in petunias
dahlias, roses—
not so much
clinging to my body
in silks, linens, cottons.

I like pink too.
Not because
of Barbie but despite her,
to spite her,
my imperfect non-plastic self,
sporting her signature color.

Barbie would like my
2 pink Bibles
the best. I would be
her favorite.
Yet I thought Barbie preferred the
RSV — or was that the SUV?

Thou shalt not covet thy Barbie’s
King James ass.
Could Barbie one day be
the antichrist? Would the
antichrist wear pink? Or 666
on her high heeled shoe?

Barbie’s Medical Issues

In her 50s now, Barbie discovered
Arthritis. I would buy RA Barbie
with her crooked hands and
bad knees and pink bottles of NSAIDS;
I could relate to that.
Barbie had multiple personalities,
I guess. She did things every girl
wanted to do when she grew up.
Barbie is so ADHD. She cannot stick
to a single career. It is all pretend,
all real, all weird — us and them, she
and I, and him and her — trying on
this and that.

The Complexities of Barbie

Growing up, only boys in the
Neighborhood, brother and I,
learned more from the girls
with Barbie in their pockets
than we should know; poor boys
learning from pocket stuff.

Complex, these dolls
that make us dream
and give us roles to play
when we are young,
to grow old and receive
our scorn.

Barbie, like computers today,
could perhaps only be
as stupid as the
ones who formed her. Are we
embarrassed by our youth
once we know what is possible?

Maybe someday we will solve the
great mystery of Barbie. I wonder
what America would be like if she
had never existed. She is who you
want her to be; she is who I wanted to be,
to be rather than to appear.

Was Barbie a Poet? Two Views

Barbie could not spread the
fingers on her hands to grip a
pen – to type – to write. I do not
want to be her. Perfection.
Boredom.

Barbie never once wrote me a poem.
What made me think she ever loved
me? Yet I hear my daughter learning
love in her room, whispering sweet
nothings between bits of plastic.

Why do we fear the day when all
children learn this fabulous truth of
what lies under these clothes – bare
beauty, nothing to scare, only caress.
it is then that we have to admit the
truth of children growing up,
fabulous or not.

She drinks green tea, eats
hand-milled-floured scones, and
dreams of her youth at communion,
head first…in a coffee cup, giving voice
to something more beautiful than she
in a voice her own. We all learn through
other faces, other voices.

She did write.
She did pray.
She did love.
When we were young
we heard it all.

We’re still rolling with the Barbie poems from the last poetry jam, and there are a few more to come after this. Here are another eight poems from our poetry jam in honor of Barbies at Communion: and other poems by Marcus Goodyear.

The Barbie Poems 5

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

Barbie and Breastfeeding

I watched my best friend nurse her daughter
last week, and she is getting no sleep. She
is a real woman with real breasts that feed.
They seem so perfect; make me seem so small
and flabby but I wonder if they are as empty
as Barbie on the inside. I am afraid of such
words and I a nursing mother – not a Barbie.
Do not be afraid, goddess life-giving mother.
Nipple is a word that feeds your child. Nipple
is a word that God created. Nipple gets all
the attention…

And we wonder if Adam named the nipple
like he named the other animals. So I wonder
if God knew the word before He formed the
woman or the man or the Barbie? Word
aside, God made the nipple and the breast
and the milk that feeds the child. Where are
these nippled Barbies? Our play with sanitized
nudity was safe enough to let us sleep easy.
Poor Barbie has no nipples, no way to hold her
child to her breast and feel the nourishment
let down into his body.

I am sure Barbies also slept 8 hours at night,
though her breasts were always hard as rocks.
Get your hands away from my body. It is real.
It has curves and nipples and hair and freckles.
It will offend you, brother.

Barbie’s Easy-Bake Oven

Barbie needs an Easy-Bake oven.
We buy easy bake for our kids who apply food
network logic to create Battle Easy-Bake.
Mom would not buy me the Easy-Bake oven.
She bought one for my sister, years later;
I am bitter over such injustice.
No sister, no easy bake, no oven, no lessons in
Plastic; everything real, leaving blisters and scars.
No Easy-Bake oven, no easy way out; exploded
mess on glass frozen in time, failure not forgotten.
I want an Easy-Bake oven,
and a kitten.

Barbie’s Scarves

I remember making paths from scarves in
the living room; it was as much fun as the
Barbie play and without all the plastic nudity.
We wonder but 99 out of 100 of us are afraid
to delve mysteries, quiet words, nourishment,
and I am 1 in 100 who owns no piece packed
girlhood away in 6th grade, crushing on Ken
who was too old for me anyway. My Barbie
was a slut. I think I learned this watching
soap operas with my mom. We had a
babysitter named Barbie, a friend really,
an adopted aunt much better than a hard
plastic doll. I wanted a New Kids on the Block
“action figure” to date my Barbies.
I had a Wonder Woman Barbie.
I had Parisian Barbie: Catharine Deneuve,
Chanel #5, April Fools, enchantment.

Barbie and the Marketing of Pop Culture

We are lost in the pop gospel,
swimming in the commandments
of marketing. What poet has ever
been made into a Barbie, though?
I think that I am safe. German when
she began, or perhaps just a Viennese
model. Magic lasso, tell it true: was
Barbie a cheap woman or a lost soul
to be/pitied?
First commandment of marketing:
thou shalt always buy (something).
Second commandment of marketing:
Many a lie is said in truth
Thou shalt covet. Thou shalt worship.
Thou shalt desire the plastic sweat of dolls.
Thou shalt not kill stale marketing campaigns.
Stale turns, stale thoughts, marketing gone
mad in a world already crazy with a donut
hole and a corvette, dangerous Dior.

If They Made Me Into a Barbie

If they made me
into a Barbie
I would laugh
too loud
burn the muffins
lose my right to wear
pink.

If they made me a Barbie
I would hope to be a
red-head
so I could wear blue
since pink would clash with
me.
Barbie has no soul.

Barbie’s Pink Motorcycle

I want a motorcycle
maybe even a pink one
not because of Barbie.
I just like pink.
Pink girls who ride
motorcycles cause accidents.
Pink motorcycles,
Mary Kay road hawgs
I would rock a pink
motorcycle.

Who would have thought that Barbie could have inspired so much poetry? Here are another eight poems from our poetry jam in hornor of Barbies at Communion: and other poems by Marcus Goodyear.

The Barbie Poems 4

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

Barbie Goes Shopping

I do not understand shopping, but
I understand the promise of every
store, every unopened toy and its
hours of expected play. Shopping
is for depressed people to pretend
they have money to be like Barbie
and buy pink cars and beefcake
boyfriends.

They had to protect me. Travel was
difficult. Me, the Barbie in the
land of veils.
It hurt.

Barbie in Japan

What have we done to our mothers,
horrified by breasts and factories,
sexuality, topknots, and Japanese workers?
Topknots of wrestlers, honor squats to win
the beauty pageant no matter what.
Would that I had a home to assemble me, or
a factory to tie my plastic Saran strands and
horrify mothers.

Rising from the deep toxic waters of pollution,
ready to destroy Tokyo in her rage,
she was Godzilla with blond hair and high heels.
Iconically American, Barbie was made in Japan,
Japan, where all our icons come from, an
American image to the world, an American
image made in Japan. And Barbie needed assembly;
she was yet unformed, and they missed a few parts too.

Mother was horrified when Ken
ran away on vacation with
my little pony in a pink cadillac, leaving
his blonde Barbie in Japan, American
icon with broken fingers, bubbled nose,
White middle class perfection assembled
across an ocean, creating, offering an
image to the world of the American woman.

Barbie Anthropology

Barbie, defining the 1950s;
GI Joe defining the 1960s (Barbie
went to a psychedelic party in
1968 in Soho but felt sadly
out of place);
Luke Skywalker defining the 1970s.
I bought a friend Barbie and Ken as
Elvis and Priscilla. But I drool over
Wicked Witch Barbie.
Was Mary Kay really a
Barbie in diguise,
Barbie in disguise with diamonds
pink?
Taylor Swift is the new Barbie.

Barbie had culture, but not enough.
Barbie was culture, but not enough.

Barbie Philosophical

How can one doll inspire so much
emotion, from devotion
to rage and back again?
My Barbie head is spinning – model,
party, tea.
Too many worlds for me,
too many words for me,
to kick start a conversation,
words quivering on the cliffs of
insanity.
Barbie may seem like the perfect
woman but she does nothing. She
has no womb – not even a barren
one to mourn.

Barbie Knock-Offs

Mother bought me the cheap
Barbie rip-off, hard plastic and
not near as sexy. I had the Barbie
rip-off, too, for a while, till I
convinced my mother to let me
have the one with the beautiful
long hair, the one choked with
frigidity, the boa wrapped around
her neck, feathers everywhere,
stitched together, disguised, disgusted,
never knowing her own heart or
mind inside the plastic skull.
Beauty needs breathing room, and
she peddled beauty; forget the love.
We boys had our ripoffs, clunky lego-like
bricks that refused to click together into a
chair for Barbies bare end. My brothers
had cap-guns and microscopes; no perfect
dolly to yearn for.

Barbie Has No Feelings

Barbie has no feelings;
she can not even dress herself,
Too many chemicals from over
the ocean, broken down icons of
a country, a culture, a girlhood
deconstructed.
She was born with a runny nose
(do you need a tissue?) with
unwipeable bubbles.
I bet Barbie never had to
face the shrieking eels
or make her way through the
fire swamp.
Jacob wrestled with God;
Barbie wrestled with her hair.
Her nourishment was poison, self
worth broken down, and the
wrestling wears down
at the source.

Role-Model Barbie

Barbie is still inside me on days like,
one last week, when
I had a bra fitting and discovered
I have been wearing the wrong size.
Gut wrench still happens to my
Stomach, friendless in roomful of
Barbies, perkiness perfected.
gut wrench changed when Barbie
found hearts. Now,
I do not play with Barbie, but I do
still wish to be her, if I am not
careful to keep my head above the
clouds and in God.

Barbie as Archetype

Dad was a janitor; I had Dawn dolls,
had a Chrissie doll too,
beautiful Chrissi with the
beautiful hair,
hair like I Dream of Genie.
My favorite doll was made to
look like a real newborn.
I called him Jacob.
We had paper dolls cut
from the JCPenney catalog.
I loved making paper dolls and
dressing them in paper clothes.
I still do that now, but with my
words and my pen and sometimes a
computer screen.
I thought she was pretty, in
need of rescue, and I coveted a
Ken doll. He would not endure
her torture; she had a hole in
her hand where the diamond went.
She lost the match to every single
pair of shoes.

Dawn dolls were smaller and
cheaper; I loved them just the
same, dressed them up and
dreamed of wearing gowns.
I never coveted Barbie or her body.
My sister wanted to play baby-dolls.
So boring, I thoughtbut wouldn’t
say, who cares about Baby Alive?
Baby food dripping down her chin while
Barbie shines, Barbie sparkles.
I spent so much time trying to make
Barbie bend, then just sat there
looking in her eyes, wondering why.
I had Baby Alive. Why did we want a
doll that could not hold a meal? It went
right through her. She had no rolls to kiss.
They made a Jack Ryan doll? The things you
miss in the sticks.
When Barbie found Jack Ryan, and Jack
Ruan found Jack Bauer,
they were all lost.
In the sticks, I mean.

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.

It’s been more than a week since I posted the first group of Barbie poems from the last poetry jam. It’s the usual reasons — time, busy at work, lots of stuff going on.

Here is the second group of poems — seven in all. Tattoos, hair, education, the Dream House as Camelot — we’re covering it all and there are more poems to come.

The Barbie Poems 2

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.

BarbieSpeak

I have just been connected to
Barbiespeak, so begins a narrative
long in the making. She wore Dior.
Dior? Honey, I never saw the like.
She had her pretty cars, her fancy
heels, her way of making everyone
fall into her lifestyle, vicarious living
through high stepping shoes and chest.
She could always wear the boldest
shades and get away with it.

She wore sheets of pink, the shade of
cotton candy. But why no poet Barbie?
No writer Barbie? Novelist Barbie? And
the Journalist Barbie, carries a microphone,
not a pen and paper. Reporter Barbie in a
pink suit. Too bubblegum for reality.
Enough black lace to suggest sex. Seriously?
He wonders if Barbie’s makeup ever ran.

Blond Barbies

It still bothers me to see so many blond
Barbie dolls. Makes me feel inferior, with
my black hair and freckles. Stupid Barbie.
But I thought it was Barbies at communion
in communion, with communion, communing.

Susan used to wear Barbie doll heads on her
bookbag. She colored on them, stuck pins in
them, hung them off of zippers. We thought it
was trademarked, this fall. But apparently, it
came to us all, lacked communion, needed grace.

If I had a daughter I would buy her black and
Asian dolls, redheads and little girl dolls from
India. Every little girl had a Barbie except
the one I love. They still commune in my girl’s
Barbie basket, so many beautiful plastic clones.

Barbie, girl, what is up with the blue eye shadow?
Go to CVS. Try out some Cover Girl.
Barbie, hon, maybe you won’t be so dumb
if you are anything but blonde.
I feel naked without a trademark.

Barbie as Tattoo Artist

For her plunge into the lava pit
of sister-imagination, I allowed her to
tattoo her trade on my arm with
wavy green ink. I thought i lost my head,
but it was just an illusion. She deserved
the pit for her all encompassing-ness. She
was supposed to, cover, enjoinder, remind
us of me and you. Bath water washes us
both clean, yet putting on a bra and
panties, I still see Barbie in the mirror and
know I am not her.

It Wasn’t Just the Kennedys

In 1964 and 1955, Barbie “wore”
Guinevere and Ken “donned” King Arthur.
Was the Dream House called Camelot? Did
it have turrets and moats and walls and a
drawbridge? And who inserted Excalibur
back into the stone?
CNN once reported that Barbie and Ken
called it quits. Did she fall for Lancelot,
or did she enter the convent?

Barbie and the Simple Life

I wanted the simple life she had; money
never seemed to stop her. A closet full of
clothes and nothing to wear. I never
understood how such small hands could
change her from black cocktail to the vet
outfit and back again.

I loved her boa but too small for me,
a boa too small, a boa too far, a boa
too constricting. I wonder what they would
consider avant-garde now?
I’m having Barbie flashbacks.

Mom Did Barbie’s Hair

We had a Barbie head
to play beautician on. Do they
even call them beauticians anymore?
her face was stained with eye shadow.
I wanted Mom to sit with me and brush
Barbie’s hair. She did, once. My mother
had no time for Barbie, no time for stories
no time for pretend. We had a very clean
house. I bet I was still there, begging her to
play with Barbie, while she lay in bed
recuperating from an awful miscarriage
when I was 5. Barbie’s hair came out so we
taped it back on – sorry Barbie. That was
Beach Barbie, the perfect tan, the perfect smile,
taped-on hair.

Barbie’s Education

Barbie, what kind of grades did
you get in school? Did you ever go
to class? You learned to speak
six sentences, only six; to think
six thoughts, only six.

Sentence 1: In the beginning we were
made in China.
Sentence 2: We could eat of any profession,
but of the glass ceiling we could not eat.
Sentence 3: O where o where has my fall
fashion wardrobe gone? O where o where
can it be?
Sentence 4: Love the Lord your God with
your heart, mind, soul, and strength. And
love the Barbies as yourself.
Sentence 5: Math is hard.
Sentence 6: Anything worth doing is hard.

She hid nothing; Barbie was empty. Ask the
science class who dissected her. In science
class no one objected to the Barbie
dissection unit. We just pinned her to the
trays and chopped away. Yet my Barbies were
in perfect shape, never dissected, wholly
clothed, in a box saved by my mom, and
passed on to my girls. I could dazzle my fans if
I could wear pink in the sandbox, look sexy and
Clean, speak more than six sentences.

Last week, we announced a “We’re Giving Away Barbies” contest — leave a comment and a name would be selected at random to receive a copy of Marcus Goodyear’s Barbies at Communion: and other poems.

We had 21 comments. I put slips of paper numbered 1 through 21 in a bag, and pulled out #10. And that’s Erin Kilmer at Together for Good.

Congratulations, Erin – and a “Barbies” will soon be on its way.

Also, we promised to feature one entry both here and at HighCallingBlogs. As Fate (or the Barbies?) would have it, Erin’s poem was chosen for feature before her name was pulled from the hat. Erin, this day is all yours.

Construction Zone

She came home today
from the doctor’s office
with a Barbie sticker on her
fat baby belly.

It took me by surprise–
after these years of boys I have
grown accustomed to
dump trucks and race cars.

And all I could think
is how different this
whole girl thing is–
what with the dolls and the

tutus and the pink pink pink
on everything. No one calls
a little boy “Daddy’s little bumblebee”
or “sweet baby butterfly.”

And I don’t even want to imagine
the differences there will be someday–
when she has entered and then left
the Barbie stage.

But today I’m simply left with the thought,
as I pull the sticker off her onesie,
that I’d be more comfortable with Barbie
if she were driving a dump truck.