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
not so much
clinging to my body
in silks, linens, cottons.
I like pink too.
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
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
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.
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.
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