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Not only is it not remarkable to be a single woman, there's no stigma attached. You see more and more women choosing to be single as well as happenstance.

quote by Pepper Schwartz
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Song For The Lonely

(this is) a song for the lonely
When youre standing on the edge of no where
Theres only one way up so your hearts got to go there
Through the darkest nights
You see the light shine bright
When heroes fall in love or war they live forever
(chorus)
This is a song for the lonely, can you hear me tonight?
For the broken hearted, battle scarred
Ill be by your side
And this is a song for the lonely
When your dreams wont come true
Can you hear this prayer
Because someones there for you
Though love dont need a reason
She can pick you up or leave you bleeding
Ive seen a strong man cry
I know the reason why
We all forgive, we all forget
We just keep believing
(chorus)
This is a song for the lonely, can you hear me tonight?
For the broken hearted, battle scarred
Ill be by your side
And this is a song for the lonely
When your dreams wont come true
Can you hear this prayer
Because someones there for you
Dont give up, so let it find you
Just hold on, wherever you may go
Anywhere, Im right beside you
You dont have to look no more
You dont have to look no more
(chorus)
This is a song for the lonely, can you hear me tonight?
For the broken hearted, battle scarred
Ill be by your side
And this is a song for the lonely
When your dreams wont come true
Can you hear this prayer
Because someones there for you
Its gonna be alright
Its gonna be alright
Its gonna be alright
Chorus
(repeat/mix a few times)

song performed by Cher
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It is not that God has no pity (in answer to Yehuda Amichai)

It is not that God has no pity
on adult soldiers, who crawl
on all fours
and that He only cares
for small children and much less
for children at school,

any fool could believe this gibberish,
but when bullets whistle past your head,
you see comrades and the enemy dead,
how rockets penetrate through
the thick steel armour of tanks
and armoured cars

how grenades, landmines and bombs
explode shattering
you know that mere men
are doing and continue doing
these evil war things

and when you live through
this kind of hell
and come out unscathed,
still living
when your should have been dead,
you know that you are really worshipping
a loving and pitiful God instead
of the merciless one
that some are painting Him
as He has accompanied you
right through the dread.

[Reference: God Has Pity On Kindergarten Children by Yehuda Amichai.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Trust Me! This Is Not a Dichotomy

Trust me.
When I get through with you...
You are going to wish,
You had not spent your time
Trying to find ways to screw me.
Especially unsolicited.
And that's not a threat or a wish!
That is just a fact of life,
You are soon going to be dealing with!
You see,
God and I are 'tight'!
Closer than skin on bone.
Closer than the blood flowing through my veins!
Closer than any vanity that remains in your head.
Hear me when this is said:

'God has been my Lover,
Long before you had expressed an interest...
To see me defeated!
That is not going to happen.
Because God has got my back!
And my soul with Him is intact!
Did you hear that?
And my eyes are not the only ones...
That have been laid on you!
The attention due for your misdeeds,
Is going to come with no misunderstanding
None...
Whatsoever, indeed!
As to 'who' and where it comes from!
You will get what you deserve special delivered!
Trust me!
This is not a dichotomy.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Not What You See

Love is not what you see
Love is bond and makes you feel free
Enjoy and be part of dreamy world
Always nice to be together in lovely fold

Don’t feel alone as we are one
We can make it nice one by one
You have your own way
But stay near and don't go away

Make it easy to take free air
No foul play and treatment very fair
This is strongest desire from female partner
As you will be her protector and Gardner

It doesn’t matter what you try and seek
It always matters that you remain strong and not turn weak
Love demands sacrifice at every turn
It is both the ways and mandatory to return

Why expect that only females may surrender?
They will have no say and merely fall under
For what has been unsaid and agreed for
So utmost care to be taken not to turn the relation sour

I have heard it number of times
The promises are forgotten sometimes
It may happen when tide turns in disfavor
Yet it should not be at the cost of personal honor

Leave it besides if it costs your relation
No bad emotions should be given any indication
Effort should be on to improve upon
The bond will not be lost but certainly won

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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I've Not Been To Jerusalem

No one told me it was easy
No one told me that this life
Would be only joy and happiness
And lacking any strife.

No one told me it was easy
No one said it was a breeze
With no problems on the journey
And just doing as I please.

No one told me that my future
Would be more troubled than my past
For I was young and optimistic
And lived each day as if my last.

No one told me that those black clouds
Would not be followed by blue skies
For I believed in providence
And no failure could be mine.

No one told me that this blackness
Would come a’knocking at my door
No one told me that my circumstance
Would not be hopeful anymore.

No one told me, no one told me
And I’m past remembering
The day those storm clouds gathered
And then dark was everything.

No one sees me, no one sees me
And I do not wonder why
For I simply am a virus
That makes problems multiply.

When I see you, when I see you
When my shadow hides your sun
Please look at me as who I am
Not what I have not done.

When you see me, when you see me
And you wonder where I’ve been
I’ve not been to Jerusalem
But to somewhere in between.

poem by David Keig
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Not A Black Wind On A Blue Day

Not a black wind on a blue day
but definitely grey.
Enter image of a slumping gas pump
with red paint flaking off it
and a coca cola sign just as old
hanging lop-sided
above an abandoned grocery store
across a small wooden bridge on a dirt road
beside an old stone mill with a seized waterwheel
that stopped turning in the flow of the river a long time ago.
Now take it a step further
and try to imagine a black pot-belly stove
in the middle of the wooden-floored grocery store
with people warming their hands around it
like petals turned toward
this black sun that shines at midnight
almost cast iron cherry red when its stoked
with two year old red oak
and it's snowing thick and heavy outside
as if someone got into a pillow fight with swans
and there's an orange-apricot glow
ripening on the drifts under the storefront windows,
that tints the blue snow
towards its complementary violet
and everything looks like a picture-perfect oil painting
on a nineteen-fifties Christmas card.
And there are people inside. Can you see them?
They look like dark, habitable planets transiting the light
of another star seventy-one light years from here.
Silhouettes of men who are always wiping their hands on a rag
as if they just finished fixing something,
farm wives asking the grocery clerk
who cooked which pie
and whose were selling the most,
kids as impatient as snowballs
waiting for their skates to be sharpened
that expect you to use your imagination
to fill in the negative spaces
and give them the benefit of the doubt as to the rest.
The river that runs beside the mill
isn't all that wide but it canters
over a Stonehenge of creek stones
like a blue-black anthracite horse
with a white mane
that's no longer harnessed
to the tyranny of equinoctial wheels.
And I'd expect to see more trucks
than cars parked outside
and feel that everybody
took a secret pride in being trusted enough
to pump their own gas
and have their word taken for the amount.
And stepping inside out of the cold
through a doorway that triggered a bell
to call someone out of a dark backroom
to greet you like a friend they've been meaning
to ask about cutting swamp wood
when the ice grows thicker
and your brother's hauled in
enough to spare the Clydesdales
before they ask you what they can help you with
as they're already pulling
what they know you want
off the shelves and piling it on the counter,
I can smell the wet wool
as the snow melts on their shoulders,
smoke and ashes of acrid oak,
kerosene, gas, metallic sorrows
everyone stores in the corners of their mind
and seldom talks about
like the wreck of a tractor
that turned over on their father and crushed him
trying to pull off the road up a slope
into that first year's planting of cattle corn,
and even though it's been tarred and feathered
by years of pigeon shit and straw
one day they're going to fix it
as soon as the part that's missing like their father
they've put on order comes in.
Sitting like owls on the counter
to keep the pigeons away
two fat, unconcerned farm cats
who hunt the deer mice and river rats
through the badlands of the bags of grain
slumped like corpses on top of one another
in the storage sheds out back.
The smell of wet sawdust, savaged wood,
and a confidence in the air like pipe smoke
or the billowing chimney
of a lone farmhouse in the distance
on a cold, dark night
where a man steps out onto the porch
in his work shirt
and looks long and hard at the stars
like someone who knows tools
and doesn't doubt
if you keep the big questions in life
close to home in a clearing among the trees
there's not much
that can't be reasonably resolved
by a fan-belt, a new timing chain,
a fifty-two Ford pick-up and a timber-mill
that was always thumbs up about the future
in a tried and trued way you could count on
like the number of fingers you had left.
Patti Page, Frank Sinatra, Hank Williams,
McCarthy, the Red Scare, Korea,
and the uprooted stumps of the farmboy vets
not even a decade back from World War II,
still learning what they can do
without this arm or that leg
if you wanted to look at it in a historical context.
John Diefenbaker was the prime minister of Canada,
but basically political opinions were undergarments
you kept to yourself for fear of offending
your neighbour's sensibilities
as they sloshed the crabapple wine
for a second time over the rim of your glass.
But that's not to say there wasn't the occasional bad ass
looking for a casus belli to start a brawl
in the Friday night hotel
where his son was the bouncer
and the cop who came into stop it, his cousin.
Pigeon-holed doves of mail in envelope tuxedos
that knew how to write an address
as beautifully and clearly
as someone who knew how to tie
a double Windsor knot properly.
And it's not hard to imagine
what was conveyed by fountain pens
that slipped quietly through the local news
like loons and birch bark canoes
like the MacLeans' Method of Hand Writing
with inkwells and nibs,
the tentative proposals of an epistolary romance,
the shock of sudden deaths
on the periphery of tribal families
and the grandmothers that aged like shamans
who saw to the funeral arrangements
and remembered the childhoods of the deceased
long after anyone else could
and what songs and wildflowers they liked the most.
The intimate up close business of the cell
attending to its own farm-sized affairs
that could tell by the light through the trees at night
it's got a neighbour, and both belong to a bigger body
though it's the elephant in the dark for most
and everyone's opinion is shaped
by the part they're holding on to the hardest.
Now the lights go out.
The people disappear like breath on air.
The kids have grown and some of their kids
still live around here on potluck crannies of land
and some, like the last son to leave, have inherited the farm,
but most have moved into town or the city
to save the long drive to take their kids
to dance and judo lessons, hockey games
and left the fields unrocked in the spring
and bridges, gas pumps,
waterwheels, and grocery stores
to the spiders and mice and birds
that stayed for the winter,
to collapse under the weight of snow on the roof,
as the sun and rain warp the grey boards
into insurrections against the old fashioned nails
that kept things together awhile
like bridges and grocery stores
with only three flavours of ice-cream,
vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry,
and lives that were no longer tenable
once the fruit stopped dropping
close to the tree in their dream.
And the thick heavy snow
buried them like seldom-used bridges
on the back roads of the unpeopled silence
that takes their absence for granted.

poem by Patrick White
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You see not fear.

In these eyes,
you see not fear,
no distortion of the mind,
no not here.

As i stand,
you see not fear,
in the depths of murder,
in the darkness so near.

Within this place,
you see not fear,
for there is something much worse here,
a lack of fear,
low and behold,
the death from these eyes,
now staring back at themselves,
once again,
They've destroyed,
in the night,
this feeling that propels.

poem by Sandra jacks
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Do Not Wish To Understand

do not wish to understand a poem
much as you wish to understand feelings

feelings are not meant to be digested
and understood
you see them and so let your hands be soft
you feel them and so let your heart be kind

compassion, this fruit of the commonness of
of our time together, love may not take root
and there shall be no tree between us

i least expect joy. If it comes it is welcome.
let is speak to me and i shall listen but

i am the worshiper of pain and in mourning
i shall compose my songs

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Not Into a 'Back-Then-When

Betwixt and between.
And no longer am I bothered by it.
Or teased by that which I can do without.

I feel a peace within as I go about my way.
Betrayals and delays of those promises,
Either I made or anticipated in a waiting...
For them to be fulfilled and given,
Are not on an agenda I keep prioritized.
There is something about acceptance,
I now realize and prize.

I am in the 'now' to live.
Not into a 'back-then-when'...
To be wished!

And 'if' you want to dance with that...
You'll have to find another partner.
Those tunes I don't even hum!
Nor do I keep them remembered.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Happiness is not a thing called Joe

Happiness is not a thing called Joe,
Happiness doesn't have a name,
If you discovered love and God,
Then you have happiness and fame.

Happiness is not the wind, Maria,
Happiness is love with a friend,
If you have friends and family,
Then that is happiness to send.

Love isn't sex and a one night stand,
Love is there for who will take your hand,
Love is wonderful, and simply grand,
Love is a heart that takes to understand.

If you have happiness, then you have love,
If you have love, happiness is also there,
One does not exclude the other, not ever,
You will possess both in this endeavor.

poem by David Lessard
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I do not want to be your weeping woman

I do not want to be your weeping woman
holding you to me with a chain of grief.

I could more easily bear the flames of your anger
than the frost of your kisses empty of desire:

I do not want to be your gentle lover
dragging you to me on a rope of pity.

Sooner that you never touched me than that you ever
should touch me from a distance made of mercy:

I do not want to be your silent mother
always forgiving and smiling and never loving.

If you forget me, forget me utterly. Never
come to my arms without interest: I shall know it:

I do not want to be your weeping woman
pinning you to me with a sword of tears.

I do not want to be your weeping woman.

poem by Alison Boordson
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Only Newcomers Make It Interesting

Only newcomers make it interesting,
To keep going around the same circles...
Over and over again.
Well...
Until they ask those familiar questions,
'Why does the doing of this,
Seem to have so much potential? '
AND...
My personal favorite,
'What is being accomplished...
By those who pride themselves in socializing,
As if to marvel their wealth of collected stagnation? '

Oh boy...
Here we go again!
Geeessshhh.

Only newcomers make it interesting,
To keep going around the same circles...
Over and over again.
Until...
Well,
They ask those familiar questions.

Excuse me.
It is not out of disrespect.
But I am making it my priority to leave.

We met.
And that was good enough for me.
Be well.
And...I mean that!
You have no idea how much.

And...
In the beginning they believe responses heard,
Are from those cynics quick with criticsms.
And the next time they are seen...
With glazed eyes and alcoholic breaths,
Is just one of many steps they will take...
During their travels through denial,
In a place that makes attempts to kill dreams!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You Die Cousin And They Are Not There

Today cousin is the day you die
Your wife is in Japan and your kids are out there
In the care of your mother
Your sister has despised you
Your brother does not bother anymore
Now that you are nobody, with no money
With nothing to make you look like
A gentleman
Everyone has deserted you cousin
What have you done?
When once you were alive
When once you can offer them everything
Your kids their education
Your wife a house, a car
Your sister and brother your money and attention
You were so important then

Times have changed
You are down and fettered
In alcohol you drown yourself to forget
Finally what you wished has been granted

Death, you wish for death

Goodbye cousin, the stories are always long
There is no time to tell
There is no use to reveal
The great heart you still have
The generosity that was
The love that you have that was always greater
Than they all keep for themselves
I know,

Your final rest and your silence
You shall now make the final justification
To the Great Lord, the Ultimate Reason
Why you never build a home?
You, on this lonely tomb

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Failure's Not Flattering

Dont leave this rock unturned
Cause you could like what you find
A sure shot it
With your name attactched to it
Will you keep me in mine
I wont cast the first stone
Or leave the first mark
But I will leave a lasting impression
You believe what you want
And you say whats been said
And I do hope you learn a lesson
Whats your problem
Cant you see it
And you go and blow it
Like everyone knows you will
Dont look too hard
For what you want
Cause it could be on
The tip of your tongue
Your holding back
Like theres nothing left to it
Could this be a false alarm
I wont cast the first stone
Or leave the first mark
But I will leave a lasting impression
You believe what you want
And you say whats been said
And i do hope you learn a lesson
And i do hope you learn a lesson
Whats your problem
Cant you see it
And you go and blow it
Like everyone knows you will
Why dont you get it together now
Failure's not flattering
When will you show yourself
(when will you show yourself)
And I do hope you learn a lesson
You'll never learn your lesson...
Whats yout problem
Cant you see it
And you go and blow it
Like everyone knows you will x 2

song performed by New Found Glory
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Not What You See

Wait a minute baby
I'll be right back
I just gotta talk
To a friend
For a couple of minutes
I see you looking
At the two of us
And what do you see
The oldest couple at the Mayflower
Esther and Me
I push her in the chair
I know she'd walk
If she could
She says "Take your pills"
As if they do any good
I'll bet you think
That what you're looking
At is all we are
Two old people forgetting
The way we were
Sonny, no one is
What they look like
Everyone's so much more
Sonny, no one is
What they look like
And we're not what
You see that's for sure
You should have known her before
You should have known her before
Legs she had legs
That made the guys drool
And her waist was as small
As your neck
And the face and the hair
And the rest of her
And when I look at her now
I still see her young and beautiful
She's my girl and I'm her Joe
And we're not what you see
In a minute baby I'll be right back
I just got some more to say
To my young new friend here
Esther just turned 80 and I'm 83
The oldest couple at the Mayflower
Esther and me
I knew that when I saw her
We were meant to be one
She says she didn't notice me
But don't you believe her
I'll bet you think that what you're looking at
Is all we are
Two old people
Stumbling through the days
Sonny, no one is what
They look like
Everyone's so much more
Sonny, no one is what
They look like
And we're not what you see
That's for sure
You should have known me before
You should have known me before-a

song performed by Barry Manilow
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