For Lynda Carter’s Birthday

Auuugghhh!!!! I LOVE THIS!!!



And for That Writer Fellow, I give you a portion of a poem from the upcoming book:

Postcards from the Amazon

a celebrity correspondence


My exercise routine?

I practice on

the parallel bars of I am

woman and hear

my golden lasso roar.

I beat Superman

at arm-wrestling, every time.


And oh, the boys,

my colleagues: tights

bulging, faces half-hidden,

capes cracking in the breeze.

Their voices deep as a well.

Their jaws so straight and sharp

you could shave with them.


All women are gymnasts,


themselves from one necessity

to the next,

swinging, like Jane, from vines,

like me

from golden lassoes. Women hurtle


over every obstacle made by nature

or man,

break free from steel-forged chains

or do not.

This last is why women have


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3 thoughts on “For Lynda Carter’s Birthday

  1. Really speaks to me. It is probably some horrible reversed sexism on my part, but women (in general, and especially as a group) seem to have a more civilised, co-operative, and flexible approach to life’s problems than men (especially as a group). On that point, I daresay at least the Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminists and I would agree (if on very few others): had history been enacted by more women and fewer men, I cannot help but feel it would have been less a litany of strife.

    • Elli…I really love the poetry (and the prose too) of the author of this poem. She takes poetry seriously as Poetry and refrains from the masquerade that so many today engage in, that jotting of thoughts in ragged semi-sentences that is then given the moniker poem…grrrr…I do get a lil restive with that charade.

      My poetry is rarely transcendent above doggerel, but at least I am aiming high, and I think I manage to root each poem in Poetry’s garden!

      Well, Susan Spilecki really gets down to it, IMO. She is thoughtful, her thoughts are long and deep thoughts, and yet she thoroughly gets the importance of those lil grace notes of whimsy, humor and even absurdity.

      A poetess who does not get all ponderous and thus does not haffa be the brooding “mad poet” or the weeping “mourning poet”…

      She just a good old WILD WOMAN!

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