1980

Day 7:  Before my first cup of tea, I open the computer, a tab already set to NaPoWriMo.  What is the prompt for the day?  Here we go down memory lane.

Now our (optional!) prompt: keeping to the theme of poetry’s value, Wallace Stevens famously wrote that “money is a kind of poetry.” So today, I challenge you to write about money! It could be about not having enough, having too much (a nice kind of problem to have), the smell, or feel, or sensory aspects of money. It could also just be a poem about how we decide what has value or worth.

1980. Celebration Barn

1980

In those days after we said I do and you stomped on a glass,

and the piano player didn’t know “My Funny Valentine,”

we lived in the pop up VW van, faded red with madras curtains.

Gas was $1.19 a gallon.  Then we moved into a horse stall

and worked day and night on theatre, creating

designing, rehearsing and perfoming with the troupe

along the northeast shore.  Besides food stamps ,

we worked at the local food co-op and ate well.

A  jug of zinfandel lasted all week.  Nobody

had any more than we did.  Some ate red meat.

Some smelled of garlic in that pre-vegan world.

I wrote for the Mime Times.  Nothing paid.

We lived, laughed, cried and performed

in the barn that was our theatre and bonded

whether we were straight or stoned.

~C.J. Prince

©2015

About cjprinceauthor

I write. I read. I write and read...I listen to raindrops on begonias, talk to ravens, dance with dragons. I practice Tai Chi in a barn, I sleep with earth stones and tarot cards. I celebrate each day. Join me!
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6 Responses to 1980

  1. susanissima says:

    Love this Cj, and oh, how I can connect with it. Those were beautiful, sparse times when we had our values intact and life was about following your passions, not the traffic to the mall. Glad we’re back to that. I’m drawn to all of it, but your first three lines really grabbed me.

  2. Steve Segal says:

    I barely remember the vw van
    And Carpenteria is shrouded
    In a foggy reunion in whiteface
    And we heading North
    Miming, juggling, mike
    Playing spoons, a boom box
    Playing fleetwood mac
    Your movement your smile
    Our joy
    Thank you

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