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Poetry By
  Brian Rowe

Published on: 11/6/2014

Everyone's favorite George dances onto the stage
His suit black and chic, his hair hinting old age
The microphone wobbles when he touches its spine
The title card surfaces at the edge of the screen
A hush extends over a room filled with envy
The Best Supporting Actress remains to be seen

"Good evening," he says, his face drenched in white light
"It's time to hand out the first award of the night."
I clench my sweaty fists, I bite down on my tongue
I flash a sweet smile not bitter with defeat
Even though I've lost at each show up to now
Even though my rear end remains forever in the seat
Fifty years and a fortnight my career has gone strong
I've played nuns and moms and I've burst into song
Since the sixties they've flocked to this radiant Field
Watched me fly, and then fight, and be the best I can be
They said yes to Norma, Edna, Mary and Aunt May
They've said they like me, that they really, really like me

But it's a new world, this sad fixation over youth
No one cares my husband was shot by John Wilkes Booth
They all turn to the starlet, with the lame pixie haircut
With the bright eggshell eyes, with the grin of a whore
So she sang and she starved and she died all dramatic
I could sweep up her talent with a mop on the floor

I gaze at Adams, Weaver, the still sexy Hunt
A loss to them would be fine, none of them is a runt
Steven gives me a wink, takes hold of my palm
I glare at the skinny bitch who hasn't eaten all day
George opens the envelope, tries his best to look shocked
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Oscar goes to Anne Hathaway!"

The camera zooms in, I let out a fake cheer
I try not to sprint to the bar and chug a cold beer
She heads up the stairs, and I pray that she trips
She latches onto the statue, and I hope that it breaks
When she waves to her husband, Ryan Gosling-lite
I vow to grab that shiny gold, whatever it takes

I'd leap up to the stage, pop her right in the face
I'd stand there so proud to have won my third race
But then: "Who I have to thank most is my hero, Sally."
I sit up in my seat, as Anne turns to me, and says
"You're stunning, sublime, you're the cream of the crop
It's icons like you who make me strive for my best."

As the applause overwhelms me, as they all tell me thanks
From Sandra to Brad, to Cher and Tom Hanks
I take in my surroundings, and I finally understand
Through the clearest of mind, as much sense as can be
Just how privileged I am, how so very blessed
Because the people still like me, they really, really like me

Published on: 10/29/2014
Sarah Shotwell

Blue skies melt into green meadows
In your shimmering eyes
Morning sun finds rows of lilies
In your sweet scented hair
Sarah Shotwell, I dreamed of you

Flesh-toned velvet flows in clear rivers
In your soft skin
Rich mountain peaks call to Heaven
In your cherry red fingernails
Sarah Shotwell, I dreamed of you

Volcanoes, for years non-active, erupted
In my brain
When you finally looked at me
Buildings collapsed and rivers evaporated
In my heart
When you turned away from me

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