My most recent poem, published by Silver Birch Press.
by Betsy Mars
If I could talk to the animals
I’d gather creatures all around me;
carrying them catlike in my mouth
through touch, telepathy, or teeth—
Or birdlike, feather my arms with amethyst
and join the formation with wings,
strung out v-shaped.
We’d band together safely,
each in our proper place, flying but not in flight.
I’d blow the top off my head and spout
my presence high into the air, grow gills
and breathe underwater … and slowly …
I’d practice bubble communication
and learn to whistle beyond human earshot.
On soft cat feet, my telltale tail swishing
and back arched, I’d raise my hackles
to warn predators and rivals
to keep their distance.
In a low growl, my throat would rumble my displeasure.
In a dog-eat-dog ass-sniffing world
my every inhale would be endlessly informative,
odors wafting through my synapses
triggering unarticulated volumes
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A recent poem that I had the honor to have published on the Peninsula Symphony Facebook page.
Most of you have heard of Atlanta Symphony bassist Jane Little’s extraordinary career and unfortunately, her recent passing. A friend of Peninsula Symphony, Betsy Mars, has composed a very poignant poem that we wanted to share with everyone.
A Little Elegy – by Betsy Mars
RIP Jane Little
February 2, 1929 – May 15, 2016
Little by name and small in stature,
Jane was summoned from the stage.
The final curtain called at last,
keeping time to the music, she bowed that bass
and her life’s arc ended.
An exit worthy of Hollywood lore,
an incomparable finale.
Her endurance was record-breaking,
Her holy wood was breath-taking:
a near-perfect orchestration –
harmonious and unexpected.
Upon the stage she left her measured mark, a triad:
her own two legs, and the bass, her phantom limb.
Through seven decades she had borne the weight.
Not the fleet-footed ballerina she once had dreamed,
she was all depth, all resin, now risen.
In concert with the golden age,
as the last bars played in an uplifting swell,
her spirit pirouetted quietly to the rafters.
She took her final bow in synch with the music –
a departing spirit, hoping for reprise.
In Tandem by Betsy Mars The time had come to take the stand: kicking it up and out of the way, I wobbled from side to side wearing my training wheels, only just maintaining balance. My father wrenc…
I just finished Rosemary Tonk’s posthumous collection of poems, Bedouin of the London Evening. I wanted to read Tonks ever since I saw this quote: “The main duty of the poet is to excite – to send…
by Betsy Mars
In isolation, a consolation,
prized: the Chanukah bush
attended by a stuffed tie-dyed snake
masquerading as our surrogate–Santa,
without beard or belly, bearing
bags of good will.
May it follow us all the days of our lives.
Candles duly lit, dreidels spun.
Latkes fried, the golden pot won.
The annual miracle, snake oil
medicine to treat our family ills.
Eight days: a week and then,
around the corner,
Christmas is in full swing.
Shining tinsel hangs, silver icing
atop a flock of
sheep in the manger. Knee deep in
popcorn and cranberries.
Stringing along while singing a song.
It’s starting to look a lot like
the little drummer boy sat in the corner
forlorn. Like me, an outsider.
A witness to incense and pine tree scents,
hot cider bubbling and families juggling
strands of lights on shaky ladders.
Three kings arriving on camelback to meet…
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