Patricia Carragon

Looking at the Stars. . .

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

―Oscar Wilde, from his play, Lady Windermere’s Fan

They told me

to look at the stars

when the night is at its darkest.

 

When I did,

the economy fell

and governments collapsed.

 

One by one,

laws fell like comets.

 

Chaos scattered

by my feet,

and the stars went into hiding.

 

Sorrow rained

for more than 40 days

and 40 nights,

and nothing was televised.

 

The apocalypse came

when least expected,

and the world became

one huge gutter.

 

And there are those

who still insist

that this never happened!

What a Wonderful World

(inspired by Louis Armstrong)

In a world of breaking news

fed by the oligarch’s will—stop!

Breathe—

close your eyes, zone out, and heal.

 

The collective is texting you—

the world is still worth saving.

 

Beauty’s tough, a seasoned survivor—

from a child’s imagination to the tiniest leaf.

 

Take a walk and observe the trees.

They are way wiser.

They don't complicate matters.

They live in the now.

 

The roses will return—

ask each crocus and daffodil,

and the tulip, too.

 

April showers wash this landscape—

a rainbow curves over the Verrazano,

the cold gray sky turns cornflower blue.

 

The snow belongs to yesterday—

kids want to play by the swings,

hear Mister Softee’s jingle up the block.

 

Your life won’t be perfect,

but kindness and serenity

won’t cost a cent.

 

The collective texts you again—

yes, the world is still worth saving.

 

Dictators will come and go,

and humanity will have the last word.

 

 

It’s Been, a Long, Long Time

(inspired by Kitty Kallen)

 

Watching reruns of Sex and the City on Netlfix,

activated a tug-of-war between the past and present.

 

It’s been a long, long time

since the series was the rage of the office world.

 

Now, too many peers reminisce about the days

before the Towers were taken down,

before exposing the land of the free’s dirty laundry.

 

The emerald city would rather hear sirens

than the echoes of a solitary pair

of Manolo Blahniks on dark Manhattan streets.

 

I never could afford these heels,

but I couldn’t forget the sounds of silence

at loud parties or standing alone on subway platforms.

 

The city was a marketing dream

taken from fantasies found in fiction—

the expectations expected at my job.

 

But how do you explain that “having it all”

never stopped by my desk or sent an email.

 

No Bloomingdale makeup artist

or Barneys’ little black dress could produce

the magic to fit in.

 

No Cosmopolitan polish could cover up

who I really was.

 

We spoke the same language,

and I had to do all the explaining.

 

I lacked interest in a man’s world

since it was a rigged video game.

 

What worsened it,

I never knew that I wore a red “P” for Pariah.

 

Sometimes, I wonder if these people

are still alive and satisfied with their “charmed lives.”

 

I will never know,

or is it best to move past these stained chapters?

 

Despite the COVID years and present administration, 

my fingers sharpen on the keyboard,

getting opinions out—

the more offensive, the better.

 

My words reflect my progress,

and the girl from the 90s deserves my respect—

her fight-or-flight mode earned her wings.

 

But like her,

I still wish for an egg cream kiss,

realizing that some memories can be sweeter than others.