Women's bodies have near-perfect knowledge of childbirth; it's when their brains get involved that things can go wrong. ~ PEGGY VINCENT

Last week, I wrote about Tom finding the two boxes of stuff in the garage while he was cleaning it out after the garage sale.

The pink plastic box he found is filled with old papers, cards and newspaper articles, so I have been going through them one by one.

Yesterday I found a poem I wrote sometime around 1974 or 1975 during my hippie-dippie period. We lived in northern California. Tom was a policeman and I was a volunteer for a suicide prevention and crisis center and searching for my inner self. The environment at the crisis center was one of love, support and encouragement. Every morsel of self-discovery was a crisis and our lives were filled with drama, drama, drama. I wrote a lot during that period, but I fancied myself more of a poet than an author of prose, as did most of my friends and colleagues, so much so that we all got together and submitted poems for a book that we self-published and sold to our other friends, family and neighbors. When I read it now, I just smile.

So... the poem. It's pretty self-explanatory.



Alright. Now honestly, didn't that make you throw up in your mouth?