Ars Poetica: The Thrill of a Good Book

THE WOMEN gather under the trees.

They bring gifts, food, and chairs.

They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,

Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.

And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.

Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,

shifting aside their robes to expose

missing limbs and gaping wounds.

The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,

eyes straining, and they chant,

"That is lovely, that is good,"

and the wounds stop weeping,

and they melt into scars,

silvery and light and beautiful.

Then the women lean back and laugh,

and they stretch, sensual and fierce,

like cats in the sun.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

I’m a slut on the prowl

for a good book,

heaving my bosom

when pulled into its spell,

winding my leg

around the bedpost

in Jezebel’s seductive pose.

I yearn to open

the mystical treasures

hidden within its

sweet mysteries;

they pull me in

when other duties call.

Ah…the temptation

I can’t resist.

--Scheherazade