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.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

Could I But Find...

Could I but find clarity within my soul and mind
that lets the strife of indecision pass away,
for adventures beyond my head I would not pine,
but find contentment in the day-to-day.
          --Isadora

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

I wish you knew...

[Sometimes, we write in response to a prompting word or phrase. This poem came from the prompt "control."]


I wish you knew that the endless analysis:
who?  what?  when?  where?
and--most important--why?
is not idle over-thinking.

I wish you knew that the look on my face
which you describe
is not distrust or disapproval or anger.
It’s fear.

I wish you understood that I love you
plain and simple.
All the rest is not an attempt
to control
but to feel safe. 
            --Agatha

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Letting Go

[Sometimes, we write in response to a prompting word or phrase. This poem came from the prompt "control."]


Letting go.
Moving backwards.
Upstream,
against the tide.

Being moved.
Ignoring the beat,
the count,
the sound of the music.

Letting go.
Moving out of sync
Into someone else’s
rhythm and time.

Moving backwards,
blind to the others,
the dangers,
the obstacles.

Letting go.
Moving without thought
into someone else’s
rhythm and time.
            --Sappho

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Are We in Control?

[Sometimes, we write in response to a prompting word or phrase. This poem came from the prompt "control."]


As babies, we are told when to sleep and eat,
when to be quiet. Behave or get a swat on the seat.
When in school, more regulations and rules
and lots of untrue facts to make us fools.
The history we were told was a crock to be sold.
Thanks to Howard Zinn, the truth will be told.

It’s scary living now in a military police state,
where flag-carrying patriots don’t care about their fate.
We are losing all our freedoms, hard and fast,
and the life we know will be a thing of the past.
George Orwell would turn over in his grave
if he could see the home of the free and the brave.

If we live long enough for assisted care,
we’ll be in a nursing home where treatment isn’t fair.
As everything goes full circle around,
being fed, in a diaper and to a chair be bound.
Might as well pull off a heist, steal a few cars,
rob a bank or Wells Fargo van and end up behind bars.
            --Gypsy

Friday, January 13, 2012

Mistress of All I Survey

[Sometimes, we write in response to a prompting word or phrase. This poem came from the prompt "control."]


I have control over my kingdom.
I’m the mistress of all I survey:
like the dust on the dining room table
and the weeds in my garden that play.

In my youth I was more autocratic,
issuing edicts for others to heed,
but I’ve given up advising the masses.
Now, I put my feet up and I read.
            --Zazu

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

An Inner Light

Is there an inner light inside of me?
I wish I could look inside to see,
Is there, inside, a special glow?
I really, really want to know.
What kind of light might be inside of me?
Will it guide me to the right, provide a key?
Is there, deep inside, an inner glow?
I’d like to know.
Would it shine out of my eyes
so brightly as to light dark skies?
Or, will it warm the secret part
of my lonely, tired heart?
Is there an inner light for all to see
that could be the soul of me?
            --Xena

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Mah Jongg Maven

(For Marie Davis)

She's the Mah Jongg Maven,
leading the way,
bringing friends together,
so they can learn to play.

Her name is Marie,
and she is quite a sight.
She's quick, and she's lively,
and she moves like a sprite.

When she comes into the room,
doing high kicks,
it's hard to believe
that she's almost ninety-six.

Her fingers are long
and so is her hair.
She's got a beautiful smile
and joy to spare.

I'm glad I got to meet her.
I learned a lot today:
in Mah Jongg and in life,
you'll have fun if you just play.
            --Sappho

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Traveling Poem 1: Then there were nine...

[A traveling poem is begun by one woman, then passed on to the next, and so forth, until each has written a stanza. This traveling poem was begun by Agatha.]


9 women writing
a poem to relate.
One went dancing ‘round the world
and then there were 8.

8 women writing
(none of them named Kevin).
One blogged her silly self to sleep
and then there were 7.

7 women writing
getting more than their share of kicks.
One was overcome by paint
and then there were 6.

6 women writing
happy to be alive.
One fell down and broke her crown
and then there were 5.

5 women writing
out on the moor.
One tripped on a bit of gorse
and then there were 4.

4 women writing
on every subject they agree,
‘till one joined the Tea Party
and then there were 3.

3 women writing
friends, old and new.
One took off in wintertime
and then there were 2.

2 women writing
just because it's fun.
One set off for Mexico
and then there was 1.

1 woman writing
(a cowboy poet is her hero).
It’s a long drive from McCammon, 
so now there are 0.

0 women writing?
(the very thought makes me pine).
We’d better send out postcards*
and start again with 9.


*Each week, Ars Poetica members receive a postcard reminding them of the meeting place (which varies) and the writing "prompt" for that week.