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 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
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