Ars Poetica: Mistress of All I Survey

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.

Friday, January 13, 2012

[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