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.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

A Poet is a Small God

[These three poems were written in response to the prompt: "A poet is a small god."]

The poet is a small god
only when his words
illuminate
a universal truth.
            --Zazu

Is a poet like a small god?
Is there such a thing as being a little bit pregnant?
Do I, a pretending poet,
want to be a small god?
Why not a large god for me,
a larger person than poet?

Wait! What is the definition of god?
I must know before I decide.
One who rules? One who decides?
Give me a break, dearie!

The only god who rules, who decides
is MONEY and those who hold it.
Please don’t insult my intelligence.
Besides, I’m only practicing to become a poet.
            --Xena

Artistic awareness
original imaging
sudden glancing
as a visual artist
relentlessly frmes
Imaginings in creating art
the poet entices inklings
notions and impressions
into sound.

The perfect word
The adjective
finally bringing
an insight that says,
“I know,” “a-ha,”
“That’s it!”
A new wakefulness
actualized
into being.

Deepening alertness
Illuminating a theme
Held as riddle
with playful candor, or
deliberation.
The Poet hears
the pulse
of an idea
into words.
          --Scheherazade

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