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.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

When I Grow Up

[Sometimes, we write in response to a word or phrase that serves as a prompt. The prompt for this poem was to write about our "bucket list," the things we want to accomplish before "kicking the bucket."]

I wanna be a writer
I wanna learn to dance
I wanna fit into size 8 pants.

I wanna learn a new game
I wanna cook a curry
I wanna be busy, but not in a hurry.

I wanna be wise
I wanna do right
I wanna have hair that is long and white.

I wanna eat healthy
I wanna be a friend
I wanna do yoga so I can twist and bend.

I wanna go places
I wanna write a rhyme
I wanna be quiet for days at a time.

I wanna hike a mountain
I wanna knit a hat
I wanna know a little bit about this and that.

I wanna meditate
I wanna be a crone
I wanna be content when I'm alone.

I wanna grow a third eye
I wanna win a race
I wanna be happy in this place.
                 --Sappho

No comments:

Post a Comment