A Long Converstation With Myself

How sweet, how nice
to be able to say,
“I talked to myself about that today.”
“I had a long conversation,
with myself, me and I
and together we mulled
and twisted and tried
and we came to consensus
and I see my way
and I can live with my answer.”
What a nice thing to say.
But think, how much better
to stand up and say
“I don’t talk to myself.
Instead I pray.”
“I’ve got a pipeline to God.
It may sound absurd,
but any thoughts that I have
aren’t mine; they’re His Word.”
They can’t argue with you.
They won’t fuss and won’t fight,
if your thoughts are God’s thoughts
then you must be right.
Don’t think your own thoughts,
don’t take credit or blame.
Tell yourself you talk to God
and that you speak in His name.
You will always be right
with the thoughts you’ve been told,
no matter how stupid,
each word’s dipped in gold.
So when you talk to yourself
pretend that you heard
the voice of God,
then you’ll have the last word.
--Sappho

Be Thankful

Be thankful if you were never called beautiful.
Later, as you watch your colors fade and your angles soften,
you will see your own beauty.
Be thankful if you made mistakes
If you learned anything at all from them
you are wise.
Be thankful if you were never found good enough.
It turns out that once you've forgiven them
you can forgive yourself.
Be thankful if your childhood wasn't always easy.
After you've learned life's lessons
you will find your innocence.
Be thankful if you didn't do it all when you had the chance.
Now that you have no chance
you can do what you want
Be thankful if you weren't the perfect parent.
Now your children can parent you while
you become perfectly childlike.
--Sappho

Crone Song

Crones are wonderful.
Crones are wise.
They look at the world
through ancient eyes.
Through ancient eyes
that have seen it all,
the comings and goings,
the rise and the fall.
The rise and the fall
of their chests as they breathe
and the tears in their eyes
when it’s time to grieve.
When it’s time to grieve,
only they can say.
That has to be
the price they pay.
The price they pay,
with aching bones
and broken hearts,
those wonderful Crones.
Those wonderful Crones
who show us the way
to cherish ourselves
and live each day.
--Sappho

It Can Work Out

A fault of character
seeded by cultivation,
trained by repetition,
activation by results.
To control; to be right
alpha dog vs. helping,
natural leader vs. ego trip,
“knowing” beyond borders.
The logic of its own
obsession to compulsion,
rewards the weakness,
proven over time?
To control is to feel safe?
Allow another
to live with discomfort,
let go.
--Sheherazade

An Answer To The Question

Some say time is
a silver and gold bracelet
with a trinket to mark each event.
Here is a tiny ring, there is a cradle.
But I say no.
Some say time is a rosary
made of black onyx and amber,
handed down from your mother’s mother.
A thing to be touched reverently, with guilty fingers.
But I say no.
Some say time is
a hangman’s noose
all rough and hairy.
A punishment to be feared.
But I say no.
I say time is
a looping string of worry beads,
rainbow colored,
made of polished rocks
and spider’s webs
and safety pins,
sea glass,
sticky notes,
precious gems,
rubber bands,
and sweet hard candies.
--Sappho

Rhyming Recipe

{Read to a rap beat}

Heat the oven to 325
Beat egg whites and put aside
A half-pound butter beaten creamy
Two egg yolks add to the mix
One cup ground almonds does the trick
One good teaspoon baking powder
Joined with two and a half cups flour
Mix it all, fold in egg whites
Squeeze it into a cookie mold
In fifteen minutes, they’re a sight to behold
Yo!
--Isadora

Panic

My chest is full of broken glass
and shattered mirrors,
sharp edged
chaos
Breathe
Let the colors come into focus
pink
crystal
silver
Breathe
Let the jagged edges align
into
pinwheels
Breathe
Let the pinwheels still themselves
and become
flowers
Breathe
and the flowers
are pressed under glass
Settled
into a window
with the sun shining through
----Sappho

From Back Here

From back here
the headstones are anonymous.
They could be anything;
birdbaths,
garden gnomes,
scattered thickly under the trees.
Another unseasonably warm day.
The sun shines through the bare branches
where the vultures roost
and the squirrels play.
The columns on top Red Hill
are glowing in the winter light.
The sky is blue,
melting from opal and pearl
to robin's egg, china, cobalt,
and indigo.
I'm too old to skip
so I jog a few steps.
I'm too tame to howl
so I smile.
      --Sappho