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, April 14, 2012

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
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