Ars Poetica: August 2012

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.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

A smile blossoms

as I walk toward

this house I call home,

then a sigh.

More than just shelter:

a safe haven, this house,

offering warmth and quiet,

a sense of safety.

I know her secrets.

Four years and no regrets.

She cares for me.

I care for her.

We play, we work,

we give, we take.

We know aches and pains,

so we groan, then rest.

We're old, getting older,

We make the best of what we've got,

with gutsiness and pluck,

opening the door to come-what-may.

-Scheherazade