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, September 29, 2012

Hope is a Dream of Tomorrow

Hope is a dream of tomorrow
filling the spaces with joy.
Hope is a cool breeze
on hot summer days.
Hope is a love
that keeps my heart soft and full.
Hope is a glowing sunlight
that keeps the darkness at bay.
Hope is peace and accord
in a troubled world.
          --Scheherazade


And from Emily Dickinson:
Hope is a strange invention
a patent of the heart
in unremitting action
yet never wearing out.
Of the electric adjunct
not anything is known
but its unique momentum
embellishes all we own

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