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 (or the lack of)

Does anyone know where to find hope?
I wish hope would be
a commodity
you could purchase in a store.
A store called "Hope Eternal"
"Hope Springs" or just
"Hope for Sale" (or lease)
by the hour, day, or week.
If one could bottle hope for the masses,
like wishes from a
genie in a bottle,
they would have it made!
Sorrow, loneliness--but especially,
pain--can give rise to
abandoning all hope.
If anyone knows the secret,
please let the rest of us in on it.
          --Gypsy
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