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, June 22, 2014

Vacation

Time and more time
This precious time
Surrounding me
Swirling in delicious designs
Lapping at the edges of my day
Lightly touching my cheek and bare arms
Stroking, tickling
Drawing me forward
So softly
This time is all mine
To do with as I please
No decisions to make
No requests to deny
My life stretches out before me
Time and more time
This precious time
             --Sappho
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Saturday, June 14, 2014

Faking It

I'll tell you my story
with downcast eyes
My voice is an echo
My words are all lies

I'm just a faker
I know this because
what I did never happened
where I've been, never was

My poem is a bubble
a small puff of air
a net to hold feelings 
that never were there

So let's shed a tear
and sigh all our sighs
and forget that we know
My words are all lies
             --Sappho
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