Ars Poetica: Faking It

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, June 14, 2014

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