Poetry Won'T Hold Her Tongue
Poetry won't hold her tongue
When desperate times
The little men they breed
Would counsel silence.
She bursts instead Athenalike
From out the wearied brain
Or grows painfully from every vein
Like ivy's tiny tendrils
Pulling monuments to ground
Inch by inch
To let in the light and rain
From which newer monuments may grow.
She cares not at all
For their inconvenience.
She shows herself so many ways:
As the boldly topless Priestess,
Snakes coiled about her outstretched arms
As the nun in golden sunlight
Falling through cathedral stone
This lady is a child
All innocence of face,
Ageless eyes
She knows all that remains of purity,
Every excess she calls her own.
She woos the soul with its own music;
Her skin of sunsets draws her devotees
Towards her embrace
Her sweetcool breath like snowind calling
She comes again unbidden
Whispering sweet nothings,
Bearing words to work
Creation Destruction Change
Upon her restless,
Gifted
Tongue.
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