Best On Writing And Wordsprayer Poems
One thinks poetry is a couch to make the world play therapist,
or at least take note and listen.
One thinks poetry is a prayer book, calling the faithful to litany
or the faithless to become congregation.
One thinks poetry is a rifle to shoot the head with images of war
or blast away the combat’s trauma.
One thinks poetry’s a vase to preserve the cuttings from the garden
or store stony trinkets collected from private shores.
One thinks poetry is a bullfrog shut in a dry shoebox, ready to croak
or jump out inappropriately during show and tell.
One thinks poetry is confetti, meaningless color tossed haphazardly,
or blinding shards thrown like glitter into eyes.
One thinks poetry is preservative to allow display of pale, shriveled organs
or the internal parasites that feed upon them.
One wonders if this poetry deserves the polite applause for its presentation
or if the art has been lost in the hands of these practitioners.
Ondine
Ondine ...you are untamed Tonight
A yielding Lover….You held me long before I was born.
speak to me with the language of Dreams
A Mystic Bridge between the Light and Mystery.
You Summon….then RAISE
The Storm ,
the War
and the Distance between two colors
Naked in your Beauty only in the darkest of Nights …
with no will of your own
. let flow the Waters of Life against the Sky...I am soundless Gray
as you rise from this ocean…a Myth…then a Woman
You do not choose to create or destroy
but Heal with a cold and wicked heart.
I am Criminal… Suspect …Always in chains… the fury of creation
In the waters that give life.
Your Dance hidden, The Song unheard My prayer is silent against empty Cathedral Walls
Of your Bones.
I suffer your Love and become immortal then die in your memory
I am Reborn again and Again…Creating Myself from the Ashes
Then leaving only Ashes
You do not give Birth...but only plant the seed by casting
the dimmest of lights,
against the waters,
against the shadow that is me.
cwh
She was nine
swinging with prayers
but when nineteen
found her
she had left
the playground
far behind
only to return
with a new recruit
at twenty nine
she forgot how to pray
as she lived in delusions
that drooled on the windowsill
framing a nightmare
at thirty nine
she rediscovered
the prayer of life
that was always within
shes forty now
playing in the elements
and swinging poems off stars