woman's worlds

Persephone's Worlds

I have wandered far from thoughtless girlhood,

am a woman, a Queen

in my own right.

Yet I am treated with the expectations

of a mindless child

in my mother's Summer home.

The Gods are all agog with Zeus,

fickle, abrasive, free to take full stance

above the laws he so imperiously commands.

My Dark King is so much more a man,

sincere, deeply feeling, committed to his realm,

compassionate, if not always kind.

Yet, here I must obey the crowd,

displaying charm and grace

in haute couture, making small, insipid

conversation with the socialites

decorating Zeus' lawn parties.

Up here, life is meaningless,

All flash and doggerel

to amuse, O', do entertain us.

So tiring to endure the ennui.

Those not privy to opulent entitlement,

relegated to the dregs of servitude, or less

endure for their time, brutal, painful, short,

for no good reason.

I hear their horrid tales,

back in my rightful place and purpose.

Shrunken souls, shriveled by life time hungers

still growling beyond the grave.

I am balm and wise mother.

At last they matter, their stories opening in me

a marvelous passageway through which they are

taken into paradise.

My life above, the petulant daughter,

the pampered goddess spawn,

I endure coldly.

Summer's trivialities, properly obedient to

rituals of the social condition,

know nothing of my true life

under Winter's glory.

Athena's Valentine

Athena fair

stalwart daughter of Zeus

graces her time and place

with divine knowledge.

Today unlined face,

silken hair,

robust yet fragile form

are proclaimed as the graces

of womanhood.

Athena, lost in the pantheon,

whispers to the nightears

of her faithful,

saying: "True woman's mind

inclines to wisdom."

But Daddy's girl

wants more recompense

for loneliness.

Scrying on the Moon (for Brigid)

~twilight of the goddess, call to song to aery dancing, lady fair your fiery trance rewinds our souls; enjoy these offerings of fancy: all art is yours ~

By sibylline light

images I recognize,

creviced captures of my life.

I know her judgment to be my own.

"Nourished by Moon rivers

mythical cavern blooms

unseen by sunlight

glow green."

Thus she sets the scene;

becomes the prophecy.

"Purest white simplicity

curved to suggest fragility

faith fed maiden ready for

plucking,

given in bondage to womanly woes,

hard rows to hoe

for that human hug through

crying of night.

Fate of mortal soldiers, sacrificed to lust.

Seeking relief, beg for the boon of drama

high adventure

sneaking into sad hotels

for a fix or a tumble.

Laughs,

deadly play,

danger, a real chance.

Barefoot in the snow

icy roads

winds so strong

I could not make you hear.

I thought you were my destiny.

Crazy thoughts, far from clear;

but I believed

song lyrics from Saturnine deities

would not lie, leave me

dying, fading into winter's grey

drifting clouds,

endless sorrow endured for naught.

Lost on this careless corner,

dreaming of oblivion, intent on visions

like rain

tapping against eternity's

vast windowpane.

Scenic serenity.

Nature's gradations of green

soothe tired eyes,

trembling nerves, throbbing veins.

Slivers of moonlight reflect

in withered refrains, unearth secrets

embedded in song

effervescing through cool pure air

cleansing the uprising nestling

set aflame

resurrected

tempered mettle,

pure, wise, tested

engorged with the will

to rise"

Your Philosophy

movie plot as object lesson

boys find valuable object

boys lose valuable object

boys fight to get valuable object back

I am woman born

no source of father's pride

too early in my days, they

track my aroma

I know not to hide

use me in some back room

until my womb rises with a new slave

for their diversions

I am sacred mother

tit tied to feeding, always feeding

(agonized bleeding in secret shame)

No more than a tether, a trough, and

tantalizer of the profane. I am a wrecked

train, a vehicle left to rust, blamed for

slatternly stagnation,

never quite thrown away.

Reject me; reject hard truths,

long trod diamonds, scuff-polished,

hidden like icebergs in paleolithic mud.

Dismiss prophetic exaltation, work songs,

labyrinthine gardens,

we who are only dreams in your philosophy.

You may well be better

stuck in your own

wheel of clay.

My lesson, when I am ready,

is to leave you to your way;

cleave to the ecstasy

loose, lost, subjective

heroic

cubicle woman

The moments go by if you forget they're there. Sucking in sweetness, hot sugared coffee, aroma into memory.

It might be a warm, clammy late summer afternoon. Hints of autumn like blackberry spicing the air.

The people here are decent. They smile to make conversation a pleasant bit of business.

They want me to feel safe, cared for. It doesn't matter that we are never more than strangers,

passing faces, smiling. They bring me coffee with sugar and plastic sticks for stirring.

In this moment all of the world turns so skillfully I move along without pause for acknowledgement,

stealthily aware.

Masked Lady Moon shines

into my room

speaks of fantastic adventure.

Dare I question her

abundant concern?

I a masked gypsy

painted in gloom,

a taste for wry humour,

impossible promises,

resplendent terrain.

A woman insane,

taken in by the Moon

fair sister, sparkling cold

so far

I wander without home

but that clear, quiet salvation

hiding like Moonlight

unmasked in my mind.

A Woman Disappointed and Disillusioned, Courageously Facing a Seemingly Empty Life

Dressed in sadness

Depressed to madness

Mad to believe in passion,

which never lasts beyond the hour.

Shrieking to bequeath the

power to stand, to breathe.

Years appear, macabre hag

preening her wares.

"See how it was, how it could be.

Drag and drop your face, your fate

onto a printed page. Can you see

new meaning? New lamps for old."

She cackles, like

a metronome.

New maps for a new age.

That charming village erstwhile

known as Hell

has realigned into Helvetica.

All that burning sorrow

tomorrow's poetry.

Lovers Meeting

Carry her with love

Always, in your deepest places

She is a woman upon the Earth

in a land of briar and weeds

It is so easy to fall

to fail to thrive

set upon by slavering beasts

and prophets

You know she yearns to serve

so well

that none could find fault

Yet every agonizing step

like angry knives

cutting from below

hobbles her further, deeper

leaving less to give

Bloody prints mark her

dusty trail

Thirsting for the cooling warmth

of love

Carry her into your

sacred caverns

secreted wellsprings

journey's end

Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.

Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.

Early Scorpio warm, warm village 2 pm poetry reading

at Chumley's

Searching for bargains, found a Paul Goodman book

with cat and dog and baby photographs

to give to Cindy

a gift of love for a fragile child

stranger/sister.

Still affright from last night's heavy scene

Wherein the police took my man away again,

This time with my blessing and accomplicement.

. . . A man is a hard thing.

Also a drag on fulfilling aspirations

When all he does is cry and threaten

Big Brute Violence

To storm my awareness.

(What's frustrating is he doesn't hear me cry.)

Laughing in the park we loved

Crying in the night we parted

Oh, beseech I, god above

Why must you leave me broken-hearted

(and I know he'll be returning with more disregards

and diatribes and possibly pistols drawn to fire.)

So I sit here in the bar, again

Drinking sweet Kahlua and awaiting the poetry

Taking a respite, you see.

Oh, god, for this while,

Bar nothing to this troubled child

(for child I feel, though woman grown)

Let peace alone assail me.

Earth Goddess

 

Ceres, mother of the Earth

Athena, of cerebral birth

Juno, queen of all the gods

Vesta, pure against all odds

Virgo woman, life bequeaths you,

Standing proud amongst your sheaths,

Wisdom, loving gifts of grace,

In all fields is your place

To give of virtue, mind and soul

You plant the seed. You help it grow.

You till the soil and prune and weed.

You are the soil. You are the seed.

A snow-white light on field's relief

To countenance divine belief.

The image of a wishful star:

A steady shine -- but still so far.

The nights of hope; the days of pain

And on and on, that old refrain

We are the heart, the soul, the spleen

We are all we've known, done and seen

We are the time that marches on

With much to do before we're gone.