Friday, August 15, 2014

Ms. ogynist

Oh Captain, my captain...
how I hated that verse
so bloated and soggy
like an over boiled wurst.

Red stripes of blood
and stars mired in blue

a nation in tatters
in an unearthly hue.

The captain has died,
it's what people do.

In lilacs of spring
after the winter's dread cold
the dooryard has opened
the ewes in the fold,

the cattle are lowing
the poor baby's cold.

Enough is enough.

We tried so hard to follow
the rules, and we worked hard
to follow as fools. We lost
our way to an evil that drools.

The Mother is watching
as the eye of the moon,
the satyr like star
sings an unnerving tune,
don't worry dear precious
I'll not faint nor swoon.

I'll laugh and I'll dance
when the banquet is done,
when that old world rolls over
with the wrought it has won.

A woman's work is never quiet done.


Oh those stories were told with a gifted bravado
that are now melting as ice age, as the next new gelato.

It's sad but it's true, it's as old as the son,
it a story that's resurfacing to each and everyone.

An old woman that danced
in spite of the age,
the sinewing curves
inside of a cage.

Laughing at the joke of a red sea parted,
the tin children soldiers wrote of a glory
departed. The chosen ones were all of a kind,
leaving the loathsome women and children behind.

A slaughter is a murderous kill,
the woman and children are under a hill.

She held a snake in her hands as she danced,
knowing the future she went into a trance
so those warrior kings could win their spoils
for the degrading notion of religion and oils.

Now, who coils?

The Minoan woman who went underground
like a worm in the soil, who kept her ground
is poking her head to the light of the day
and shaking her fingers as her hips are a sway.

The future is children, the old men are dying
they will be weeping, and gnashing, bleeding and crying.
For the woman in her whiley ways, will rise
to the sound of her childlike gaze
and scoop up the children with pure heart and song...

The Minoan Mama will set right what is wrong.

She will rattle the snake whose still sleeping at dawn.

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Oh clever cleaver

Saw a strange thing on a parapet
a golden crucifix
strolling with golden collection
plate against a butt...
a man in shorts
a man's video cohort
aiming a plea
of a pathetic sort,

Alms for the poor
no doubt
in dubious clout
the religions are doomed
as they scurry about
the money tree...
 you see
it's about power and money
and keeping the piece
of the pie
for themselves, how pathetic
I think. I know flames of ink
that a person must think.

I'm a woman who flames
at the liars sink
i would be sick
if I didn't know of their stink.

I watch in wonder, of a woman's
dear plight, early in morning and
late into the night. The fires are
embers, we have a fresh start,
the arsonist's boil on his butt
is the flame of my heart.

The sirens will scream, but don't be
alarmed. Like the low moan of a train
whose as soft as a bairn.

To love truly true, you need do know harm.