Friday, August 15, 2014


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.

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