My intelligence beguiles me, makes me
literal and monotonous, a bear who
cannot snarl, and therefore thinks
in a controlled and pleasant manner.
I am not this bear.
I graze in a field of drunken ranting
where my poppies and dahlias
bloom like gifted veins
full of wine or blood, or both.
I am a horse of many colors.
My body is a burden unto the
unseeable part of me,
it's all a mystery for the ages.
And it is lost on you, my beautiful one.
I am the paradigm of a menagerie.
In visions I live and lose my life,
claw by claw, and my wildness
eludes me, but my femininity
is so easy and abundant.
The cage is unlocked.
The loose girls roam free.
Sonnet
How does the mountain speak, through tent of night
An orator immobile with weight to bear
The age-old home for each thief's plight
Where fear and mice breed in the devil's lair.
He casts a shadow not, in spite of mass
Though his stone face lacks eyes, he cries in vain
His hooting caves, they swirl with sound, alas
No human ear can hear his vast refrain.
This peak is owned by trees, in state they lie
His heart was forged by time, a troubled core
Dark clouds churn 'round his brow and quickly fly
His runoff tears are kind, and nothing more.
The stars appear to beat like hearts alive
The peak yields to the ochre moon, and dies.
An orator immobile with weight to bear
The age-old home for each thief's plight
Where fear and mice breed in the devil's lair.
He casts a shadow not, in spite of mass
Though his stone face lacks eyes, he cries in vain
His hooting caves, they swirl with sound, alas
No human ear can hear his vast refrain.
This peak is owned by trees, in state they lie
His heart was forged by time, a troubled core
Dark clouds churn 'round his brow and quickly fly
His runoff tears are kind, and nothing more.
The stars appear to beat like hearts alive
The peak yields to the ochre moon, and dies.
On Hearing My Own Voice
I wish to boil you
in your words, to shriek
the needles from the pine,
to bask in vindication
derived from this
rotting inside me, but
there is always a fading
song with your name on it
and the truth of each lyric is
graphic, branded on
strips of tattered newsprint.
My pupils begin to leak,
spilling for a frigid, dark
December day when I
called on your humanity
your power to thaw me
and was made fertile.
I must wail, not for now
but for the poignancy of
what has passed me like
a slow train or
a silent scream.
I had such tremendous
hope for love.
in your words, to shriek
the needles from the pine,
to bask in vindication
derived from this
rotting inside me, but
there is always a fading
song with your name on it
and the truth of each lyric is
graphic, branded on
strips of tattered newsprint.
My pupils begin to leak,
spilling for a frigid, dark
December day when I
called on your humanity
your power to thaw me
and was made fertile.
I must wail, not for now
but for the poignancy of
what has passed me like
a slow train or
a silent scream.
I had such tremendous
hope for love.
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