1. Her Practical View
A quiet earth surrounds her
With an emerald green protection,
Aching throat of sensual desire,
A changeless toehold of turf.
She wears her evening jewels
for a crown, her inspired motif.
Pale blue and mauve color
Her distant hills and echoes.
Fierce in pursuit, gentle in love,
Yet, maternal, heavy lidded,
A shade of dark from sleep,
She resides with the dead.
She may feast on her wealth
And power and abundance,
Fatten like a holy cow, but
All her children WILL survive.
2. Her Official Role
“You will find me on the earliest coins,
Tokens of writing and records, your
First office patroness, Coffee anyone?”
“A spirit of the first stones of men,
Guarding their tombs with echoes
So the dead will someday live again.”
beneath the beaten hearth
The floorboard underling who binds
the forbears’ sculls to family ken.”
“Trace my threads, my strands
My only son, stripped bare
To weave by hand a basket hat.”
“His wine, my only vine I gave
So every mortal being will know
The gods and what the spirit feels,.”
Mornings stepping from my lake
I sing, the hell with corn flakes,
Let’s jump start the day with sex!”
3. Her Performance Takes You In
Your make-up feathered by dawn’s
Soft touch, the barest whisk of hairs
blend these delicate hues that only
Form the sensitive eye of the wave.
Your planet earth charisma skills are
High in demand, the consummate host
You twist into silk the lost chord that runs
Thru every bar-band tune in the world.
Art is life in stone, to paint is to pray.
In cathedral cave in the sanctum sit
The spirits of creation, the birth of all,
A pantheon of animals that made us.
You are pillow shaman, votive
Bedroom drama, slipcover bold.
You steady the rock of the moon,
fix love politely in a drowsy stare,
Your senses keenly aware
Of the clam shell you rode in on.
You struggle the night for life and light
No shade is too extreme to shed,
And still you cling to a dreadful soul,
Karma chic with a cat on your head.
4. The Security Guard’s last round
Ice fern windows glazed by artists’ rime
Will not deter the guard from spinning
On your sleeping window of promises.
The sill, a draped museum of carcasses
Yourself, are hopes and plodding force.
Penniless, without a throne, you’ll only
Be a hollow reed that tootles in the wind.
More enduring than earthly determination,
You must plant yourself in luxury’s lap
Deserving the fruits of others, where sap
Will always rise to a stirring occasion.