Inheriting the wind


Confessional poets

Are thought of in the feminine perjorative

Ironically men 

Confess their camoflage

When calling their characters Hank

That’s for you … Mr blowhard Bukowski

Or Billy Childish, nuff said, I suspect

Whilst this Plath enigma, I doubt shall ever be cracked

Anymore than the grey stones weighting sweater

Sexton either, what beautiful ankles and rouged lips

Even as she slipped, beneath the veil of sanity

Like a greyhound needing to outrun, even itself

Madness grows peacock feathers for weeds

Just another error in a misguided map

Thinking women lesser, colinders of experience

If I’d been a man I’d have 

Grown my hair like a mane

Been kind to my daughters

And changed the notion of authority

For my words would be exclaimed intensely feminine

Applauded for

A man having been 

A better woman

Like Bono and his award 

We give ourselves away

By the bouquet full

Whatever happened

To women inheriting the wind?

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Faithless

kal-yuga-2God did not speak to me

when I laid my head on your cold chest

He did not utter counsel nor

light a pathway

though still I listened

for an utterance or bright star

reflecting faith

I thought

if God is within me

I must find my own way

painting my feet the color of observance

ground ripe with reverberation

as forehead touching, I bowed

to some saint or sound beyond my own

phallic in his disapproval of my unwrapped head

there are so many Gods of men

and not so many who favor women

I asked GIA do you know why

the female Goddess is so quiet?

She smiled and the world split itself

into many fingered dancers

surely you know girl

she is everything and all around us

no need for words

they are the threadbare pockets of men

who failing to curb their lust

turn instead to science and Viagra

you do not need to concern yourself

Kali knows the direction well

she has danced it in blue slippers

every full moon

and women who carry their children

low in orchid womb

taste her in the brine of the Yangtze river

and the very tips of their new born’s tongue

as she licks her way into consciousness

we pass from each other the key

mother’s and life entwined as one set of beads

fickle is life

long the chain of dancers

holding their children high like

honeycomb candles lit for prayer

beneath the rusty hem of the world