Concentration
by Wendy Howe
Return, return
that we may look upon Thee!
Song Of Songs
Barbed wire curls
around the wind's finger.
Before they shaved my head,
I twisted Jersusalem's hair
around my own.
Those days like the beach
are beyond camp
and left to linger as mist,
September's breath
assuming the shapes
of two women gowned
in the dark and light
fabric of the moon,
their focus split--
between harp and wand.
Part of me plucks hope,
the other conducts fear
as they drift and drag
twilight’s hem
along the wet sand.
If only there were trees
and my hands could braid
palm leaves into a boat,
I would sail home, let stars
bleach my stamped flesh
and offer Solomon
a small mountainside of lilies.
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Instead
by Nicoletta Alkiviadi Poulakida
Her ponderous black dress boosted my talent
for the benefit of her ego!
and I was too innocently dressed
to oppose such a Muse,
too sad and weary.
From a distance she conducted
the lyrical thoughts of my mind,
methodically she turned my words
against my peaceful disposition,
imbuing me with
her authoritative manners.
Her despotic persuasion
tempted me to strip her and
wear her black dress!
And if I had fallen into her trap
as soon as this new character
would have emerged from the depths of my existence
she would have disappeared in her naked glory
holding the thin white robe of my soul,
ascending to the throne of inspiration
No longer as my Muse, but as my
Goddess.
But I can take revenge
on my dichotomized mind
according to her true desire.
In her dressed anonymity
she will grow old and die
with me,
descending into limbo
instead.
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