“goddess” by Apryl Skies

she paints herself in mud
to hide her nakedness
digs a ditch to lie in

wishing to be ravaged
by rabbit or lion
reticent until dusk

do not disturb–
her mud now blood

when the beasts do not come
she plucks carrots to lure
from the place she once planted seeds

they sit on her chest
arms crossed–

only hungry locusts arrive
with sharp tusks
giraffes patterned the fields where she lay

that is how they found her.

Apryl Skies

Photo by LadyHawk/insight4cos

© 2012

“She Becomes” by Anne Norda

She becomes
a vortex of small things.
Externally, the child needs milking,
the dog springs hopefully, eternally
in circles counter-clockwise
around her ankles,
and the man wants nothing
more than her every waking
thought and breath to be his
and his alone.

And the earth calls for nurture,
water and careful attention to detail.
Her neighbors want her to turn down
the volume.

She’s been rocking and rolling again,
forgetting the unspoken rule:
don’t rock the boat, don’t wake the folk,

dance if you must, but tango slowly
and silently behind the curtains
lest the world suspect
you’ve remembered who you are.

Not the god of doldrums and despair
as you’d once feared,
but the goddess of deliciousness.

Exultation is your deity.
Declaration your prayer.
And this, this very moment
your vortex of desire.

Photo & Poem by Anne Norda

All Rights Reserved

© 2010

“American Idol” by Vicki Batkin

Photo by Alexis Rhone Fancher

My rock goddess will never die
I see her flying into dense fog
Just to make the show.

She’s footloose and fancy-free
With a hint of Tabasco
And she will take no prisoners.

She prances around with greatness
While her followers trail behind
Blinded by her scent

She is my secret pal
And my one true song.

Yes, my one true song.
Shhh…I wrote the lyrics.

Vicki Batkin

All Rights Reserved

© 2009

The Purple Dance

Photo by VC Ferry

Photo by VC Ferry

I am reminded
of the white dove
that sat all night
perched on the lattice
of my balcony

how many times
have I looked over
Shady Acres
and gazed up at the sky
at the pregnant moon?
full circle, watching over
watching and waiting
for the next sliver
the next slice
the next shift in tide
the ebb and flow
like a Goddess cycle

the wind chimes
sing their melancholy notes
as Spring
lets the Jacaranda trees know
that it’s time to dance
their purple dance

the white dove knew
that I needed it’s presence
it was sent as a reminder
that all was in
God’s hands

L. K. Thayer

All Rights Reserved

© 2009