Stygian Witch

[Kailashana]

I can't remember how this poem was to begin,
so I'll stir up a little agitation,
there's nobody home and nobody's without sin,
thieves are amoung us and steal the pontificating heart
with parochial parody.
Poets, damn them one and damn them all,
damn their inclinations
and exaltations.
Damn their invitations.
Damn their spotted dogs and damn their blind eyes,
damn their truth. Damn their loose lips,
flapping like red sails in the wind.

Homer was an odd ode, may as well have been Greek
to me. I just don't get out much to conquer the world
my posse has been disbanded.
Rodriguez couldn't
strum a guitar and for the life of an Amazonian orchid,
attached to the sky,
I can't sing to stretch my broken wing,

a canary locked up in the gilded birdcage of hell, a visionary
who just can't see beyond the parting of the sea,
writing useless words
flocking and migrating on this empty page.

~A

[the mingo]

[Kailashana]

Oh, my. Whatever do you mean?

[the mingo]

[revolutionrabbit]

once i knew a poet....

[saw]

it's an ancient question, why write...why should we pour our thoughts out for others to ingest....does it make any difference......I like to think it does, if only for the therapy it seems to provide.....and maybe all of art is medicinal to the artist, and by virtue of their needs, the rest of the population is often enriched....