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CHANGING WOMAN
Atop the highest mountain of an unchanging world
The rains cease, mists swirl
A sun shines, bows circle
A halo ’round Her head
A child dressed in shells
A maiden in turquoise
A woman clothed in abalone
A crone in jet-black coal
I bless, she says, the changes in one’s life
She faces: the east as morning dawns
The south as midday strikes
The west to welcome twilight
The north to greet starlight
I bless, she says, the changes in one’s day
When she lives in her room on the east it is spring
Babies are born, flowers bloom
When she lives in her room facing south it is summer
Corn grows tall, days lean long
When in her room facing west it is autumn
Harvest moon yellow, fields fallow
When she moves to her room on the north
Hibernation, then death follow
Still she will move to her east room
I bless, she says, the changes in one’s year
When God appears
as Changing Woman
things will change.
Gloria Miller (swimkiller)
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DITHYRAMB* FOR SPRINGTIME
Pithy mambo! Cuban conga bongo
conversation with the Gods – scuba
into verbs and dithyrambic perturbations
of the kind that make vocabulary
wind into exasperating rabid suggestivity:
just the gist, please (add an upright
bass, piano, claves, saxophone, and
trumpet and trombone); scrap the list.
Today make way. Today wake May.
*a usually short poem in an inspired wild irregular strain
Guy Kettelhack (GuyBlakeKett)
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DOES IT MATTER
Could I unclock
this circular rhythm
of inhale exhale,
set gravity
bird’s
wing
free—
a daring,
darting
whirligig
of flight and fancy,
bend the blades
that slice day into night.
What binds this soul to soil,
to toil and ache
in the grey matter,
or does it matter
that each day
in its perfect metered
tick to tock
reminds me of a noose
tightening
round a throat
already gasping for air.
Deb Ouellet (Douellet)
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