Monday, 1 April 2013


On the Coral Isle, I found some time for poetry, and though I am not feeling particularly poetic at the moment, I can look back on my glory days and recall the genius that was Sanna Gabriel. The first poem I wrote for the Rebel Shang because she wanted a poem. The second one we wrote together, with the final line being hers, and the one titled Wayward I wrote without outside interference. Now read my iambic pentameter and weep.

The Lady

The lovely lady waits for sleep,
Half in slumber,
listens to the seething surf outside,
filled with wonder
that a night, so still and starry bright,
exists at all and she is here to hear it.


I want to be free,
You can’t make me dress!
I won’t wear that sweater
Or that shirt that you’ve pressed.
No clothes for me!
I refuse to comply
to your itchy instructions
and your civilized Lie.

I wish to be me,
as nude as can be.
I strip, I tear!
I’m all-over bare!

Now there are only clothes
over there.


I said,
“I tell you they cry out in anguish, souls
a-flame, afflicted by my tortuous sin
of pretense. O my pride has brought me low!
I flew false flag, professed a faith not mine,
and donned the sandals of a liar’s gospel.
My feet have walked a weary path and paid
the price of such ill-fitting garb. Now I
repent after the sin has claimed its tax.”

Said Mother,
“Oh, stop it. You’re being dramatic.
They’re just blisters.” 

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