She

She

She? Oh-ho-ho. You ask about she.
Why, she is the double image of me.
And everything I wish I could be.
She… She’s my fresh and crazed wild pea.

On Monday- She is a revolutionary heel-
A whispering daughter of powder and steel.
She springs into town with a gritty ideal.
One day the copper horizon will be surreal.

One day, guns will shatter their cries.
And the sheriff will pitch to the skies.
The law will be a deafening whisper of lies.
One day the hero will say his goodbyes.

On Tuesday- She is an uneven creator-
A thoughtless affection translator.
Her mechanism is an unpracticed traitor.
It seizes rule much as a dictator.

The pigments splay like a tattered thought-
Mismatched and misshapen like the life she wrought.
This monument is what the inner mind sought
To represent everything to this life she brought.

On Wednesday- She is a cultured crowned head-
Whose blood doesn’t ooze blue but expendable red.
She cloaks herself to impel to the front line ahead.
Her reverie fills those soldiers’ voided dread.

But sometimes the royal girl falls under enchantment
By the buccaneers that sing the seas lament.
The girl follows them into the hull’s descent.
Then a delicious ransom is the scoundrel’s intent.

She? It was very curious you ask about- she.
Yes, she is as young as her thumb but as old as thee.
Yet-- she is this kingdom’s sole divinity,
Everything I once thought I could be.

When Thursday comes, she is a celestial spirit.
Men pilgrim across atlases to take a hit-
Of the elegance and the dignity that will emit.
But these appraisals are hers extract or commit.

When the crests fracture like diamond stone
And the deranged and jumbled sand cannot atone,
She will choke the obsolete darkness drone.
And love will be all that is ever known.

Fridays are the best for a meandering knight.
On these days, sulfuric snorting creatures fight.
Kingdoms fall under siege, and in the dark ignite.
And only a warrior can bring hope, like a scorching light.

Dress in metal so reflective and thin,
She takes to the head, a burning light within.
A battle cry tumbles from lips of pinkest skin.
Knotted instruments cut through the flesh of sin.

Saturday- this is a strange day for a child.
Young as a sapling and like a mouse-so mild.
Cliffs of a mess loom in a room so wild,
And to clean it she must be beguiled.

Daughter to her father, and to the earth.
With tasks given by mother, she works from her birth.
As for these mountains- she must try to unearth
A formidable cot for her royal nap of great worth.

Probable you should ask about she-
When she slumbers so simplistically on my knee.
She is a royal, a bandit and the eldest of he.
And if you asked her- She’d be no more than she.



I wrote this today and I haven't had time to check back over it, but I wanted to get this out for review. I wanted to write something about my niece and nephews before this summer was over and here is a poem devoted to my niece. I wanted to capture playtime and a different level. I wanted to have it viewed from an adult's perspective rather than the fantastical view of a child. I wanted it to be a reflection on youth and what they see and how it all boils down when playtime is over. I am not sure if I captured that but I did my best and I wrote what I felt.

The lack of posting is due to something very strange, according to my doctor. I have an inner ear infection. The doctor stated that it was strange because kids get those, generally not adults. I take this as a compliment to my youth and even to my child like nature. Yes ma'am, I would like to remain Peter Pan in Neverland forever. Yes, I would love to fight pirates in my dreams for all time! Do I want to keep the kid syndromes like inner ear infections? No thanks. It sucks when you're an adult because unlike a child, you can't just go outside and run in the yard and forget the constant ringing in your ears. I might go mad with the noise. I don't think it will ever stop.

With this much time to think- I have learned something very important today. I draw a lot of my inspiration from music but the hard thing for writers is that we can only use words. Songs can have lyrics explaining what the tune means or even what it doesn't mean. As writers, we have only words and we have to create the music and the images. Our art form is limited and therefore requires a different sort of talent. We have to make the brain work rather than deliver an instantly pleasing form.

Just something to think about.