By Pandora Peoples
When Anita closes her eyes
By the fountain in her dentist’s office,
She sees the Virgin of Guadalupe
Covered in blue sky and yellow stars,
Standing between the horns of a bull,
Fresh tears from last night's clouds
Cascade down her rocky bower,
Roll down her cheeks,
And drip onto her palms in prayer,
Lacey maidenhair fern surrounds Our Lady,
And pink roses on glossy tiles
Behind her porcelain form,
Shine in the afternoon sun
Indian women with thick hair,
Pencil skirts and flats,
Sell watermelon and cantaloupe
Outside of church with their daughters,
Chopped papaya and cucumbers
Have more soul
Marinated in lemon juice and cayenne pepper,
Even wrapped in cellophane
And squirted with concentrate
From a plastic lemon grenade,
Inside a picnic basket are warm tamales,
Pink cookies with sparkles,
Cokes in glass bottles with real sugar,
And home-made, candy-coated cactus fruit
She recalls scenes from her former life,
While an exuberant fan overhead
Goes into pterodactyl over-drive,
Hypnotizing her with air-conditioning,
Humming and squawking
For the duration of her root canal,
In the waiting room
Pages of a magazine on an empty chair
Turn in quick succession
On rainy mornings with her rosaries
Gathered around her fingers,
Young and matronly in an apron,
With boat shoes on,
She plucks cilantro
And jalapeños from sandy pots by the door,
While stray dogs growl and whimper
Wandering the streets,
She waits for sunrise,
The bust she sculpted of Jesus in thorns
Hangs over her bed and
Turns orange as day breaks
Roosters crow demonically from three AM,
While rats run through holes in the houses
Of sleeping families,
And cockroaches swarm the earthen floors,
Tarantulas crawl over keys on pipe organs
In a building that clangs on the hour,
If you listen,
Through chain-linked fences,
Thieves in rags trade five-cent donuts
For the orphans' new shoes,
An orphan with nails through her bloody shoes
Is afraid to take them off,
These are the only shoes she has ever had
A pregnant teen falls to the floor
In a heap of sobs,
Motherhood is the best feeling,
She has a new life growing inside her,
Sleepless she folds the clean sheets
Into a neat pile by her bed,
Before falling asleep on familiar surface
Of the rough bare mattress
On the dock under a thatched roof,
Lime-sweet shrimp cerviche with hot sauce
Makes new men of carpenters,
A raw oyster plate turns lunch for an out-of-work musician
Into an afternoon date with God and a paper-bag-cerveza,
Barbequed tortas and tacos
Bring smiles between familiar faces,
Some too stubborn to speak broken languages
Stale bread and potato potage
Is on the menu again for the Sisters of Mercy,
With a babe on each hip,
And a class full of sixty hungry barefoot children
Whose saucer eyes long for every quiet moment
Sitting on the cement floor
With their loving teachers
Sister Anita opens her eyes,
To the smiling dentist in pale blue polyester,
She returns home with a capped tooth
And goofy, sardonic smile,
Residents have been quarantined,
It's lock-down at the Acropolis of Assisted Living,
But they still get happy hour in their rooms,
Just no religious services,
All the former nuns blame the stomach flu on Fred,
The man with the dog in 202 who still likes the ladies,
He’s always coming and going
Christ-child key chains
Dangle from fists as she scoots across the carpet,
With her walker on neon green tennis balls,
Petroleum-based beauty products
Make smooth her kind face,
Sticky round perfume gels ooze
Into a pretty dish reflected in the mirror on her vanity,
Lysol sprays and bottles of carcinogenic substances
Cover every inch of counter top and medicine cabinet
Unoccupied by baskets of fake daisies and glass geese,
With checkered bow-ties
Anita misses the marigolds on Dia De Los Muertos,
The tugging strings and blasting horns of the mariachis,
Candle-lit parades with brightly colored-costumes,
The worship of Mother Mary in every corner store,
And Los Hijos de Dios
Monday, February 13, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Vacation on Isla Mujeres
By Pandora Peoples
The apple belly of a fish woman
Rolls along the shoals
Until a smooth dolphin
Slides beneath her and
She throws her arms about his neck
Their chakra colors mix
But are fixed
And never fuse
Like oil and water
In the lava lamp blues
Sea stars walk down chalky reefs
Like creeping hands
Into the iron sands of a shipwrecked cruise,
Where platoons of plankton explode
Like fireworks, when they get too close
The bee bopping troubadours of the trident
Harbor no resentment to the inclement
Infringement of the air breathing
Land creatures whose indictment of nature
Indicates an addiction to toxic substances
Gaia shifts and moans
Her body on loan to alien people
Who don’t recognize their own home,
The soul invasion
Thrusts into her throne like a sword made
Of skull and bone
The apple belly of a fish woman
Rolls along the shoals
Until a smooth dolphin
Slides beneath her and
She throws her arms about his neck
Their chakra colors mix
But are fixed
And never fuse
Like oil and water
In the lava lamp blues
Sea stars walk down chalky reefs
Like creeping hands
Into the iron sands of a shipwrecked cruise,
Where platoons of plankton explode
Like fireworks, when they get too close
The bee bopping troubadours of the trident
Harbor no resentment to the inclement
Infringement of the air breathing
Land creatures whose indictment of nature
Indicates an addiction to toxic substances
Gaia shifts and moans
Her body on loan to alien people
Who don’t recognize their own home,
The soul invasion
Thrusts into her throne like a sword made
Of skull and bone
Monday, February 06, 2012
The Mermaids and the May Flowers
by Pandora Peoples
Where the sighing of mermaids
turns into the calls of sirens,
a World War II veteran
lingers over a shoebox of memories,
his heavy footsteps in the attic
and the smell of cigarettes
give his whereabouts away
A tree branch in the backyard
splits from the trunk,
sacrificing itself to be used as a modern temple,
sweat lodge, or Fort Apache,
depending on the configuration of rocks
around the Druid marriage tree
The ghostly soldier stoops over his wife's empty flower bed,
and a single rose bush
seems to have special meaning for him,
when a child's toy truck appears at its base
under wild winter blossoms,
chaos like bitter regrets flies through the kitchen
among a group of gathered friends,
"I guess some people don't know how to let go"
"So you do it for them"
"Yeah, bury the shoebox."
The sailors and sea captains
and their wives may be wearing Pats jackets now,
but they can still catch a bullet with their teeth,
thick ankles like tree roots
stretch into white tennis shoes
striking punching bags with roundhouse kicks
like beasts,
like innkeepers who know how to keep bar flies in line,
before there was the wild west
there was Provincetown
Curvy forearms are balletic
with heavy wet blankets
on the clothes line in the crisp winter sunshine,
there's no such thing as a missed opportunity,
everything has more value on an island,
these sassy broads are the great-granddaughters
of merchants after all
There's always a curio cabinet
with found shells and matrioshkas
and little potato-faced dolls
with missing eyes on porcelain faces
in someone's house,
historical society bookshelves are full of stories
of widows who shorn sheep and slaughtered chickens
before sun-up on Sundays
No one gets gloomy about the yellow-green cemeteries
with lichen-covered gravestones,
in fact they are a source of pride
in the eyes and upturned mouths of locals,
red and blue flowers and American flags
are offered to strangers' tombs,
dotting the web of tangled streets
that course through the small cities
like the veins of prancing show ponies
in small town parades
Where the sighing of mermaids
turns into the calls of sirens,
a World War II veteran
lingers over a shoebox of memories,
his heavy footsteps in the attic
and the smell of cigarettes
give his whereabouts away
A tree branch in the backyard
splits from the trunk,
sacrificing itself to be used as a modern temple,
sweat lodge, or Fort Apache,
depending on the configuration of rocks
around the Druid marriage tree
The ghostly soldier stoops over his wife's empty flower bed,
and a single rose bush
seems to have special meaning for him,
when a child's toy truck appears at its base
under wild winter blossoms,
chaos like bitter regrets flies through the kitchen
among a group of gathered friends,
"I guess some people don't know how to let go"
"So you do it for them"
"Yeah, bury the shoebox."
The sailors and sea captains
and their wives may be wearing Pats jackets now,
but they can still catch a bullet with their teeth,
thick ankles like tree roots
stretch into white tennis shoes
striking punching bags with roundhouse kicks
like beasts,
like innkeepers who know how to keep bar flies in line,
before there was the wild west
there was Provincetown
Curvy forearms are balletic
with heavy wet blankets
on the clothes line in the crisp winter sunshine,
there's no such thing as a missed opportunity,
everything has more value on an island,
these sassy broads are the great-granddaughters
of merchants after all
There's always a curio cabinet
with found shells and matrioshkas
and little potato-faced dolls
with missing eyes on porcelain faces
in someone's house,
historical society bookshelves are full of stories
of widows who shorn sheep and slaughtered chickens
before sun-up on Sundays
No one gets gloomy about the yellow-green cemeteries
with lichen-covered gravestones,
in fact they are a source of pride
in the eyes and upturned mouths of locals,
red and blue flowers and American flags
are offered to strangers' tombs,
dotting the web of tangled streets
that course through the small cities
like the veins of prancing show ponies
in small town parades
Transpersonal Bookstore
By Pandora Peoples
Pairs of feet with toes curled
Around the fibers of burgundy carpets
Wiggle in the dusty sunlight,
Knobby knees cast shadows on fat Buddha statues,
Lively incense dances around
Cherub smiles and
Bearded faces focus on the thin white pages
Of leather-bound books
Gnome wind chimes clang
While patrons duck to avoid crystal fairies
Hanging from the busy ceiling above,
A woman with faux fur cuffs
Dips a hand into a bronze dish of candied seeds,
The kind of digestive treat you get at Indian restaurants,
The crunch of caraway and fennel
Make everyone feel a little more Hindu
And a little closer to the golden Lakshmi Goddess
Offering flowers mudra in the window
On their way out
A black cat hinges at the hips
With his out-stretched paws gripping
The Bangalore rug under a Balinesian coffee table,
Covered in carved pots with violet orchids
Dripping with peat moss,
The green marble eyes of the cat
Stare into the carnelian eyes of a Dravidian warrior Goddess,
Kali takes no prisoners with her sword brandished high,
A goblin head held by a mess of hair,
A bow and arrow drawn,
With a dagger and a pitchfork
Ready and waiting just in case,
Talk about multi-tasking,
This demon-slayer has got what it takes
To kick some serious assumptions
About neopagan feminism
And liberal hippies
The arty postcards and the free herbal tea
Bring students of life in
From the light wind and rain
Bouncing prayer flags on the awning outside,
Mandala art coloring books,
Henna tattoo kits,
Cup cozies made from recycled sweaters
By stay-at-home moms,
And shiny bindis by the register
Make chatting up the androgynous hipster
With a nose ring
A little easier,
The colored glass vulva pendulums
Casting rainbows on the Religion and Philosophy book cases
Are a great icebreaker but,
You still aren’t a hundred percent sure
If you are talking to ‘a girl or a boy’
Pairs of feet with toes curled
Around the fibers of burgundy carpets
Wiggle in the dusty sunlight,
Knobby knees cast shadows on fat Buddha statues,
Lively incense dances around
Cherub smiles and
Bearded faces focus on the thin white pages
Of leather-bound books
Gnome wind chimes clang
While patrons duck to avoid crystal fairies
Hanging from the busy ceiling above,
A woman with faux fur cuffs
Dips a hand into a bronze dish of candied seeds,
The kind of digestive treat you get at Indian restaurants,
The crunch of caraway and fennel
Make everyone feel a little more Hindu
And a little closer to the golden Lakshmi Goddess
Offering flowers mudra in the window
On their way out
A black cat hinges at the hips
With his out-stretched paws gripping
The Bangalore rug under a Balinesian coffee table,
Covered in carved pots with violet orchids
Dripping with peat moss,
The green marble eyes of the cat
Stare into the carnelian eyes of a Dravidian warrior Goddess,
Kali takes no prisoners with her sword brandished high,
A goblin head held by a mess of hair,
A bow and arrow drawn,
With a dagger and a pitchfork
Ready and waiting just in case,
Talk about multi-tasking,
This demon-slayer has got what it takes
To kick some serious assumptions
About neopagan feminism
And liberal hippies
The arty postcards and the free herbal tea
Bring students of life in
From the light wind and rain
Bouncing prayer flags on the awning outside,
Mandala art coloring books,
Henna tattoo kits,
Cup cozies made from recycled sweaters
By stay-at-home moms,
And shiny bindis by the register
Make chatting up the androgynous hipster
With a nose ring
A little easier,
The colored glass vulva pendulums
Casting rainbows on the Religion and Philosophy book cases
Are a great icebreaker but,
You still aren’t a hundred percent sure
If you are talking to ‘a girl or a boy’
The Call of the Mountains
By Pandora Peoples
I have heard tell
That elk on your porch
In the morning
Is a fertility omen
And that mountains are capable
Of enlisting the service of wombs
To carry the progeny of elemental star beings,
Who are keepers of ancient knowledge,
And stewards of the sacred lands
I have this urge to pick up my skirt
And walk due west
Through mud, snow, and swamp,
Until the soles of my feet
Are like moccasins
And the rhythm of my feet
Dance to the drumming heart
At the center of the earth,
While the fire in my belly is strong
And the musky nectar of the black morning
Intoxicates every cell of my sojourning body
I will walk the Trail of Tears
And sleep on the fields of forgotten dreams
Where the rubble of homesteaders grows thick with weeds,
Listening to the ghosts of passenger trains,
I will confront the battles of medicine men
Taking up arms
In the flickering fire of my camp before day break,
With one eye open on tomorrow,
Piercing whistles and chugging engines
Will punctuate my dreams,
And I will awake with the taste of succotash in my mouth
With the sweet smell of sarsaparilla lingering
In the chilling first light
Up through wooded hills,
Down into moist valleys
Shin-deep in ponderosa pine needles,
I will wash in trickling streams
Munching on rose hips,
Shavegrass and the new shoots of tender ferns,
Falcons and eagles will check in on me
From time to time
And crows will steer me away from falling rocks
The buzzing afternoon
Will bleach my skirt
As I nap half in the shade of the thorny chaparral,
Snakes will coil and snap at spotted lizards
And a family of box turtles will lead me to water,
A coyote will stare me down,
A fox will sniff a puddle of my making,
Bats will flitter and flap overhead,
I will breathe in the desert sage,
And I will light a token fire in the sand,
An offering to the bright constellations
Pulsating with life from light years away
The fullness of my being
Will shed into the cool, smooth earth,
Fertilizing a blooming cactus nearby
With my uterine silver lining,
I will march through cornfields
Lounge under cottonwoods,
Meander over willows leaning into lakes,
Grope through groves of Maples at midnight,
And when I reach where the Pinyon Pine
Meets the alpine tundra,
I will climb that tree
Like a koala bear,
And perching in the top branches,
I will sing
To the eerie mating calls of the elk
I have heard tell
That elk on your porch
In the morning
Is a fertility omen
And that mountains are capable
Of enlisting the service of wombs
To carry the progeny of elemental star beings,
Who are keepers of ancient knowledge,
And stewards of the sacred lands
I have this urge to pick up my skirt
And walk due west
Through mud, snow, and swamp,
Until the soles of my feet
Are like moccasins
And the rhythm of my feet
Dance to the drumming heart
At the center of the earth,
While the fire in my belly is strong
And the musky nectar of the black morning
Intoxicates every cell of my sojourning body
I will walk the Trail of Tears
And sleep on the fields of forgotten dreams
Where the rubble of homesteaders grows thick with weeds,
Listening to the ghosts of passenger trains,
I will confront the battles of medicine men
Taking up arms
In the flickering fire of my camp before day break,
With one eye open on tomorrow,
Piercing whistles and chugging engines
Will punctuate my dreams,
And I will awake with the taste of succotash in my mouth
With the sweet smell of sarsaparilla lingering
In the chilling first light
Up through wooded hills,
Down into moist valleys
Shin-deep in ponderosa pine needles,
I will wash in trickling streams
Munching on rose hips,
Shavegrass and the new shoots of tender ferns,
Falcons and eagles will check in on me
From time to time
And crows will steer me away from falling rocks
The buzzing afternoon
Will bleach my skirt
As I nap half in the shade of the thorny chaparral,
Snakes will coil and snap at spotted lizards
And a family of box turtles will lead me to water,
A coyote will stare me down,
A fox will sniff a puddle of my making,
Bats will flitter and flap overhead,
I will breathe in the desert sage,
And I will light a token fire in the sand,
An offering to the bright constellations
Pulsating with life from light years away
The fullness of my being
Will shed into the cool, smooth earth,
Fertilizing a blooming cactus nearby
With my uterine silver lining,
I will march through cornfields
Lounge under cottonwoods,
Meander over willows leaning into lakes,
Grope through groves of Maples at midnight,
And when I reach where the Pinyon Pine
Meets the alpine tundra,
I will climb that tree
Like a koala bear,
And perching in the top branches,
I will sing
To the eerie mating calls of the elk
Sunday, February 05, 2012
Proof the Inquisition was the Persecution of Women
Malleus maleficarum (The Hammer of Witches) was published by Catholic inquisition authorities in 1485-86.
"All wickedness, is but little to the wickedness of a woman. ... What else is woman but a foe to friendship, an unescapable punishment, a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a desirable calamity, domestic danger, a delectable detriment, an evil nature, painted with fair colours. ... Women are by nature instruments of Satan -- they are by nature carnal, a structural defect rooted in the original creation." Quote found at http://www.gendercide.org/case_witchhunts.html
Ah, another pivotal handbook on misogyny.
"All wickedness, is but little to the wickedness of a woman. ... What else is woman but a foe to friendship, an unescapable punishment, a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a desirable calamity, domestic danger, a delectable detriment, an evil nature, painted with fair colours. ... Women are by nature instruments of Satan -- they are by nature carnal, a structural defect rooted in the original creation." Quote found at http://www.gendercide.org/case_witchhunts.html
Ah, another pivotal handbook on misogyny.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)