Essy The Poet

He told me— A stout, ancient-looking simpleton, Who thought himself a man. I disagreed. In his time of vague austerities, He uttered the most foolish things, Spewing undiscerned trinkets, Manufacturing hate in my poison sacs. "Something wobbly about the left hand,"  he said, "Its sole aim—to make symmetrical, Like a drive in the misty wind." In the same way, he claimed, A woman’s insufficiency is felt,  Owing to her absence during the great admonition: "Do not touch the tree in the middle." As a leader. As a daughter. As a chief. "Ish, ish..." —a sense of discontent runs sharp When a woman leads. So I detested the stout fellow,  Not for his clout, But for the thin air feeding his thoughts, Drifting in little doses. "Shut it, stout fellow, or I will throw up." Oops. I just did . Dear Reader,  March has been generous in sending me Muses. She may still have a Muse or two, or maybe nothing more. I can never tell. This, however, is to all g...

  I spoke of metamorphosis once before, A change from within, a path to restore. But now I see a different tide, Sweeping through the halls with pride. Penelope, once my student bright, Now fills my heart with silent fright. A freshman lost in love’s embrace, Trapped by passion’s fleeting grace. She swore she’d die if left alone, Her heart was his, her soul was owned. Yet love soon twisted, turned, and swayed, And with time, the dream decayed. A ringless vow, a whispered plea, A secret pact none came to see. Motherhood knocked, she turned away, And sent the shadowed guest astray. With her third wave, she shed her past, A reckless soul, unbound, unmasked. Lavish men with wealth untold, Draped in diamonds, drowned in gold. Big cars, big dreams, a lavish spree, The world her stage, her spirit free. Books and studies cast aside, For fleeting joy and sinful pride. Then time raced forth with no delay, The final wave was on its way. Desperate hands sought grades once more, While morals cr...

Pictures taken from the internet Tame my soul, you tried— Tame my spirit too, Tame me to your small cage, But my spirit flies free.   Tame me, you tried— Tame the books, tame the rooms, Tame me, you will try again. The world was worried I might suffocate it with glee.   Eve was named and burdened with sin. Jocasta had a name yet was bound to fate. And Aristotle—ah, his words endure, But she, silent, erased— Yet how did they procreate?   They erased my name, Pushed me to the margins of the Holy Book. But behold Mary Magdalene— Two millennia, yet still she speaks her truth.   They erased my name, So, I lived behind a pseudonym— Yet behold T.S. Eliot, behold Karen Blixen. And then there is me, Subdued in deceit, Taught to despise my own reflection, To make my own nemesis.   Fellow woman, You are strong, you are witty, you are formidable. Choose today— To lift, not break, to stand, not silence.   See how the world mocks women still, How Kawira was cast aside, H...