Who could have
known
Your face would
launch a thousand
ships ,
the forbidden taste of
blood red lips
Stolen,
How delicate
Your hand ,
And smooth
The curve of hip,
Your form tender
As etherial dove,
An embodied love,
On wings
Set free
caressed by sun
And spread in open air
Across
The glistening waves
Of the emerald seas
That
are
your
eyes.
The Street Corner
Years we had looked
to find that place again.
We followed the music
of Spanish guitar
on the street
by the Jazz Club de Papa,
where once the city became
suddenly silent
and a sweet voice
sang a high and beautiful
Ave Maria
on the street corner of
St Benoit.
The DBar
The thin girls
and the bigger girls
are sitting at tables
next to each other
Each set elegant dolled
Bright colours, red headed, blonde ,
Rhythmic repetitive music
of the Dbar
each Vo-lup-tu-ous
in their ways.
The Grande Dame
Hallways
of the Grande Dame .
How many babies were
born , wrapped
and carried here ?
How many women healed ?
Walls painted white
now are waiting
for the artist’s hand .
Some artists
sit thinking ,
some
dancing ,drinking ,
or pigment mixing.
Lilith and Eve ,
they were progenitors
of the Grande Dame
MD.
Egyptian eyes,
Ank in hand ,
and on her forehead .
the last maquillage
before
by design
she, Isis is brought down
to her end
for a shining
new beginning ,
for the regenerative
concrete, glass
and steel
of woman’s
new healing.
On Queen Street West
The sirens of the city
are traveling along
the fabric bazaars
and appliance stores
of Queen Street West.
The wood tin spire
of St Marks
lurches into the air
at an angle
listening.
The daylight heat
is blazing.
So is the fire.
The fire trucks
are bullets.
They careen
breakneck down
the street.
Shining
red and yellow cabs
follow right
behind them.
Do they care
about the fire?
The fire is burning
somewhere along
Queen Street
and
black smoke is rising
up into the air.
From “The Black and Other Base Elements “by PWChaltas
City
Surrounded by concrete,
lights,
and a crescent moon,
the obsolescence
of hearts confounds.
The milquetoast of regret
seizes,
and shattered glass
repentance
cuts a tear
of cerium oxide rust
in the soul.
It’s imperfect with
the screech of feather
cutting air,
as crackpots entertain
trained monkeys
on bandwidths,
while we engage
in the urbane .
From “Persephone’s Call” by PWChaltas
PWChaltas 