Scilla found her head… — a poem

Scilla found her head over the dress,
not the original — battered, discarded —
one eye juttering… too much stress.

Plop onto her mannequin neck bone,
skin color doesn’t match, you see.
Can’t have it all as a dollyhead clone.

Joan of Arc sleeves, celebate knot
at the waist — calls for alteration.
Wonder… is chastity something that’s caught?

Scilla found her head and her call.
Scilla found purpose in a monastic robe.
Scilla found herself surprising them all.

 

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The Sunday Muse.

Actual image for The Sunday Muse #170:

 

 

The Soul Sucked Dry — a poem

Photography by Artist, Jasper James

The soul is sucked dry!” she cried.
“But who needs a soul in the city?”

She looks out from “a place… dry
and dusty*.” Ironically, the 15th floor.

She has been away from her home
so long that the city is integrated
with her being, her thoughts. City-
molded, but not city-fed. It feeds
upon those who stay this long —
eyes stop investigating, brains
stop reflecting, chips swallow
braincells — a uniform diversity
has absorbed her originality.

The last time she left, went home,
she had forgotten the language.

Warmth, welcome and humanity
had driven her back to the hub,
the tower. Steel, concrete, glass.
Traffic, litter, loneliness… safety.

What once was discordance,
grate, jar, screech, is lullaby —
the hum of humanity’s machine.

* – Juan Ramón Jiménez, “Author’s Club”

 

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The Sunday Muse