The Sale Of Bumper Stickers Has Declined

The pain of living at the bleeding edge.
My mother doesn’t like my poetry.
She had a stalker back when I was young.
A diff’rent era, Nineteen Seventies.
He sent her letters, poems in the mail.
The writings of a nature, sexual.
I think that he approached in public once.
When all this happened, I was unaware.
She only told me at some later time.
Not sure if a restraining order signed.
Back in the age before the Internet.
My poems posted here no triggers, make.
My wizard mother, Facebook, doesn’t use.
The factor of my creepiness, reduced.
The sale of bumper stickers has declined.
Now in this medium where we express.

The Prayers of Amalthea’s Horn

No fairer daughters on this earth than Job’s.
The second set of children that he had.
Around his deathbed gathered siblings ten.
His seven sons, inheritance he gave.
To plaintive daughters, this alternative:

“It’s clear, their value, you don’t understand.
These items taken from my treasure chest.
Hear this then! When the Lord reached out his hand.
When fin’lly he decided to relent.
The plagues and worms, my body, did infest.
He healed me of those awful maladies.
Once my affliction passed, he called to me.
Three triple-string’ed girdles gave as charms.

“These girdles, three, now take them, gird your loins
As men for battle, manhood, binding up.
You’re jealous of inheritance they have?
The value of these girdles far exceeds.”

The three-stringed girdles to his daughters gave.
No earthly fashion, were celestial
in their design. As diamond cords, the light
flashed through them like a glinting rainbow beam.

Yemina, first to wear her father’s gift.
At once upon her donning of this garb.
Departed from her body, heart transformed.
As if she never cared for earthly things.
She danced while chanting hymns, angelic praise.
None understood the languages she spoke.

Kassia next to don the girdle gift.
Just like Yemina, her experience.
Her heart transformed, all earthly cares forgot.
Angelic dialects, the hymns she sang.
Ethereal, the space where Archonts rule.
The High Place has its own doxology.

The last girl’s name was Amalthea’s Horn.
She girded up just like the other two.
Just like her sisters, she transmogrified.
Ecstatic dancing, glossolalia.
The praises that she offered up to God.

When Job expired, and body to the grave.
Procession, daughters three, they marched ahead.
They wore their girdles, singing hymns of praise.
Unto the Lord, who rules the universe.

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I Am A Poet Ranked As Second-Rate

I am a poet ranked as second-rate.
Was Oscar Wilde who gave these thoughts to me.
I must pick either life or poetry.
I can’t have both. I must make some excuse.
What kind of life I think I’d like to live?
In honesty, I’m thankful for this pass.
Accept less freely from a mortal hand.
Before I turn my back on poetry,
a first-rate life is not to be assumed.
Are life and poetry both second-rate?
The curse that gnaws at ev’ry artist’s mind.
I am a poet ranked as second-rate.