Whatever is essential to Female Poets

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Yes, in this youngest world
Maybe women can be writers
And achieve fame and livelihood

Without barren men to falter their craft
Maybe ten thousand martyrs are enough?
For women poets to be read and loved

To flourish from the pen of their wombs
And not find society admitting incapability
We who live in an increasing illiterate world

Must fight the language of our times
For all those who would profit, must
In a way, abandon their love of art

Technology being mobile, is a visual parade
Where books, and sages of wordsmiths must
Write alone, or else post on very tame blogs
Imagine private authors doing social media?

And become published in niche magazines
Yes, in this youngest world
Maybe writing in elegance has been lost?
We who ornament our lives with so much skill,

The ethereal spark of creators a transient tenement
Sex is not sex, when gender is so fluid
Are we satisfied with being intelligently ignored

By a world so satiated with mass media
That we do not respect creativity in its earth
Or share a sense of reverence for the philosophical
The poetic, the artistic that requires some thought.

And, if poetry is surely dead, then become novelists
Industrial poets, digital marketers, online journalists
Geniuses of new media, invigorated by the liberty
Of online avenues, content writers on applications

Be the interface with the poetry of the past
Reincarnate your gifts for a new world’s mediums
That publick faith that women best express
In allowing the world its distinguished femininity.

On the wage of Art and Price of Youth

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There is a romantic mark
In our hearts of sinking days
That sad similitude of being awake
While we dwindle our life’s wage away

Exhausted by nature, loved by none
We must dream up magic
From suffering’s destiny
And find fond bliss in monotony

And balmy incense to reveal
The melodies beneath the toil
And the smiles that do not turn away in vain
I to these restless symbols purge

The love that got away of destiny
Where free-will was a measure
Of our intelligence and motivation
That were the hours of our youth

Whose vulgarity of error was nothing more
Than the brief centre of an aching heart
There is a romantic streak
That burns our nights to the ground

Some call it art, others sacrifice
I must press on in solemn epiphanies
That break the butterfly wings of time
For all the ache is nothing more
Than mere beauty in experiment.

No Riverbanks left clean 

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The mouth of time is swallowing me
Along the borders of sorrow
That pieces sweetly, I awake
From another night of white gull dreams

To find my head and land
Has been given away to emperors
This is the future, though it feels like the past
Songs of the wild rice, tossed above

The lotus pond, between the places
Where birds travel over old fishermen
If there is heaven high, it’s not circling here
The once headless two trillion trees

Are undoing claims to paths, man-made
Frustrated, I abandon my cup of leisure
I am someone’s guest, in this sheet of skin
I am in someone’s womb, my mother here

And I may see Spring bright and delicate
But autumn is in my heart, dark-red
West of the river water, rotten-peach.

Seen below

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Bathed in Sun of dragon scales

My meditation with Autumn
Has already begun, I grow in seasons
Jade dew withers my wounds like
Maple trees and the sap of kings
My blood is royal with chrysanthemum

I enjoy with the earth her own darkness
As the stars weep for my heart full of some home
I cannot name, these people pass by
Like stones swept with the river
I do not have friends but rather

Watch the colors of the leaves change
Every day I follow the moods of nature
As if they were my own, I mirror them
As the red reed flowers shine, so shall I
In the valley of Autumn, I am complete

The setting suns slant in my body of change
I’m growing older with organic tears
For a world that has hardly begun to change
Perhaps my machine-learning descendents
Will do better than we, as swallows fly and fly

My wishes won’t be realized in this life
But maybe others will continue
In the quiet harbors of morning light
The river and the tower and the green hill
Become symbols for us all, time and nature complete

The chapters in our mortal lives that
Went wasted, like the cruel paths of fate
That when once is taken, another bend turns out of view
I’ve won little praise, but fortune
Is not to be measured in wealth

But in the internal events of our dearest dreams
Where things like home, and fish, and dragons
Have a different sort of meaning
And the game of chess with the universe
Always ends with a queen, and shifting clouds
And the golden stem that is the memory
Of passage, the descendent jewels that were lost.