The PoetVangelist

Call me a homing pigeon And I’ll tell you why: No matter how far I go, There’s something deep inside That always calls me home. Or maybe, I’m a baby bird: The day could be so long- But I’ll still need to be well fed With Mama’s food and song. Sometimes, I’m like a butterfly With quiet inner power; But even I can’t explain why I’ll always be drawn to the flower. …Or maybe, I’m just a Christian Who means well deep at heart, But finds many things keeping My God and I apart. But when my way is most dark: Like the butterfly, bird and pigeon, The thing I can’t explain: Is that which calls me back.

The smoke, the dark, the sounds of the harem Dropped to a hush when she walked in. The sneers, the gossip went round among them: “Does the prophet know where his wife has been?” She stepped up to the man in the corner, Beguiled by the dark that hid his face. She dropped to her knees, the consummate performer, Then lifted her veil with practiced grace. She stood and turned; once again, a hush. Then she writhed in a dance they couldn’t forget. On her face, an innocent, haunting flush, As she whirled and twirled and leaped and bent. The lewd and drunk all called for more- And none of them did she deny. They clapped, delighted she played the whore: As restraint ebbed, and eventually died. Over and over, above the din, She held out jeweled arms. They gladly helped her in her sin; They gave in to her charms. Only when the night was so far spent Did she realize she was remiss. To her loving husband’s arms she went, With tears in her eyes and one more promise.

December, last year: Just before the cheers went up, She put down the final dot. The rules glared up from their place on her lap; But break them, she would not. -She would keep her friends nearer; -She would control her temper; -She would love her family dearer; -She would not lie or slander; -Everyday, she would wake up earlier. With a great sense of optimism, She looked forward to coming days. Sure of the success of her vision, She basked in the New Year’s embrace. June, this year: She angrily crumples the paper That used to be stuck on her mirror; That used to announce her failure To keep to her once-simple rules. -Her friends are simply irritating; -Her anger needs little provocation; -Her family she would gladly give as a long-term loan; -Her mouth and ears have minds of their own; -Ten minutes after the alarm, deeper down the covers she goes. Disheartened, she plops down on her bed, Ticking off the rules she couldn’t follow to the letter. Devising vario...