I’m No Princess or The Fledgling

I chose the Chariot,
it burns brighter than stars.
When you’re on the horizon
You can see it from Mars…

Nets swish through my frontal lobe
to catch a landlocked aquaphobe
halfway ’round the eclipsed globe.

empty, slosh in choppy water.
(I’m less a sister than no one’s daughter)
Insights bled from alleged white blotter.

in this brimming, bustling, lifeless sea 
the sharks and eels won’t leave me be,
but us merfolk dive with relentless glee.

Steeped in holy sweet defiance,
a catechismal tea of self-reliance,
sipping the occult and quantum science.

the leaves fortune tells of history,
of the ancient scrolls of mystery
though that future’s past sears blistery.

time etched my face in wanton flows,
so many branches. a murder of crows.
the framework failing from coastal repose.

But deep in my heart, the spirit of light,
no storm can batter, no shark can bite,
no venom can ever poison with spite.

for my greatest gift, the universe sent –
an oft merry mind in this life of descent,
with a natural sight for the present moment.

my gifts can’t be bought or ceded by lovers,
that is not to say I’m better than others,
as my limitless faults, life humbly uncovers.

just an introvert Fairy, drives a cold 44.
Skulls hanging on my bedroom door,
filled with runes from my ancient lore.

A watery nymph with a riptide’s rage.
set sail across my salty page
from a fishnet stockinged, feathered stage.

Beneath that surface smooth reflection,
My Mariana introspection,
2 million pounds of genuflection.

The needle ball-points due northeast.
A compass’s magnetic beast
that hungers for this inky feast.

Ichor sketched on ghost-skin vellum
to charter the ocean’s cerebellum.
For once i die, who else will tell ’em?

A clipped-winged pirate, shore to shore,
but I fly so high when I explore
where no glass slipper impressed before.

Impelled on occasion, thus I explain,
who misestimates my poet’s brain
with a casteful sense of the trite urbane.

My recalcitrant nature helped me survive.
for in my past life, I was burned alive
for spinning the wheel when no one had drive.

And yet, And yet, no utter hence!
I drove right past that picket fence
with madness as my best defense.

There’s an army in likeness out there too,
bound to the notions of that landlocked few
who won’t set sail without a groveling crew.

But those like me, that never fit,
who never really give a shit,
march straight into the wind and spit.

It calls to me in pedantic prose,
metered by Saturn to aptly impose
the greener paths that I never chose.

they echo signals from vacant rooms.
we pay rent where our conscious looms,
for the fleeting moment our presence consumes.

With eyes that pierce and never cease,
the dauntless spine of a soul on lease.
I’ve looked too long for my lost receipts

that show how I paid, and what I bought.
how it rang up, and all it wrought
at the cost of years, yet left with naught.

I’ve crossed swords in this solar war,
arms shaking from the weight I bore,
left for brined in brackish moor.

I forged chain mail from chilled steel rains.
I fought in the war’s forgotten plains.

(not one princess was among the remains.)

just aviators and pioneers
dressed in cargo camo prayers
that hold pocket lint of blithe nightmares.

ahhh, parchment quenches my desires.
the sacred passion rhyme inspires,
with chivalrous eloquence of master squires.

in tenderness, the letters yearn.
when your soul’s on fire, it doesn’t burn,
caressed my wounds with soft concern.

I think of thee, inside the thunder,
when I’m cast about and torn asunder,
so whisper odes, as if my plunder.

when lost my quill to ease my pains,
i damned those currents in my veins
with droughts from distant hurricanes.

A princess craves kings, not just letters,
tall castles warded with english setters,
and cashmere closets with gold-spun sweaters.

while I dance cloaked, full of moon
in a wind-thatched hut behind a saloon,
with a crouching leopard and haunting loon.

with naked feat in the cool moist soil.
the only live witness, a stone gargoyle,
with nocturnal scented essential oil.

as a child, i stepped on that chalk outline,
for death held my hand, my path’s brave design
to never look down, lest you trip on divine.

I get so many texts from Joan of Arc
how the human condition remains so stark.
Athena agreed we all missed the mark.

So I called the lush Virgin, and the impotent Whore.
I called a few monsters that live in Bangor,
and the Last holy Angel that First answered the door.

We began a small summit, catching up incarnations.
reporting our current life’s challenge and stations
from different dimensions, yet still in shared nations.

I asked, bent in light, how can I compare?
To the beauty and brilliance of women so fair?
with so many failures on this earthly frontier?

I’m impossibly human, it’s almost too much to bear.

then I stretched out my wings, and first took to the air…