I’m No Princess or The Fledgling

hitched a ride on The Chariot,
it burns brighter than stars.
When you’re on horizon
You can see it from Mars…

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

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

(we hippies all grooved on infamous trotter.)

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
a forgiving heart 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 a introvert Fairy, drives a cold 44.
Skulls hanging on my bedroom door,
filled with ruins from my ancient lore.

A watery nymph with a riptide’s rage
Set sail  ‘cross my salty page
From a fishnet stockinged, feathered stage

Beneath the 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 oceans’ 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 having a car when no one could drive.

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

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

It calls to me to 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,
thought dead, 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 tears
pockets lined, entrenched with fears.

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

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 cheek with soft concern.

I think of thee, inside the thunder
when I’m cast about and torn asunder,
then I say your name, as if my plunder.

I came no more to ease my pains,
so dammed the currents in my veins,
with droughts from distant hurricanes.

A princess wants men, not just letters,
a castle lined with English setters,
and cashmere closets with gold-spun sweaters,

as 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 a 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?
when I’ve failed so much, though I’m prescient with prayer?

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