Daughters of Eve
God's second greatest creation is man,
Formed from clay into which He breathed new life,
Then perfected His creation in Eve,
Not from base clay but Adam’s flesh and bone.
On Adam God practiced His creation,
In Eve perfected it tweaking its flaws,
More heart, less hubris; more sense, less muscle,
More love less hate; focused on “us” not “me.
Sacred texts written by men disagree,
With what is only a most obvious truth,
God's truth whispered in men's ears only proves,
None are so deaf as those who will not hear.
Thus women have been blamed for all men's woes,
From Adam's fall to every earthly sin,
Marginalized, objectified and scorned,
As easy targets for men’s jealous rage.
Mankind is so much less than womankind,
In all the ways that count save in brute strength,
Brute strength served tyrants well six thousand years,
Alas, serves tyrants well still to this day.
Barefoot and pregnant, subservient and poor,
Unschooled, unheard, and too often unloved,
Their primary role a breeding vessel,
To pleasure men and give them healthy sons.
No voice, no vote, no power and no hope,
To this day blamed by some for all man's ills,
Victims of rape stoned for their victimhood,
Honor killings from men most honorless.
The miracle of life was gifted you,
Men plant the seed and then their job is done,
They can wander away to plow new fields,
While women nurture life--cradle to grave.
I am in awe of all that you endure,
And all that you accomplish throughout life,
Diamonds treated like broken glass by fools,
Whose brilliance shines only in their own minds.
I am a son of Adam, share his flaws,
And know full well women have their faults too,
Yet for me hope for all humanity,
Rest with Eve’s daughters, not with Adam’s sons.
Central Park
Watered by the spit of cocaine dealers,
And the semen and vaginal fluid,
Of hot lovers groping under blankets,
Under stars dimly blinking through thick smog.
Nightly haven for muggers, rapists, fiends,
Whose every breath profanes the species they,
So poorly represent, turning Plato’s,
Featherless bipeds, to dead plucked chickens,
Soul-less, pointless wastes of protoplasm.
Abomination-- not in itself but,
For the use it’s put to: a bone for dogs,
Who’ve never tasted steak, and are gleeful,
To feast upon the scraps of fetid meat,
Clinging to well-gnawed bones that they are fed.
Central Park, the bone we are to chew while,
Smiling complacently at skyscrapers,
Daily rising where wild flowers might have grown,
Our humanity proportionally,
Shrinking inversely to their daily rise.
If I seem narrow minded and unkind,
Or blind to the beauty of Central Park,
It is because I’ve stood on virgin ground,
In summer, fall, winter and early spring,
And cannot bring myself to love a whore.
On Pointless Introspection
My head submerged in murky moods,
Screaming in a vacuum.
No, not a vacuum, but a sound-proof room,
With walls of ten-foot stone,
A fortress,
Clammy, cold and, dimly lit,
That admits no sound,
But the monotonous percussion,
Of a heart that knows the one eternal truth:
We are born dying,
And every breath that we take,
Every beat of our heart,
Brings us one step closer,
To the grave.
It is easy to forget a world exists outside,
My diminutive cell when my teeth chatter,
Not from the absence of warmth,
But from the absence of meaning.
Perspective, perspective, perspective,
Echoes through my fruitless cell.
I am a foolish,
Ugly bird,
Cowardly bird,
But needlessly.
I heard a song today, a soothing melody,
Sung by an angel dressed in woman's clothes;
Oh, sing again, dear love, I had
Almost forgotten your sweet voice!
