pruners

a pair of
clear & simplest near
laid out in desperate sands
oh Fini land i said:

“Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres? ”

i know
there
is a little cat
who
reigns as dwarf giraffe
oh laugh
oh graph
sovranty
no nation’s phonograph

a cut
so small, so bland
gives way to
space bands’
utter stands
so cumbersome
so ambersand the chant
no wing nut will abide
a cobnut is the nunchaku
to shake off paunchy pride

punched onto
madness’ rant it is
at odds with
rodding stride
a bloomers´ course
a pruners’ handle
a blackbird tweet:
not for the mantel

“The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.”

Miss Fini wore this bandage “Blue”
quite naked at the pool
a branded rhyme of tankage fuel
merely a minstrel show
all of king Lear & critics’ action
a shrew, don’t be surprised
the lady of the alcove, yep
despised the simple fraction
Breton she claimed, is just a bore
misogynist, she said
while I am nothing more than
“Angel of Anatomy” – dispread

no bandage scissors near
just secateurs
to hit the roaming pseudo coup
as hermit stepped She from the boat
and scarcely could she stand

“Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale;
And then it left me free.”                                                  ”

beyond kirk’s holograph i see a luscious youth
portrait
of life in rise or stand or rigid eyes’ blank cues
i wish to break off praying well
’tis what i know while counting on the mews

Martina Gertrude Siebert

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