Goddess Poems

Goddess Poems

Dress code

It's hard to love
your goddess body
when cauliflower blooms
inside your thighs,
and a rolling pin
smooths your middle flesh
into pie crust.

Where is that goddess hiding?
Under your muu muu?
Is there some
umbilical way
to get back to the
center, where we
started life,
where life begins?

The goddess shows herself
only when we love
who we are.
Then we find her
right there,
next to the broccolli,
close to the spinach,
with nutmeg in her hair.

Telephone booth
I duck inside
my telephone booth,
look both ways
and plunge!
roll down the too tight panty hose,
kick off the shoes that pinch,
step free of skirt,
rip at buttons,
throw off shirt,
release the underwire bra.

Looking up,
I feel my skin form into battle mode--
(no spangled tights,
or glittering W for me)
a silver sheen
impenetrable,
coalesces, glows at every pore.

Ready,
the door springs back,
I step out,
flex once, spread my arms,
and fly!

Fat and thin
Fat and thin
Are only words to describe
The skin of things.

A heart beats strongly
Hope blooms.
Love reaches out, and
Sorrow weeps silent tears

Fat and thin cannot measure these.
And they can never say your name.

Fat pig
Are pigs fat
because, sausage-like,
skin stretches taut
over layers of lard?

Do you say fat pig
because of eating habits
embarrassingly close to lust?

Or are pigs fat
in the too thin gaze
of beholders
whose definitions of table manners
preclude such
passionate engagement with food?

Pigs aren't fat anyway.
They are what they are,
without style, or apology.

How to Look Cute and Blond at 55
It's not possible, of course,
so don't even try.
And you never were that anyway,
just imagined a self
that you sent out into the world
to be you.

Think about it.
Cute is puppies
that nip your fingers,
never really bite,
and blond is what you created
with cardboard images
from a Clairol box.

You didn't try then
to be what you truly are,
and your confidence was no more real
than the cardboard image
coloring it in two dimensions.

So now
If you're not cute and blond,
Then who in the world
are you?
A nest of lines
holding your eyes in laughter,
lines along your nose
etched by tears,
a dash of lipstick,
blond hair which has the virtue
of not being grey, and
behind lavender tinted glasses,
eyes that, though small,
look out without blinking
(no more contact lenses)
at the image in the mirror,
and through the mirror
reflected in the camera's lens,
the world behind,
and the light ahead.

New suit
For Mirah, on being appointed to clerk on the Supreme Court
(shopping trip with Judge Kim McLane Wardlaw, Ninth Circuit)

You'll need a new suit
For the dignity of your new job,
clerk for the Supremes,
So I'm pleased there's time
for Seattle shopping with your judge,
to celebrate the call.

After all, she's a mother too,
like Dorianne, and Amy,
and all those strong women
who, magnet like,
draw near to you,
seeing themselves, perhaps,
reflected in your eyes.

This new suit
shall be your armor--
microfiber, tightly woven
to deflect the rain, or snow,
or ill-will from oponents,
jealous of your power,
or any would-be Gallahad
who'd like to save you
for himself.

Yet lightweight,
wrinkle-free,
and classy too,
with clear, clean lines,
like your thought,
cut with generosity,
with room to give,
and room enough to grow.
Not too small,
– you're no Ally McBeal, you know
(thank heavens) –
You have flesh to power muscles of your mind
with self respect.

It's formal black,
That's required,
but woven into rainbow colors
pearl black,
shimmering
in changing lights.

Put on this suit,
and you will see yourself.
Your own magic
will blaze in spendor from your smile and golden hair.

It's silk, you know,
spun from your soul,
a soft cocoon for now,
till the moment comes
to find your newer wings.

WomenCanDoIt Home | A Mother's Poems | Trees on the Wing | Island Songs | Journey Poems | Healing Poems | Image Galleries

Freedom Poems | Poems about poetry | Poems of the camera eye |Garden poems| Fairytale poems | Goddess poems | Circus poems

Cat Door, Place des Vosges | Red Dress, Place Vendome | on the road poems

Yosemite poems | Ghost Ranch Companion

© 2005, Lenore Horowitz

Dress code It's hard to love your goddess body when cauliflower blooms inside your thighs, and a rolling pin smooths your middle flesh into pie crust. Where is that goddess hiding? Under your muu muu? Is there some umbilical way to get back to the center, where we started life, where life begins? The goddess shows herself only when we love who we are. Then we find her right there, next to the broccolli, close to the spinach, with nutmeg in her hair.
	Telephone booth I duck inside my telephone booth, look both ways and plunge! roll down the too tight panty hose, kick off the shoes that pinch, step free of skirt, rip at buttons, throw off shirt, release the underwire bra. Looking up, I feel my skin form into battle mode-- (no spangled tights, or glittering W for me) a silver sheen impenetrable, coalesces, glows at every pore. Ready, the door springs back, I step out, flex once, spread my arms, and fly!
Fat and thin Fat and thin Are only words to describe The skin of things. A heart beats strongly Hope blooms. Love reaches out, and Sorrow weeps silent tears Fat and thin cannot measure these. And they can never say your name.
	Fat pig Are pigs fat because, sausage-like, skin stretches taut over layers of lard? Do you say fat pig because of eating habits embarrassingly close to lust? Or are pigs fat in the too thin gaze of beholders whose definitions of table manners preclude such passionate engagement with food? Pigs aren't fat anyway. They are what they are, without style, or apology.
How to Look Cute and Blond at 55 It's not possible, of course, so don't even try. And you never were that anyway, just imagined a self that you sent out into the world to be you. Think about it. Cute is puppies that nip your fingers, never really bite, and blond is what you created with cardboard images from a Clairol box. You didn't try then to be what you truly are, and your confidence was no more real than the cardboard image coloring it in two dimensions. So now If you're not cute and blond, Then who in the world are you? A nest of lines holding your eyes in laughter, lines along your nose etched by tears, a dash of lipstick, blond hair which has the virtue of not being grey, and behind lavender tinted glasses, eyes that, though small, look out without blinking (no more contact lenses) at the image in the mirror, and through the mirror reflected in the camera's lens, the world behind, and the light ahead.
	New suit For Mirah, on being appointed to clerk on the Supreme Court (shopping trip with Judge Kim McLane Wardlaw, Ninth Circuit) You'll need a new suit For the dignity of your new job, clerk for the Supremes, So I'm pleased there's time for Seattle shopping with your judge, to celebrate the call. After all, she's a mother too, like Dorianne, and Amy, and all those strong women who, magnet like, draw near to you, seeing themselves, perhaps, reflected in your eyes. This new suit shall be your armor-- microfiber, tightly woven to deflect the rain, or snow, or ill-will from oponents, jealous of your power, or any would-be Gallahad who'd like to save you for himself. Yet lightweight, wrinkle-free, and classy too, with clear, clean lines, like your thought, cut with generosity, with room to give, and room enough to grow. Not too small, – you're no Ally McBeal, you know (thank heavens) – You have flesh to power muscles of your mind with self respect. It's formal black, That's required, but woven into rainbow colors pearl black, shimmering in changing lights. Put on this suit, and you will see yourself. Your own magic will blaze in spendor from your smile and golden hair. It's silk, you know, spun from your soul, a soft cocoon for now, till the moment comes to find your newer wings.