Astrologer's Wand

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Jimmy Warner 

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1. Her Practical View

A quiet earth surrounds her

With an emerald green protection,

Aching throat of sensual desire,

A changeless toehold of turf.


She wears her evening jewels

for a crown, her inspired motif.

Pale blue and mauve color 

Her distant hills and echoes.


Fierce in pursuit, gentle in love,

Yet, maternal, heavy lidded,

A shade of dark from sleep,

She resides with the dead.


She may feast on her wealth

And power and abundance,

Fatten like a holy cow, but

All her children WILL survive.


2. Her Official Role

“You will find me on the earliest coins,

Tokens of writing and records, your

First office patroness, Coffee anyone?”


“A spirit of the first stones of men,

Guarding their tombs with echoes

So the dead will someday live again.”


“Look  beneath the beaten hearth

The floorboard underling who binds

the forbears’ sculls to family ken.”


“Trace my threads, my strands

My only son, stripped bare

To weave by hand a basket hat.”


“His wine, my only vine I gave

So every mortal being will know

The gods and what the spirit feels,.”


Mornings stepping from my lake 

I sing, the hell with corn flakes,

Let’s jump start the day with sex!”


3. Her Performance Takes You In

Your make-up feathered by dawn’s

Soft touch, the barest whisk of hairs

blend these delicate hues that only

Form the sensitive eye of the wave.


Your planet earth charisma skills are

High in demand, the consummate host

You twist into silk the lost chord that runs

Thru every bar-band tune in the world.


Art is life in stone, to paint is to pray.

In cathedral cave in the sanctum sit

The spirits of creation, the birth of all,

A pantheon of animals that made us.


You are pillow shaman, votive

Bedroom drama, slipcover bold.

You steady the rock of the moon,

fix love politely in a drowsy stare,

Your senses keenly aware

Of the clam shell you rode in on.


You struggle the night for life and light

No shade is too extreme to shed,

And still you cling to a dreadful soul,

Karma chic with a cat on your head.


4. The Security Guard’s last round

Ice fern windows glazed by artists’ rime

Will not deter the guard from spinning

On your sleeping window of promises.

The sill, a draped museum of carcasses

Yourself, are hopes and plodding force.


Penniless, without a throne, you’ll only

Be a hollow reed that tootles in the wind.

More enduring than earthly determination,

You must plant yourself in luxury’s lap

Deserving the fruits of others, where sap

Will always rise to a stirring occasion.  

©Jimmy Warner, 2016

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