Lady of the Heights

Hera Queen of the Olympians howard david johnson

 

The solemn woman treads lightly in a leafdark forest

the spurs of jealousy scoring her flesh and spirit

like cheap wine

 metallic on the tongue 

kindling an unquenchable fire in the belly 

like the pomegranate she hides her jewel nature deep inside

and like the peacock she is beautiful

rich in color and majesty

but the harshness of her voice

her blistering call

 betrays her overpowering 

adamantine rage

 

*artwork by howard david johnson*

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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