Western Geisha

Evelyn’s eighteenth century marble cottage
adorns the last quarter acre block
in the latest city to emulate Manhattan.
The urge to launch this crème de la crème
of curvaceous gems
on to a four poster bed as elegant as she,
can be as overwhelming as an avalanche.

Evelyn possesses the power
to preoccupy her admirers with nobler passions.
It is said, her dazzling array of brush strokes
can capture your spirit on canvas,
that there’s something more exhilarating
about watching her paint
than witnessing the theatrical grandeur
of her forays into burlesque.

If you wish to see her graceful figure
unencumbered by layers of satin,
being a world renowned sculptor
is more advantageous than wealth.
If a corporate emperor,
with the artistic prowess
of a methamphetamine crazed jackal,
wishes to witness such a spectacle,
funding a children’s hospital for a generation
isn’t guaranteed to win the bidding.

Evelyn is glorified in birdsong.
Blue Tongues seek refuge in her hollows.
Banjo frogs frolic in her waterfall fed ponds.
I’m yet to buzz the intercom
and set foot inside her sanctuary.
The sound of her soul 
drifts into the park,
from a grand piano.

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The Minimalist

The forest is Jasmin’s cathedral.
A
n earthenware compost bin is her Kaaba.
If she wants to gaze in wonder at a chandelier,
as opulent as the palace of Versailles,
she heads for a museum.

Jasmin breathes deeply and easily,
in a room free of needless things.
In her studio apartment
it feels like there’s acres to dance in.
Her mind floats where it wants to go,
with or without her body in tow.

Every file on Jasmin’s laptop
is as memorable as a prize winning novel.
In her trilogies,
schooners are life jackets,
for trade wind harnessing dragons.
Their sky roaming brethren
incinerate buccaneer rapists.

Jasmin replenishes her imagination
in the submarine valleys
of mangrove guarded lagoons.

Sleep is a temporary death.
She rises with an urge to write
unsurpassed by Shakespeare in chains.