Like hermes on a road
dusty sandals and robes
waving hello to travelers
they make their way home

Like athena in the library
nose in a book reading aloud
young children gather round
for knowledge to share

Like poseidon by the seashore
collecting shells and bobs
waving to the waves
as they wash on shores

Like apollo riding the sky
bringing light and joy
smiling like sunshine
and warmth like a hug

Like artemis in the woods
hunting in the forest
with little girls and curls
and flowers in their hair

she awakes.
her ballerina toes are poised, her nose is scrunched -
she is – what’s the word – alive.
her powder fingertips crease mechanically like a hydraulic press.
she has a beating chest with the calibration of cast iron.
her feet can climb Mount Olympus and higher.
she is limber.
she is – what’s the word – living.
her name is –
her skin has the swirl of a gleaming cantilever.
her head teeters.
she is speechless.
her lips are soft, her hands touch her face like it is a monument,
like she is a strawman.
is she a –
her spine has a curve, she can bend into geometric shapes, her arms are straight
but they encircle her.
galatea.
he whispers her name to her.
or maybe he names her.  
she can choose a name herself, maybe.
she is – what’s the word – a woman.
her hair can swim through the air, her curls have strands that brush her cheeks
and her cheeks can color in the blank space left behind
by words.
galatea, she whispers.
her tongue clambers in her mouth, for some purchase,
for some worthy noise.
she searches herself for a – what’s the word – idea.
you are mine, galatea, he says. i made you.
do not be afraid. i will bathe you, dress you, anoint you.
i will worship you, and i will save you.
he caresses her hand.
her palms are dry as sandpaper.
she is – what’s the word –
her eyes have the shutter frequency of a lens.
she bends.
she is awake.
she does not remember a before.
she does not remember a maker.
she hasn’t yet made any mistakes.
her name is galatea
but she is no longer milk-white.
he says, you are my wife.
she says, i am alive.
he says, i gave you life.
she says, yes, you are right.
you gave me life,
and i won’t return it
because you gave it,
because it’s mine.

Literally within 30 SECONDS--not minutes, not hours, not days, not weeks, not months, not years--when **** Trump denigrated Rosie O'Donnell before a worldwide TV audience during the first Republican debate of 2016, I realized instantly the **** Trump should be immediately disqualified from holding any political office at any level in the USA. Within 30 seconds! But for over 3 years now, we know categorically that **** Trump is a pathological liar, a cheat, a ******, and, worst of all, a virulent racist. And--I'll say it again--anyone who votes for a racist is also a racist.

Now comes the pandemic. First, **** Trump called it a "Democratic hoax." Then he said there were only 15 cases in all of America, and within a week, there would be zero. Then he called the governor of the state of Washington "a snake" for trying to contain the coronavirus in his state. Then he said there was nothing really to worry about because everything would be fine by April. Today, when he said all this would be over by July or August, the stock market dropped 3,000 points, thereby erasing all the gains for which **** Trump personally had taken credit for during his ignominious three years in the Oval Office.

My most recent assessment of **** Trump as a human being is that he is, and always has been, a dumb ****. I'm very good in sizing up people. I should have realized this over three years ago, within 30 seconds.

(When I'm not so enraged, which obviously I am, I know why **** Trump is the human being he is today and has been every moment of his life: **** Trump has never been loved during his entire life, so he unconsciously compensates by accruing lots of money, political power, ****** pleasure with **** stars and the like, and fatuous fame. His problem is that he is trying unconsciously to fill an emotional abyss, a Greek tragedy if ever there were one.)

This is the story of a box
and a girl.
And this box –
and this box
was like no other box – No,
like no other box that owned its existence.
Eons of history lived on its walls – I mean, moved on its walls,
I mean, carvings of history played out on the walls
Waves smashed their own heads onto ocean floor dunes,
The lightning swung fierce on the clouds into squalls,
The engravings – the caves shook with war, the volcanoes,
They spat and they hissed, and the nymphs in their watery mists
Danced with haloes on graves of the fallen.
The lifeblood, it pulsed through the veins of this box,
Through the veins of my palm as I held it, the carvings,
They danced with their raw, starving ardors, their bloods and their stardust
And lifeblood, it seeped, lotus droplets, it leaped onto grooves of my skin
Splashed as sparks on my skin and spilled into my palms,
Till my body was filled with the life of this box, with the thrums of this box, with the force of this box
Till the sweet little voice called my name through this box
Whispered, “Open the lid and release me. This box
Is my prison. I’ve risen through hellfire and sunlight and war-blood,
And isn’t it time for the earth to revere me? I am Hope,
I am weary; I am tired of Death and Despair huddled near me
I yearn for the taste of the earth and the Furies
Release me, my vassal, unchain me, release me.”
This is the story of a box
and a girl,
and a thrum, and a voice, and a palm, and a life -
and a war, and a choice, and a hope, and a price,
and a voice that implored me to open the lid
through the trembling, quivering walls,
and I did.

The honey venom strikes quickly
She sinks into the earth,
into embraces of the sickly
sweet blankness, the dirt-
clotted lilies, the trembling musk
of the wind in her nostrils
eyes quivering with dusk,
with the moans of her apostles.
She thrashes through her blood,
through the smother of sunlight
through the Byzantine flood
of amber and honeysuckle,
         of nectar and twilight.

And she forgets her own name,
so she wails out strangers’.
She’s Eurydice. Persephone.
She is no one’s. She’s nameless.
Nails scratching at the soil
at the buds, at the symphony
of the viper’s tight coil.
Her name is Persephone.
And she sinks into the earth
Into the deafening silence
of the heavenly pyres
of petals and honey
        and dirt-clotted violets.

She tastes the remembrance,
She’s Cleopatra. Persephone.
She tastes love, her own fragrance
She is ready for death as she  
releases the breath
that she drank from the flames.
Her name was Persephone,
when she still had a name.
And the sweetness of pale
rose-perfume that lifts from her
is lost on the exhale,
on the glittering dawn,
         on the first breeze of summer.

A beautiful victim
of poisonous greed,
hurt, *****, abused
but was known to be
a monstrous villain.

Hymn to Aphrodite
by Sappho (her only complete poem)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Immortal Aphrodite, throned in splendor!
Wile-weaving daughter of Zeus, enchantress, and beguiler!
I implore you, dread mistress, discipline me no longer
with love's anguish!

But come to me once again in kindness,
heeding my prayers as you have done before;
O, come Divine One, descend once again from heaven's
golden dominions!

Your chariot yoked to love's consecrated doves,
their multitudinous pinions aflutter,
you once came gliding from the utmost heights, to
this dark earth.

Swiftly they came and vanished, leaving you,
O my Goddess, smiling, your face eternally beautiful,
asking me what unfathomable longing compelled me
to cry out.

Asking me what I sought in my hopeless, bewildered desire.
Asking, "Who has harmed you, why are you so alarmed,
my poor Sappho? Whom should Persuasion
summon here?"

"Though today she flees love, soon she will pursue you;
spurning love's gifts, she soon shall return them;
tomorrow she will woo you,
however unwillingly!"

Come to me now, most Holy Aphrodite!
Release me from my heavy heartache and anguish;
grant me all I request, be once again
my ally and protector!

"Hymn to Aphrodite" is the only poem by Sappho of ****** to survive in its entirety. The poem survived intact because it was quoted in full by Dionysus, a Roman orator, in his "On Literary Composition," published around 30 B.C. A number of Sappho's poems mention or are addressed to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. It is believed that Sappho may have belonged to a cult that worshiped Aphrodite with songs and poetry. If so, "Hymn to Aphrodite" may have been composed for performance within the cult. We do know that Sappho was held in very high regard. For instance, when Sappho visited Syracuse the residents were so honored they erected a statue to commemorate the occasion! During Sappho's lifetime, coins of ****** were minted with her image. Furthermore, Sappho was called "the Tenth Muse" and the other nine were goddesses. Keywords/Tags: Sapphic, Sappho, ******, translation, ancient Greek, hymn, Aphrodite, Zeus, daughter, immortal, goddess, holy, lady, heaven, enchantress, enchantment, love potion, charm, spell, persuasion, beguiler, beguilement, mistress, discipline, *******, prayer, prayers, chariot, heaven, descent, ally, protector, lust, desire, passion, longing, ***, crush, girlfriend, women, grief