Medusa, how your sisters suffer still
We hope, because in you, we see ourselves
Our stories transform, as yours always will

Your myth eternal-shifts on steady shelves
Our female thermostat for social mores
We hope, because in you, we see ourselves

Bewitching minx, besmirched Athena’s laws
Woman-judged and hexed when male-defiled
Our female thermostat for social mores

Mortal monster, murdered and reviled
Early poster child for victim’s curse
Woman-judged and hexed when male-defiled

Beheaded gorgon, potent beauty birthed
A sister sign of fury, seen at last
Early poster child for victim’s curse

From villain crone rebuilt, crusader-cast
Medusa, how your sisters suffer still
A sister sign of fury, seen at last
Our stories transform, as yours always will

All great creative storytellers know,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells,
The time machine was built so long ago

Expression chassis, tonal power cells,
The primary engine, sending us with word,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells

The second engine, flashback, and a third
—portend, exhausts each piston-fired clue,
The primary engine, sending us with word

The epoch steering, future or review,
Remember back, or forward fantasy
Portend exhausts each piston-fired clue

Captain Imagine, Wingman Memory,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,
Remember back, or forward fantasy

Like Atwood, Pratchett, Liu, and Philip K,
All great creative storytellers know,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,  
The time machine was built so long ago

Blue and white and orange and white
And songs and coffee and tears
Keep together my daily plight

I’d add you to my list of fears
But I don’t want to miss your laughs
And songs and coffee and tears

I’d split my soul into two neat halves
And hand me to you on a platter
But I don’t want to miss your laughs

I know that it would need to matter
If you were to open up one day
And hand you to me on a platter

I’ll model the place we’re in like clay
And slowly, slowly seep me out
If you were to open up one day

I’d take good notice of the route
Blue and white and orange and white
Would slowly, slowly seep us out
Keep together my daily plight

Launch a caustic haiku turned flailed terzanelle
Three lines of blather from a piqued poet’s feather
Skillful syllables omit nature; gone straight to hell

Obsession sketching rhythms rhyme then measure
An ink blot parking lot commencing to swell
Three lines of blather from a piqued poet’s feather

Jot, “Not the verse that got away!” I yell
Prosodic and onomatopoeic
An ink blot parking lot commencing to swell

Fingertips that linger quips mythopoeic
Bring monochroic wars of subtle allure
Prosodic and onomatopoeic

My iambic pentameter’s amateur
I’m done with these words, ink, terms altogether
Bring monochroic wars of subtle allure

To ponded frog on a bough’s frond, any weather
Launch a caustic haiku turned flailed terzanelle
I’m done with these words, ink, terms altogether
Skillful syllables omit nature; gone straight to hell.

A. Paige White 6/1/20

In nighttime living creatures fell dead asleep by herds |
I alone am an orphan to the darkness and the candlelight |
And my dreams depart for whimsical lands with the migratory birds |

Under the roofs people sleep with their eyes shut tight |
All the dramas of daily life locked down their windows |
I alone am an orphan to the darkness and the candlelight |

Here my imagination took its feathery flight |
Between these shadows of empty cul-de-sac |
All the dramas of daily life locked down their windows |

The moon steals out the stories in inspiration’s sack |
Here with my dreams, desires, and depressions out of sight |
Between these shadows of empty cul-de-sac |

Improvisation opened his iridescent lips for a bite |
My melatonin ignites the fire within the constellations |
Here with my dreams, desires, and depressions out of sight |

Legends, myths, and superstitions find me with consternations |
In nighttime living creatures fell dead asleep by herds |
My melatonin ignites the fire within the constellations |
And my dreams depart for whimsical lands with the migratory birds|

We tend to land wherever we are hurled.
I lost the will to count on the unseen
when I became a man and met the world.

To tell the truth, it left me caught between
maturity and blind and childlike faith
I lost the will to count on the unseen.

Beliefs and conscience haunted like a wraith.
I struggled with identity and trust,
maturity, and blind and childlike faith.

Alas, in time, we all learn what we must,
and give ourselves no small amount of grief.
I struggled with identity and trust.

Was it for self or kin I claimed belief?
We tend to ask ourselves what we can't know,
and give ourselves no small amount of grief.

Maturity, it seems, just comes on slow-
we tend to ask ourselves what we can't know.
We tend to land wherever we are hurled.
When I became a man and met the world.

An alarm arrives like a storm through
leaves and petals -- not a cry nor a
wail -- a Tarzan yell, soulfully blue.

This exhalation, an incision parts the flora,

signals strength and the brave crash through
leaves and petals -- not a cry nor a

shout -- a command to a holy war, deja vu!
Don't reason, don't doubt; our unity
signals strength and the brave crash through

walls of oppression, injustice, and iniquity.
Leave judgment for history, glory for the survivors!
Don't reason, don't doubt; our unity

shall overcome the rants of disloyal liars,
who succumb to cowardice disguised as reasons!
Leave judgment for history, glory for the survivors!

Bury the past, honor the call! Onward Legions,
to exterminate the foreigners of another faith!
The final solution, a resolution: Heed the heathen's
wail -- a Tarzan yell, soulfully blue!