Scarves. high collars,
or extra mascara
hide the brownish-purple
disfigurement wrapped
around her throat.

Part of her being
is scarred with
remnant traces
inflicted from traumatic
scenes endured
during his rage.  

Horrific echoes
careen around her brain
like video clips replaying
the self-hatred he
spilled upon her.

His crazed lashes
struck her
bone deep.  
Musty smells
from those moments
linger among her nostril mucus.

She carries on
distracted with moments
near tranquil music
or beside still brooks
and squawking crows.

Each day she captures
views of sunrise
and sunset while chanting
mantras to unknown gods
striving to complete
her forgiveness.

Poems about women,
spills of passion
flow from anger,
burst from love,
fill libraries,
find homes in billfolds,
back pockets,
or bulletin boards.

Counting poems
composed about women,
for women,
by women
becomes one futile task
for this list is endless.
Reams of new works
billow forth
from crazed minds of men
hourly,
daily.

Small wonder
for this gentle ***
is incomprehensible,
enticing, enchanting.
Fill pages with thoughts of her
and dreams that dampen cotton sheets
Ease all tension,
write tonight.

She feels no confusion
in her glance toward his eyes.
Eyes deep blue
as a mountain lake.
She senses comfort
across her
chest, like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep when they walked
enmeshed.

Now feels so warm,
soft on the mind
for fear has
fallen to the trail.
Renewal of trust
fills her heart.
Now feels
like the first time
again.

She fashioned him an enigma
who strolled through life a closed book
unaware of his charismatic aura
She fashioned him an enigma
Her showy courtship ended in drama
He remained blind to the effort she took
She fashioned him an enigma
who strolled through life a closed book.

Many masks he kept in play
heedless of her passionate love
He continued his mysterious way
Many masks he kept in play.
Her ardor she could not betray
nor stop praying to God above
Many masks he kept in play
heedless of her passionate love

Trapeze rhymes with breeze
It ends there, tis' not a breeze,
To fly a trapeze

Wear shows along each seam.

Stitches obtained through toil

and sewn with needles of obligation

well-intended for those in need.

How could her nimble fingers

stay still and silent

in the face of their distress? 

Toll-taking efforts
cast with love

nonetheless burden her shoulders

and incite pain from long hours

spent to ease the lives

of those she loves. 

Woven too is her hard-earned

impermeable shield-
her hard-learned revelation
that she can dwell free

within her mantle.

There was never the thought
"I should be like them."
Uniqueness was desired
and a distinct path
until a fork in an unworn trail
became a call to another direction.

Unheeded were voices shouting of
things, material goods,
destine to rot behind you
as you ***** through the valleys.

Tromp on a course to mountains
few shall view.