by Gloria Wimberley
According to my writer-friend Magda...
wears an ethereal, cascading veil:
sparkle of star
silken plume of quail
This muse speaks
in dialect of dove
that His rainbows are but mirage
"See" she whispers
(not in language of man)
"how they melt
in Mother Nature's mouth of rain..."
of silent intensity:
a telepathic banshee
(of unseen beauty)
who flails her arms and voice
in a bloodjet of ideas...
The fingers of her muse
fluttering under her skin,
Magda's soul again and again
awakens to the abrupt arrival,
facing a mongoose
whose fur stands on end as it lunges--
the only truth
bleeds from that moment
A native of West Virginia, Gloria Wimberley
has been teaching college English
for ten years in South Florida,
and now Northern Virginia, outside of Washington,DC.
She enjoys penning poetry with an edge, journaling,
and learning from the powerful works of
women writers throughout history.
A favorite quotation of hers is by contemporary
Chicana-lesbian-feminist writer, Gloria Anzaldua,
author of Borderlands/La Frontera:The New Mestiza...
"I write on the inside of trees."