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by Gloria Wimberley

According to my writer-friend Magda...
Her muse
wears an ethereal, cascading veil:
sparkle of star
silken plume of quail
This muse speaks
in sparrow
and murmurs
in dialect of dove
cautioning her
that His rainbows are but mirage
"See" she whispers
(not in language of man)
"how they melt
in Mother Nature's mouth of rain..."
A Lady
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,
feeling like--
a cobra
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."

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