Lady V.

Vagina_flower_567-455x234.

K.Barratt 

The second time I stopped believing in God,

I realized there has been always been

Something in me which had never let me down.

Something which had forged my identity,

Unravelled myself up in ecstasy and

And brought me as close as it could, to godhood.

Hence, I sang to Lady V,

The goddess of many names and

Secrecies, loathed and beloved in equal

Measure, right from when she was built

As figurine, all breast and majestic, welcoming pubis.

With no facer nor eyes, to her new counterpart,

Insinuating, pressing herself behind a thin

Veil in Instagram.

Like many a deity before, she has

Been humiliated, mutilated, her blood

Seen as a magical force, to some for good,

To others for wrong. As Kali, there are those

Who fear her power, and like her, she can change

A person to a point of death and rebirth, many a

Non-believer curling his toes and screaming for  god,

Any god, when being enveloped by her.

She’s Aphrodite, demanding her lovers to be on

Their knees and kiss her with every kiss ever written,

From the sweet lick of the humming bird to the ravenous

Mouthful of a tiger. She is the portal to the cavern

Of life, where she baptized me a goddess of creation,

Demeter gestating her Persephone, the sun and the moon

Coming together to spark a new being in the darkness of

My womb. As the followers of other rites, hers have suffer

Persecution, dissolution, diminution, execution,

Brain washing, even.

And yet, it is her who give us our remarkable attribution,

Our identity, and under her aegis we are all sisters, from

La Patagonia to Tasmania, as we still discover

her mysteries, hidden behind de revulsion and false revolution,

Those who fear her have cover her beauty with.

The second time I stopped believing in God, I recognized the deity in me.

So now I sing to my vagina:

Goddess, Creatrix, the mirror I identify with.

Ode to Lady V, Divine Regina, Benedicta, eternally,

Mother, lover, woman, warrior, crone,

The badge of honour that unites half of world.

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Mediterranean

Mediterranean-Beach-Scene5

K. Barratt

 

A mandolin tune by the seaside. Wine, soft cheese, firm grapes, children flying a kite, madonnas nursing on benches in front of the beach, lovers blind to everything, old ladies laughing, eating ice cream, grandads playing one more game of chess. A woman with dark, cat-like glasses, dress in black against the azure and the gold. Young girls with coquettish flair sitting at the back of vespas. Umbrellas playing to be mini circus tents, specking the sand with oranges and greens and pinks. And the transparent waters of the Mediterranean murmuring its siren song; its cool, sapphire and emerald song; timeless song, flying with thee breeze, to the tune of a lonely mandolin.

 

As If

Hand-Knocking

K. Barratt

 

 

He came to me as a weathered wish,

An old prayer, suddenly answered by the gods

When one has already forgotten about it.

A knock on the door, a crossing through

The threshold, and he was home,

Home back to me.

As if.

As if I had not walked away from

Such hope long ago. As if my

Life had not gone on, after the

Tears, the fears, the rummaging,

Picking my brain, asking, wondering

What  had I done wrong, so bad,

To deserve a departure without

Goodbyes. And now he stood here,

Back for me, for us, for the life

We shared once, he said.

As if I cared.

As if I cared to relive the

Insecurity, the sweet poisonous words

That made me doubt my worth,

That truly convince me I should

Thank angels and devas for having

That man with me, in spite of it all,

The flaws, the blemishes of my soul,

Which surely brought him down and yet

He stayed with me -until he could

Take it no more, this abomination

Of a self and left.

That’s what I told myself using the

Words he had engraved in my mind.

And I believed, each and every one f them.

And when tears were not enough to

Let out the pain. I added the cuts,

The scratches, the endless night

Of hate in front of the mirror,

Locking my heart in darkness,

Praying, wishing, asking to

Please, someone, above or below,

To bring him back to me.

And here he is.

Except that I am not.

Not the I he knew before,

The feeble flower

Begging for drops of water,

Thankful beyond measure

From his mere, indifferent touch.

I gave him all my perfume.

He repaid with an icy, steely crush.

He extends his hand,

As if.

As if I know him, care for him,

Have a bond to share with him.

But I know him not.

And the me I am now invites him out

And closes the door.

Whomever he’s looking for

Doesn’t live here anymore.

 

 

Daffodil

daffodil2K. Barratt

 

I saw a daffodil whilst walking the dog,

Its future leaves and flower still wrapped

Together, tightly, into a green stalk, a dash

Of colour amid the browns and greys of the

Leaves-less branches of the bushes above.

I saw a daffodil whilst walking the dog.

And my heart skipped a beat for that

Speck of Spring smiling my way.

It was dark, it was rainy and the stubborn

Dog would not poo. But the promise

Of life renewed created a little

Rainbow from the cloud in my mind.

And I could not help but to smile

And skip with the dog all the way back.

 

Song of Fifty-Four

woman on trycicke

By K Barratt

 

My breasts are round, still firm.

White threads intertwine with

My hair of night. My thighs

Are no longer tight, but

My pubis still fires up, a

Volcano of flesh at the

Right touch. They call me ma’am

Whilst I look at naughty lingerie.

It’s not easy, oh no, this song

Of fifty-four.

I have so much hunger

For things yet to be done,

So much longing for what

Has come and gone.

I want an electric

Tricycle. I want to be

The weird lady riding it

On the high street. I want to

Knit hats and gloves for babes

Smelling of candy and new skin.

I want to tango with a 30-year old

With a great moustache and I

Want a soft hand holding mine,

As we watch the sunset at summertime.

I want to wear flowers on my head,

And bring fifty-four years of experiences

As an offering to life. I want to dance

All night and give half of my stuff away.

I want to rest and just be in the now,

At the top of the hill from where I can see

Until forever. I want to drink wine

And eat cheese on the beach,

And just smile. And stop worrying

About achievement and success –

What ever I do, let it be done

From a place of joy and peace and

Why the heck no. Oh, easy is not,

This song of fifty-four. And yet

The more I live it, the more I feel alive,

Unafraid of the Shadow, in love with

The Mystery, surrounded by hundreds

Of brothers and sisters singing the same

Song. The song of us, the unfinished

Master works, ready for one more chip,

One more stroke, one more stitch, a last touch.

Let us then sing the song of us,

Sing it high, sing it tall, wildly and blissfully,

This topsy-turvy song of fifty-four.

Urban Night

Full-Moon-Over-The-City      K. Barratt

 

The night rolls out like a velvet carpet,

unfolding for a queen. The stars fight bravely

with the light of street lamps and moving

cars, creating a tapestries of silver and

yellow and orange and red, a crowned,

braided snake with diamonds over her head.

And the moon.

We are all holding our breath for

the disks hiding behind the blue rainbow-like

clouds, reflected in a mirror, darkly.

And they spread away and the halo

stills the night, the moon shining

with the coquettish might of one

who knows herself to be beautiful.

Soon the orange urban fox will roam

the streets with a couples of kits,

and a mother will nurse looking

at the milky moon, and the snake

will fall sleep and only the pools

of lights from the lamps will give

life to the streets. They and a pair

of late workers who missed the train.

The owl will hoot and for some weird

reason a seagull will  cry at midnight.

And as the eyes of the buildings

and houses shut down, the stars

grow in radiance, stretching their arms,

twinkling with their ghostly light, an echo

of the suns they are or used to be. And the

cool peace of the night  reigns, as the moon

flies high and disappears in the darkness.

 

Mad

broken-cup-2-16787794

K. Barratt

 

He came home and told me the truth.

The truth, after the lie. Lies. And he

Stood there, as Michelangelo after

Finishing La Pieta, expecting a round

Of applauses, I guess. After all, he

Had been brave. He had owned his mistake

And told the truth. After the lies.

After the carefully crafted lies, a polished

Rosary that extended back years. One,

After the other, in perfect symmetry,

Smooth, beautifully round, the lies.

He told them all, as a school boy talking

About the summer holiday. In minute

Detail, he said them. Each and everyone

Of them, because he wanted a fresh start.

With me, of all people.

And he looked at me surprised at my

silence. The therapist came into

The conversation. Apparently

This confession would set him free to really

Love me and commit to us,

So we would become a “we”.

And then he came and hugged me,

Promising that if I did my part, “we” would be alright.

As if I had lied. Betrayed. Shredded his heart

Into so many chards that some of them were

Still missing, probably forever. He hugged me

Harder and shed a tear, speaking of futures

And plans and I wished I could have joined

Him, but the well of my tears is now a dried,

Empty hole, with some mud at the bottom

And nothing more. And he then  let out one last

Pearl, the final lie, to really, fully

Purify his soul. And I lost it.

How dare he? After the hell

He built for me, the dungeon

Where I lied to myself to not lose faith

In him, in us, in “we”, doubting

My eyes, my thoughts, biting my lips

To not ask, to not spell out what

Was tormenting my mind, bringing

Myself down, because, surely,

He would not do this to me,

His love was real, as real as was his

Absence, his void, even when he

Was present; real as his indifference

To the flowers of my spirit, those

I shared with him in an intimate

Communion, where the only one opening

The doors of her soul was me.

And he was going to erase away all that

Pain, all that rage, all that desperation

With a revelation and a tear?

The hell he was.

I shoved, I pushed, I screamed.

I threw and broke and smashed.

I laughed and weep and hissed.

He called me mad.

And I proved him right.

 

A Sparrow Watching from Above

K. Barratttsparrow_z

 

This is how the world ends:

With a sparrow watching from above

The first and last magnolia bloom,

Trembling lightly, by the vibration

Of a laughing child below,

Playing ball with his dog.

And then the sky fire.

And then the daunting roar.

And then the molten light.

And then emptiness, the no more,

That leaves nothing but an echo:

The silhouette of the magnolia

The child, the sparrow and the dog,

Etched in shadows against

A fragmented, charred wall.

 

 

Of Hens and Cockerels

rooster

K. Barratt

There was cognac and cigars;

Black ties and snowy handkerchiefs peaking

Shyly over the puffed chests of

The mighty cockerels singing their

Dominion over the hen henhouse,

The sun, the sky, the seasons,

The world, the stars.

And after the pleasantries and the

Polite laughter, there came the pecks.

But it was okay.

We, the hens, had to put aside all

The pc sillines, because money

Was being auctioned to save children

And donkeys and probably some grannies

From terrible, sad loneliness.

This was our sacrifice.

Except that we didn’t sign for it.

Nor did we sign for the looks, the hands,

The touches, the slimy words that

Felt like vomit. It was scary at times

And mostly down right ugly, but it’s okay

If it’s for charity, apparently.

And the cockerels sang harder

And flapped their wings,

As, we, the hens, became snakes,

Slithering away, to the right,

To the left, wondering if the day

Would ever come when we feel safe

In our world that is supposed to be

Shared, but some have a bigger share than

The rest. And the night ended.

We, the hens, ran home to wash it away.

And we bathe and bathe.

Until the water got cold.

And we washed some more.

 

 

A Sepia Song

sepia_i-G-88-8884-U87P300Z       K. Barratt

 

 Like a lamp creating pools of light

Like empty arms wanting to be nests,

Like the young contender desiring to be the best

I hang on to hope and walk into the night

Of your absence.

 

The world is a desert with you not there,

And arid zone, a broken land,

A bard without lute, a knight without lance

Nor damsel to defend, not nightmare

To break into waking glow.

 

And I care not about freedom chants,

Songs of how great is not to have you by my side,

All I want is the weathered dream, sunsets, rides,

By the sea, you and I, hand and hand,

And wide eye, happy endings that last endlessly.

 

And I wither with the lack of you,

I shrink and become a wisp of the hurricane I once were,

When your winds collided with mine and we were refer

To as a force of nature to recon with, soon,

Before we swallowed the world whole with our love.

 

So I sit, and wait, like a maid of old,

My memories projecting over the stillness of today,

Painting sepia the images seen from the window pane,

As my wrinkled eyes dream of days of yore,

When you were with me and the world was young.