The
golden
haired harpist,
to have her
symphony,
exchanges her
instrument of tranquility
for one of urgency
–
Bleating
disturbance
in the healing halls
as trumpet
only can:
Harp harp
harp
for bleat
bleat bleat –
in her
manicured hands
there is little
difference between them.
Harpist,
harper or,
as trumpet
is her choice, trumpet she now blows,
Trumpetress may
have the priceless notes -
Her lengthy rote
sounding or resounding
near and far,
all around;
whirling cacophony
in a dwindling prairie,
once a place of
peace where, now,
grass, reeds
and dust dirtily mingle
in a composition
of destruction.
She plucks,
strums, or blows
her notes of
haughty righteousness,
absolving her
own acts,
molesting
passersby,
or mere
moles in holes
that come out
to blink just twice
for light
before
scampering back underground,
fearing
being trodden, stamped and mangled
beneath the deadly
stiletto heels
propping up
her femininity –
Away she
goes,
Jezebellian
priestess,
Jester of
Hippocrates,
Conjurer of
explosive discord;
leaving the
simmerings
of strife in a cymbal,
salted and
peppered to perfection.
Mia prima donna,
you play not
for me,
for I am no
child of Apollo;
but swerve not
from your symphony: