The Golden Haired Harpist

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:

Your notes, my offering.


This piece was shared on Poets United in Poetry Pantry #108