The first of a dozen poems written in one night the poet spent sitting in a moonlit tent, in a mood of ~ um, shall we say ~ enhanced irreverence…

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Recorded Reading (3:51): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/7t935qhbv7l3005nij1og/Great-Goddess-in-Her-Third-Trimester.m4a?rlkey=ygdapr6hh8nfc3gcx5c8lzdfp&dl=0

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Great Goddess in Her Third Trimester

I’m ten months — nigh on — pregnant
With your future viability
Mama Nature came and got
Me sisters, all, ‘n me
Back up on the hillside
Like they’re tellin’ us it used to be
Who sat, transfixed in fantasy,
At Grandma’s stockinged knee

Ay, back up on that hillside’s
Where they got us, pretty near asleep
For whatever schedulin’
Requirements they’ve got to keep,
And spread our arms and legs
And lips and eyes unto the dawning day
And then among the buttercups
They set us free to play

And that’s the way in which became
This simple maid you see
The supersecret bearer
Of your special destiny
And yours — and yours — and yours!
For only supersecrecy
Protects such an outrageous and
Unlikely zygote as this be

It squirms against its confines
In the womb; grows petulant
Not being indulged in each detail
The very instant of intent —
Indeed it may ~ of such a birth
Such a destiny is meant!…

So if betwixt now and the birth
I seem a little short
Be thankful I in silence did
This awkward mission not abort
May this be the one, only time
I ever am again to be
In such disheveled condition,
Seen — yes, and public’ly —
As I’ve been in the course
Of this benighted pregnancy

Which, If I am recalling now,
Along with every single other thing
Which war, disease, and entropy
And all unpleasantness can bring
(In, fact, the more I think of it,
Just about everything
That ever went other than right
In any age of which we sing)
Is something that none other than
Your own near presence seems to bring!

The birds stop singing, have you noticed,
In your neighborhood?
And don’t you dare walk out these doors
Looking even near that good
Or feeling that good — that’s the part
That really gets my goat the most
That your own sense of fun just won’t
Roll over and give up the ghost
‘Cause I happen to wish right now
Some kind stranger would seek me out
Considerately stand me up and then
Politely knock me out

So excuse me if I don’t
Draw this pleasant conversation on,
If I don’t pause beside you to
Comment the roses’ perfume on,
When all I really want to do
Is find that soul invented the
Entire concept Tantra of
And take that boy
Over my knee

Word to the wise, so, gentlemen,
Since I, unusually, seem
To have your ear, a woman though
Unchanged in nature ever been:

It might not be the best of times
To split at hairs with me
Best wait after Ascension on
When we will all more clearly see
What God the Father hath in store
For His humanity
And I bounce back a bit from
This. Infernal. Eternal. Supernal. Pregnancy.

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Homeless until removal of the stalker/targeter/vandal/arsonist following her allows her to approach any landlord ~ even for a private parking space ~ this poet presently lives under perpetual threat of towing with all possessions should her 23-year-old van stop running for any reason.

She is badly in need of a modest reserve with which to field any emergency which might occur.

Donors may visit http://www.UgiftABLE.com , using code #72D-31S. It does take several days for the poet to be notified of your patronage.

Thank you for reading, and may your holidays be happy ones.

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