Open Link Night at the poets' bar @ dversepoets Not an Ugly Face
She welcomes the shadowing rain, a wide brimmed hat, no less the sun on her face to remain. Since birth it's been her bane, causing undue duress. Though harmless and causing no pain, it laughs unhappiness. For his facial port wine stain, Gorbachev drew no disdain, nor lack of confidence. Were it a beauty mark of fame, or the color of cafe au lait, she would not be so plainly vain, uncomfortably undressed. inclined to hide her face.
How I would like to see a normal face
instead of this political Frankenstein.
A false patriot disseminating hate,
he's loyal to only himself, his goldmine.
His conduct not based on love of country,
he mocks allies, castigates dissidents,
disturbs the peace unnecessarily.
Patriotism is oft misunderstood,
exploited to suspend people's happiness.
His charges of fake news beg for real truth.
So while he is basking in his power,
we are waiting for his ship to come in.
We will rescue ourselves come November,
and he'll slip into darkness in the end.
The Poetics prompt at dversepoets this week is to write about our name. From the Greek "Aikaterinë", to the French "Catherine", to the Gaelic "Caitlin", one can see how it was Anglicized again to Kathleen by the IrishEngish. Yeats penned a legend - a young Countess Cathleen offered her soul during a famine, in exchange for food for the starving, proving her courage.
KATHLEEN
Borne of the Middle Ages - Kathleen is an Irish lass, idealistic, intuitive, unpretentious, and a bit feisty, stubborn, alas, quick-tempered... Melancholy brown hair bears tints of auburn in the sun.. ...common freckles sprout within fair rosey cheeks where tears frequently run. Sometimes clairvoyant, she converses with leprechauns. Her name translates to unsullied purity and innocence...and yet, she can be pushed only so far.
She walks stone paths - across green hills and valleys by day... through soft rainbows and disappearing pots of gold She waits for arms to hold her by the fire at night. Her world is an Irish stew - complicated...for she can be happy... and sad at the same time...if only she could recognize ... either she is successful or, quite miserable.
A pioneer of sorts, she learned early a smooth sea never makes a skillful sailer... Her heart is as slippery as a bar of soap, her armour made of sacrificial linen and lace. With an inner desire to inspire others in a higher cause, she likes to share views on spiritual matters. Opera music is carried out her frosted, snowflaked window...and from her garden magic light from daffodils shines back onto her welcoming hearth...where she dreams of white cliffs and castles by the sea.
