Prime Mother

Diana, Princess of Wales, photo Trout, date unknown

Oh, prime mother, are you blind to the dross, godly entail,
Bequeathed to your progeny.
The subtle subtext lacing that foaming effervescent sea.
 
This bequest was yours alone to give.
It was seen in the faces & hearts.
In the flowers that lined & made your final bed.
 
Would you recognize him, the smile situated plainly;
Under guile and toothy gums when pageantry is gone,
& the lights dim.
Will he still be your sweet gentle ingenuous child.
 
Oh, prime mother does he dream of you still,
& does that image wax & press within it
The promise susurrated, the unaffected life.
 
The image, you censured.
Does he hear you anymore;
Does he acknowledge the implications;
 
Oh, prime mother, your smile still shines in his eyes.
Let your open arms adorn him.
Let the humble pathos be conceded.
 
No more to be suborned in convenient conventionality.
Upset the sett- tear the style from your bosom.
Oh, Primal mother, hear our plea.

The monarchial choir, where Bobbies nod refrains
A hideous discordant act of duty.
Throw the cockade to the sea.
Channel a ballooning polluted pledge to aristocracy.
 
Turn your airbrushed cheek, rosette powdered & keen
To the last; hinting, abiding for that silent kiss.
Would we be remiss to stand on, awaiting, for;
Her slight form to hail us from beyond.
 
Oh, Prime mother, your anthem has been, acceded
To the halls of the aged and the poor, whose little limbs
Frail as tinder, lovely embers lit the hillocks.
 
Crackling & spinning, dwindling & dying.
Furious lights descending the hearse’s motor now diminishing
The flame she lit as none before.
 
* For Princess Diana of Wales

From Hammer of God, Copyright © 2018 Aria Ligi, Poetic Justice Books and on Amazon









Hammer of God

The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, Paul Delaroche, 1834, oil on canvas, Ntl Gallery, London

Why don’t you let the hammer of god rain down on me;
The gibbet tied tightly in your bloodied fists~
Why don’t you take the mallet so, heavy;
Made from the old hickory that stood behind our privy,
And hack and hack till my brains smack.
No more to torment you.
No more to sully the purity of your low hanging vine,
Of your sweet Christ wine-
Of your hymnals sitting as brethren on the pews sublime.
 
To think is absolute freedom-
To question is to shine.
These things professed as unmitigated truth,
Now rot and twist are stamped divine~
 
The call of so many voices pursued me,
Out of the darkness you consumed me.
I ran till my breath nearly broke,
And your god became, what he was, unmasked.
His teeth shown bared emitting bracken flares,
Within the vacuum of his oracular tomb.
His hammer is his tongue, his teeth are the blade,
Serrated edge ripping me to shreds.
 
In the blaspheme, in the sour bilious breeze,
The hammer sounds, the tree is felled -I am free.

Copyright © 2018 Aria Ligi Poetic Justice Books, and on Amazon