Dancing Bear - Three Poems

Her favorite weapon is her tongue
she keeps it sharp
and wields it with precision
She is well-practiced 
but a warrior
she will never be
There is no honor in her skill
no quick death-blows
no respect for her opponents
She is more a cat
with a desire towards deadly play
A stab there
then slice to an unguarded limb
Slow and painful torture
of her victims
Enjoying her skill too much
for any one strike to kill with

The empty page stares back
accusing
challenging
daring you to fill it
give its existance meaning
fill the bright white void
taunting you to a poet
one  more time
haunting you with the faces
of its siblings

At first
before I remember your tragedy
I hear you speak
and think of chain smoking
and four empty whiskey bottles rattling
around on an unkempt floor
at 4 AM
O Anne
I feel so terrible at the marks
the scars on your soul
Everything tastes of salt
There is no peace for poets
not in life
not in death
They dig you up and hammer your
meat in the marketplace

I am mesmerized by your voice
raw
powerful like a battering ram
And I wonder
did you finally journey to the twinkling
rat’s star