I often write multiple versions of a poem to get to the one I post. This week I ended up with the two versions below – and could not choose between them. So…I am posting both.

THE GATE

Sometimes,

to get thru the gate,

you have to disguise yourself,

as something else,

as the horse you road in on.

Sometimes to be truly sovereign,

you have to kill your own horse

and wear its hide as camouflage

to get past the guards,

to outwit the enemy.

The truth is,

the horse does not die.

You do not die.

Nothing dies.

The form things take

is what changes.

And then there are

the three golden apples

that you plant—

that feed the kingdom,

until the next famine comes.

And the cycle begins again.

***

THE GATE

I am

the horse

I cut open,

that I flay.

I am the horse’s hide,

which I wear

to get thru

the gate,

past the enemy.

Nothing really dies

in this story,

this folktale.

So please,

don’t fault me

for telling it.

The horse

does not

die. I

do not die.

No one

truly dies.

Remember: it’s a myth.

Yet nothing

remains the same.

And, in the end,

all it takes

are the three golden apples

to feed the kingdom,

to bring the realm back

into balance—until

the cycle begins again.

THE INSTRUMENT

To create a void

You must draw

A circle,

Make a boundary,

That keeps

A center empty, safe

From anything alien.

How will you choose

To make your circle?

With what instrument?

No matter. Whatever the implement

Just remember: once you start tracing

You can never stop.

CROSSROADS

He is waiting,

before or after the flood,

—you decide—

at a crossroads,

just another 

devil or bluesman, 

for a ride, for someone

to deliver him from the Delta.

Who will stop for him?

Who will the driver be,

compassion or cruelty?

You decide.

MAKING WAY

She walks

thru the door.

Her kindness

holds it open

as I approach.

This invitation

creates

a cross draft,

an updraft,

that lifts, suddenly,

her short skirt.

She fidgets

in place, forces

the fabric down,

in a hurry,

with her free hand.

Such a clumsy

concierge, she is.

Only when

I’ve passed thru

does she

let the door

go, does she

run

squealing

down the hall—

her kindness

finally

making way

for another

side of self, 

shame, to enter.