Be in my Bonnet

My chest swarmed

With fluffy hysteric bees -

Bouncing giddy from high octane fumes;

Their sharp little tails

Piercing the cocoon of my lungs,

Like two rose raw balloons.

Swelling up, stretching round,

Over my heart - I pressed my glove;

Aghast! I could taste a fizzy nectar

Of which I could only define, as love.

Hush!

Get off your soap box -

You’re starting to sound ridiculous!

It’s time to wash your mouth out

Don’t make a name for yourself,

Miss Nicholas!

Ode to Plath, and co.

I keep delving into the decades

Where the female bards take the stake

At the risk of their own chokehold;

Their estranged and loping minds,

Thrusting them to break time’s mould.

Occurs so often that

I’m transfixed by the transcripts

Of these eccentric old bats, hens and witches,

Trapped within the trenches

Of the masculine mind of society.

‘She lost herself to lunacy’ -

Oh, how contrary! Such condescending sepsis.

Did it not occur to you, with your prisoned view,

That these women of wild wisdom

Were simply too comprehensive For the monkey-minded to construe?

And, Sylvia did not lose her mind -

She used it more than the flocked monotony;

The societal lobotomy of dumbing down the masses

To which she could never succumb.

Those who underrated her -

Were those most-strikingly dumb.

A wed-woman, frau, of threatening intellect;

Man, herr - as per, shunned her in defect.

She was the threat ~ to the boys.

The Daddy’s, the humpty-dumpty, fuddy-duddy,

Hard boiled eggs that dipped in like delinquent soldiers,

For a sec

To only scrape the surface shell.

Oh, that bombshell?

With her scrambled balloon, gas-marked in an oven,

Fanatic, and dead?

What more is she than the half-baked dozen,

The other women - who made their own bed?

Waging and winning life’s unjust wars,

All within walls of a

Most beautiful, Head.