Sloth

Prompt: Write a 7-line poem about one of the 7 sins, 7 words each line, no word more than 7 letters--the Septastich form.

Enneagram Nine

Sloth is known to shadow my persona,
torpor toward what my own heart desires.
The storm that hides beneath my surface
presses tight against the bounds of rules
induced by culture, family, fortune, and biology:
"Be nice," "Say yes," "Retreat," "Don't push."
My path to recall Self: jump free.

 

Into the Wind: Enneagram Poems, Riverside Books, copyright 1995

Winding Sheets

Humping sleep
is my dream,
smothering passion
in a nightshirt.
There's no way
to join me -
I please myself.
Labyrinthine veil
of emotions,
persona smooth,
ungathered,
entombed.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Stalker

It's a thirst
like a baby's cry,

a wanting so strong
its force enthralls me.

I could eat the world
and still hunger,

vent my rage at all
beyond my grasp.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Regatta

My number's slapped on
like a rainbow, red
paint and orange.

The sea-air stings:

I could dive in

if I were sea-worthy
but too deep, too dark:
    someone down there
    has sea-legs   

didn't dream away sea-weeds,
didn't smooth the lines
    fill the sails
    skim the surface
    sing a sea-chant.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

DMZ

They hold my country
in a peace treaty.
Like sandbags, fear piles around
(I keep watch even in sleep).

They dole out supplies and I
    a hungry war orphan
    crawl closer
to take, then push away
(it could be poison).

And grass grows around
    so enticing
    keeps me quiet
impotent (in my fear
of being theirs).

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Bastion

The tower steep and tall,
my castle affords celestial views.

So ethereal my privacy
I could miss myself for days.
A retreat complex as a mollusk,
spiraling inward to passionate
places many walls deep.

Rolling woods surround me, where
unicorns and maidens never meet.
And far away, all around, the moat:
    if you would cross, a warning -
    I draw the bridge.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Boddhisatva

Compassion
is a keen blade,
but too sharp --
the keening in me
mourns the world.
And my soul
must pass through Hell
or a thousand lives:
Nirvana requires it.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Contest

I can be beautiful.
Chameleon on the runway:

    turning,
    turning,
    each side more appealing
    than the last.

Magician, quick-change artist,
    onstage I dazzle,
    win the title:

    Girl in Pink
    Little Boy Blue

You applaud,
I stare blankly at my crown.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Mommy

I am drawn to 
your blood source,
heartened by your need,
alive with your pain,
the transfusion
long and sweet.
But which of us is drained?
Why do I sink,
heart quickened,
back into the night?

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Avenging Angel

The voice in me

eternally minding,
wings of damnation 
castigate my soul.

I right the wrongs

always reminded
of the Dark Sister,
the growing side.

Are we One,
I, the wounded?