Karen Bingham Pape

Puppets

Puppets without masters, their
wooden heads eternally grinning
at the little girls performing on
a stage. We think we are safe,
sometimes, we think, okay, we
breathe pure air after the debris
has settled. Then a boy straps
dynamite to himself, seeks
martyrdom and glory in shrapnel
that cuts talent off at the knees
and leaves it dead. Jesus Lord,
why the failed myth of 42 virgins
in trade for mass murder,
when one of our own has sung
her last sweet song at someone's
baptism, someone's quinceanara,
someone's bar mitzvah
someone's sweet sixteen?

The Urn

I have kept this urn of ashes for years
the evidence of love that yearned once
before the elegiac grief bought tears

and we could not keep ourselves from despair.
The knife edged instant of parting, longing--
I have kept this urn of ashes for years.

I, Penelope, have raveled, unraveled
thought until in the jaundiced midnight
Before the elegiac grief bought tears

I cursed the life you left me to repair
too many strands-that take a master's hand.
I have kept this urn of ashes for years

reminding me that then I could inspire
a heart to gather revels and sunshine--
before the elegiac grief bought tears

I wonder if this offering can restore
the divinity of passion to my soul.
I have kept the urn of ashes for years
before the elegiac grief bought tears.

The Crone Meets the Divine

The crone meets the divine on a corner
Singing alleluia and amen
She sprouts wings and flutters towards the sun

She becomes Emily Dickinson
an old woman in a young one's body
Singing alleluia and amen

an old woman in a young one's body
She who partook of the holy word
an old woman in a young one's body

She who partook of the holy word
this orphan, this daughter of Shakespeare
She who partook of the holy word

this crone who walks barefoot through fire
breaking the bread and drinking the wine
This orphan, this daughter of Shakespeare

The crone is born of the daughter, her mother--
Breaking the bread and drinking the wine
The crone meets the divine on a corner
She sprouts wings and flutters towards the sun.

Ah, Men

Female style once was Rubenesque
skin alive with tints of blush and pearl,
and unabashed paintings cast

lush divines frolicking al fresco.
In the Gilded Age the bustle ruled--
women who declined became outcast--

all for the form that nature meant.
From Worth to Calvin Klein, the world
reveres its cover girls. Its fashion
plates change to suit a sex's whim.
Ah, men.

Contact Karen Bingham Pape

Karen Bingham Pape teaches and writes in Midland, Texas. Her poems have appeared in small press publications such as Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review and have been read at conferences such as Southwestern ACA/PCA Pop Culture, College Conference of Teachers of English, ASU Annual Writers Conferences in Honor of Elmer Kelton, and Fort Concho Literary Festival.