Chinese Box

The restaurant was a Chinese box.
My order was wrong,
then right,
then wrong again.

The waiters were men,
then women,
then men.

You were angry with me,
then not;
then you weren't you, or at least,
didn't seem to be.

An alchemist came and turned the soup to stone,
the stone to a poem,
together to alone,
despite all assurances printed on the menu card.

Lunch for 2.
Dinner for 4.
In your hand an apple,
then nothing; then a core.

I said, "My love...my love...my love...my love...."
as I dug with my fingers all the way through the world,
to find a hard queen, a woman dissolved
in your eye looking back saying, "Now what, girl?"
_______

For "Play It Again, Toads" at The Imaginary Garden. I was inspired by the image at top, which is by my dear friend Daryl Edelstein, and also by the image below, which was taken by Karin Gustafson.

 Optional--and quite insane--musical accompaniment.
 

The Queen Of Picher

The Queen of Picher
loved the wife of a Baptist preacher
and every night she dreamed she kissed her
in a rowboat on the poisoned red waters of hell.

But it wasn't enough to dream it,
so she went down in the old mines to scream it
til her throat was raw as fresh-rolled sin
and she felt as bright as a Baptist bell.

On Saturday nights she ponder and think
of forty-five ways to wring a preacher's neck,
Then Sunday come and she sigh and sink
into an ass-killin' pew, and the sermon last a week.

Rock of ages,
cleft for me--
let me hide
this sweet burnin' desire for thee.

The Queen of Picher couldn't get her
self in hand, and so she kissed her only love
in broad daylight in the middle of town--

But knees and mines can both go weak,
and by the second kiss, the whole damn street
went down, baby, they fell through thin air straight down.

The Queen of Picher and the Baptist minister's
wife now lie entwined at the bottom of the shaft--
in the shadow of the chat heaps...
and that was that.

________

top photo by my friend Daryl Edelstein, featured today at Real Toads!

bottom photo is of an abandoned church in Picher. To learn about the modern day ghost town of Picher, Oklahoma, click HERE.

optional musical accompaniment available HERE. (opens in new window) 

Chloe Goes Wrong (Again!)

It is Sunday at Danny's Coffee Shop.
Chloe, the multiple felon with the killer shoes, is trying to drag a large inert something in from the sidewalk,
And not having a whole lot of success.

There is a woman standing outside the door of Danny's Coffee Shop,
Wearing a head scarf, a black dress, and a crucifix.
(The crucifix is not the ironic kind favored by the young and stoned.)

"Hola, chica," says Chloe, looking up at the woman,
"Help me get this inside!"
She blows her blonde hair out of her eyes and waits, tapping a foot.

The woman looks down at the something, and turns away, slowly, regally,
Without saying a word,
But her posture says very clearly, "No way, Toots."

Chloe's mouth drops open.
"Well fuck ya and feed ya fish heads then, I'll do it myself!"
She resumes her Sisyphean labors.

Oops.

Before she knows it, God the waitress has come outside and is dragging Chloe by the ear into the shop.

"Ow ow ow ow ow ow owwwwwwwwwwww!" yelps the serial murderess.
"Do you know who that is? Out there?"
Chloe looks both hard done by and cowed. "No...?"
"That is the blessed Saint Creola. Be nice. She's one of mine."
"Yes ma'am."
At 24, it is the first time Chloe, the fugitive from justice, has ever said this,
Even when she has been before judges.
But dude, it's God.

Her ear bright red, Chloe starts back toward the door, but on her way,
She smacks the Succubus's newspaper and gives Savanna the teenage runaway's chair a good kick.
"Off your butts, lazy sluts, come and help me."
They do. 
Savanna brings the knife that's inside her boot, just in case.

Together, they wrangle the something into a chair, where it sits slumped and still.
The Succubus lowers her dark glasses and gives Chloe a look that asks,
"Wtf?'
Chloe chirps, "It's Charles Bukowski!" the way a six year old might boast about finding a nickel.

"He sucks," say the Succubus, Savanna, God and Saint Creola in unison.
"And he's dead," adds Denise the waitress.
"And he stinks." So say them all, but he always did.

They prop him up in his chair and leave him.
He does not order anything, or speak, or (thank Goddess) write any poetry;
And yet, after a while, a drove of male customers of a certain age come and sit with him,
Starry eyed.

"They're like teenybop girls with Justin Bieber," remarks the Succubus,
Looking as if she had just swallowed a lemon.
One of the men at Bukowski's table asks for an autograph. He thinks "Buk" is Mickey Mantle. 
"Sign it Number 7!" he says hopefully, and guides his hero's hand to a pen, but sadly,
The hand falls off and tumbles onto the floor.

"Janitorial!" calls Savanna. She can be a smart ass.

Just then, the little bell over the door jangles,
And in walk the Queen Of The Vampires and the Dark-Haired Chick.
They are hanging all over each other. It's lovely.

"What's this?" asks the QOTV, staring at the something which is apparently holding a salon in the corner of Danny's.
"It's Charles Bukowski," says Chloe, already sounding bored with her toy.
"Eww," say all the regulars.

The Dark Haired Chick grabs their usual booth, and the QOTV slides in beside her.
She starts to tear at the booth out of habit, then realizes she is not in panther form this morning. 
Then she looks sheepish.

"Write me a poem, baby," she asks the Dark-Haired Chick.
Out comes a pen.
Out come some napkins from the holder.
She writes she writes she writes she writes, then stops;
The napkins burst into flame and black smoke rises from them.

"God, you're good," says the QOTV.
The Dark-Haired Chick smiles like a Cheshire cat.
There is a thud from across the room.
Charles Bukowski has fallen over!
"You did him in, babe," says the QOTV.

Never mess with a Scorpio. Especially not *the* Scorpio.

The girls drag the fallen something out back to the dumpster, 
And get rid of him along with yesterday's bagels.
"See ya, Chuckie!" says Chloe, and struts back across the parking lot.

She adjusts well to life's vagaries.

_____

bottom photo of Danny's Coffee Shop by Daryl Edelstein!
 

A Few Lines From A Couple Of Canines

Sheila: What a party! I can't wait to get out of these heels.

Buck: We'll be home soon, lambchop.

Sheila: Take the thruway...it's faster.

Buck: I think I can manage. We live three miles away. It's not exactly "Incredible Journey", you know.

Sheila: Sorry, dear. Drive on. Did you enjoy dinner?

Buck: Mine tasted like week old kibble.

Sheila: Really? You should have had some of mine. It was delicious and the portions were enormous.

Buck: Same as our hostess.

Sheila: Bucky! You devil. She likes you, you know. The way she came rushing at you before we were barely to the door...anyone would think you were the mailman!

Buck: Bite your tongue, darling!

Sheila: Buddy certainly didn't. I thought he was going to bore the entire table to death, going on about his show ribbons.

Buck: Not impressed, my pet?

Sheila:  He's overbearing. Thank god you studs all went off to your little preserve in the den to have your chew sticks.

Buck: We have to, darling. If we had to stay and hear bitches going on about puppies and flea bath shampoos, we'd all start howling.

Sheila: Bucky, what a thing to say. If any of the wives have got fleas, then I'm sure they got them from their husbands. After all, who knows where they've been?

Buck: I don't know about that, lambchop. We're all kept on dreadfully short leashes.

Sheila: And you love it!

Buck: I'm going to pull in at this gas station. I need to use the men's room.

Sheila: You always drink too much at parties.

Buck: They had flavored water! And a fully stocked bowl!

Sheila: All right dear. I'll just run in to the ladies' and check my collar.

Buck: What for? We're only going home.

Sheila: I've got plans for you!

Buck: You sweet Jezebel.

Sheila: You animal!

Buck: I think I'm just a lucky dog.

Sheila: Oh, Bucky...
_________

for the Photo Challenge at Real Toads. Photograph by Daryl Edelstein.                  

       

The Smartest Gals In The Room

Sometimes a bird gets inside the house.
Sometimes they shoot a man into space,
And oh, the look,
The look on their face.
Some haven't got the sense to stay home,
And some can't tell
Up from down,
Their ass from a big damn hole in the ground.
Some don't know
Their butt from next week,
Much less their place, and oh the look,
The look on their face.

Sugar pea, check out the trees--
It's spring, and everything is in bloom;
Everyone we see
Wishes they were you and me
Like Angel 1 and Angel 2
The smartest gals in the room.

Sometimes a dog goes off its chain,
Running hell for Tuesday down the lane,
And oh, the look,
The look on its face.
Ladybug, ladybug, why rush to go home?
Your husband's asleep,
Your children are grown,
And the condo people will keep the lawn mowed.
There's a mint on the pillow,
A magnum in place,
When you blush, I just love the look,
The look on your face.

Sugar pea, check out the trees--
It's spring, and everything is in bloom.
Reality
Is just you and me,
Angel 1 and Angel 2
The smartest gals in the room.
_____

photograph taken by my friend Daryl Edelstein!

this poem linked to Real Toads Photo Challenge.

Le Printemps

I traveled across an icy place.

My shoes fit badly.

I reminded no one of Swan Lake.



I arrived, in a snow storm, in front of a coin laundry, under an overhang.

The pavement was wet.

An old black man was mumbling on a bench.

Cars crawled by like thoughts through a hangover.



There was a woman there,

With a baby on her hip,

And a cigarette in her hand.

There was no bible god in sight, and so I

Put my hand to the back of her month-old highlights and kissed her

Like a butterfly landing on a pastry.



When I leaned back to gaze into her eyes,

She squinted and said,

"Who the fuck are you?"

Standing there in my old parka and knit hat, I said,

"I am the Spirit of Spring, baby."

She was wearing boots, jeans, a brown ribbed turtleneck and a red flannel shirt.

She took a drag, blew it out, and then stood there in the smoke cloud

As if it were dry ice.

She seemed to decide something, tossed away her smoke and tilted her head.

I followed her.

The baby looked back at me as if I were some amazing talking toy.



She lived above the coin laundry.

There was crap all over the place;

A little portable stereo on the floor,

Books on the couch,

Off the kitchen a stuffed-full pantry with no door.

I said, "I came to the coin laundry to get clean."

She said, "I came to the coin laundry to get kissed."



In the morning, she kicked me out,

But with a smile.

The baby was fussing behind me as I went down the stairs.

All my clothes smelled like an ashtray.

I had trouble getting through the downstairs door to the street

Because of my glorious, white, soft-feathered wings,

And everywhere I looked,

The apple trees had blossomed overnight.

_______

amazing photograph by Daryl Edelstein

linked to magpie 48 and One Shot Wednesday 28

Two Poems To Go With Daryl's Photographs

Hello readers. My dear and talented friend Daryl, of the Through My Eyes blog, has teamed up with me in hopes of entertaining you with our combined efforts. The following two poems are mine, written specifically to go with Daryl's original photographs.

AUNT DEE



She liked to sit out on the porch swing, did Aunt Dee.

Of a summer evening, she liked to watch the people go by.

She would say to me,

--about strangers walking down Albe Street--

"That one's got a heavy care,

This one's dreams are passing odd--

That one's a diddler with a wormy brain,

And this one shines and is touched by God."



Once she saw black horses high-stepping down the cobblestones

With somber plumes above their handsome heads.

I looked and saw nothin'

Except Mrs. Winton unloading her groceries and yelling at her boy to come help.

Aunt Dee turned kinda gray, like bad weather rolling in,

And three days later, Uncle George fell down the basement stairs on his way to fetch a screwdriver,

And snapped his neck.



I like to sit out on the porch swing and remember Aunt Dee.

Of a summer evening, sometimes I see black horses high-stepping down the blacktop

With somber plumes above their handsome heads.

I never tell my husband what I've seen,

But I do go inside and make sure everything's in good repair

And that he stays

Upstairs.

________

The Church Of The Gingerbread God



Clouds pale and faint like the ashes of saints

Kiss the tower of the church of the gingerbread god



While birds brush the bell on their way through to hell

In the tower of the church of the gingerbread god.



Prayers rise and fill

The body of the bell

Til the striker can't move and it dies;

But it still seems to ring

Each year in the spring

Releasing the prayers like sighs.



Birds with no wings and clouds with no mouths

Nest in the tower of the church of the gingerbread god,

While the pony-up basket is kept in a casket

Buried below in the yard.

_______

Two Moods, Men/Women, Four Travelers, Double Post

Every Sunday, the amazing Daryl has a feature called Tell Me A Story, in which she posts one of her photographs and asks her readers to tell her a story about it. Here is this week's picture, and my scene spun from it:

Rider #1: So how about those neo-cubists.


Rider #2: Oh man! The merging of reality with unreality and the presentation of familiar forms in bizarre and distorted shapes just makes me think, you know, Ed?

Rider #1: I'm with ya on that, buddy.

Rider #2: So how's your son? You said he was going through some sort of Chagall phase...

Rider 1: Aw, he's doin' great. We went down to MOMA last weekend. A buddy of mine had tickets, so we went.

Rider #2: How was it?

Rider #1: My man, the surrealists totally kicked ass, but the critic blew the call.

Rider #2: You're shittin' me.

Rider #1: If I'm lyin' I'm dyin', amigo.

Rider #2: Wow. So Ed man, did you catch the game last night?

Rider #1: Game?

Rider #2: Yeah, the baseball game.

(silence)

Rider #1: Sometimes you worry me. Why would I watch a baseball game?

Rider #2: Aw I dunno, Ed. Forget it. It's just...the wife likes it, so we...never mind.

Rider #1: (shakes head)

Rider #2: (clears throat, pedals harder) So Ed man, how about those post-modernists?

Rider #1: My man!!! (both riders reach across and high five.) I'm all over that shit!

Rider #2: Dude!

Rider #1: Dude!
_________________
 
And, as promised, a new poem:
 

 GYPSY HEARTS
 
All girls are gypsies in their hearts;
 
They have wood smoke in their hair,
 
Soft boots on their feet,
 
And can spot a black cat or an easy mark from a mile away.
 
 
 
Gypsy girls all wear bright red and burnished gold;
 
From the womb, they can dance
 
In lazy turns like an old country road,
 
And they can fix a wagon wheel if the men are too drunk to do it.
 
 
 
When I look at a fence,
 
I can only see the broken spot that might be slipped through;
 
And when I lay out the cards, or stare into the scrying crystal,
 
All I see is you...you...you.
 
 
 
All girls are gypsies, carrying chocolates and well-sharpened silver blades;
 
We toss our hair and smile, then disappear down a dusty road under hanging trees.
 
And what will you do then? And what will I?
 
When with our different bands we have gone, and there is nothing but the turning wheels, the wicks of the lamps, and the memory of each other's
 
eager
 
olive
 
Skin?
________
 
Painting: "Gypsy Girl Kate" by Fran J. Scott.
________

The Secret

Every Sunday, the amazing fashionista  Daryl has a feature called "Tell me A Story", in which she posts one of her photographs and asks her readers to spin a yarn about it. My story-writing skills have been slumbering, but I have tried to wake them in order to participate this week. So, without further ado, here is Daryl's photograph, and my story to go with it!

I was sitting on a hard white bench under a crab apple tree when I saw them. They were just two girls, quite young, and at first I thought they might be sisters, but then I realized that their hair had been dyed the same color. Best friends, then. Copying each other and magazines and other friends and grown women, trying on styles and personalities, they were trying to find their way and themselves, just as I did, and my friends did, once.

I am 84 years old. The woman who was my best friend is inside the building behind me and to my right, surrounded with flowers and her loved ones. I shall miss her. When Alice and I were young women, the world had changed so much. Any young man who was healthy enough to go was off fighting the Germans, or the Japanese, in places whose names we had never heard of until they started appearing in the newspapers, day after day. Many of those young men never came home, of course. Alice and I married two of the ones who did, but that was later. 

The two girls across the road are eating ice cream and talking. They are standing close, in their own little world. I remember how it was to have a special friend like that, one who knew you so well, she could finish your sentences, or tease you about something you were sensitive about, until you started laughing in spite of yourself. Alice was that friend, for me. 

Because of the war, we had opportunities our mothers never had. We didn't have to get jobs waitressing or doing sales in a department store. We got jobs in a factory, doing jobs where we didn't have to be charming to anyone we didn't want to be charming to. We punched a clock and collected a paycheck the way our fathers had, and it gave us a freedom, and a feeling about ourselves, that we had never had before. We tied on our babushkas, like peasant women, and worked each day assembling explosives, or bullets, or whatever we were told to work on. Some of the girls' fingers turned yellow from the chemicals. We didn't care. We had, for the first time in our lives, money in our purses that was ours, and we could go to the movies, or buy that dress, or put it away, but whatever we did with the money, what mattered was that it was ours and we had earned it ourselves. We didn't have to wait on a man to have the life we wanted.

Watching the girls across the street, I feel a sudden urge and ache to be one of them, to be young, and to be just starting out and discovering things. I wonder if they are discussing boys, or the ice cream, or other girls they know. I wonder if one has a secret, and if she will tell her friend today, or ever.

When I saw Alice, earlier, she looked beautiful, despite age, despite being....so uncharacteristically still. I wept. It is not just the loss of Alice, my dearest friend, but the loss of someone who knew me in a way that only happens when one has known someone else very well for a good long time. Oh, Alice. Who will love your honest smile they way that I did, where you have gone?

I remember sitting in the Aztec Theater, watching "Leave Her To Heaven" with Alice. The woman in it was a banshee, but I liked her anyway. I didn't know that, within a few years, both of us would be married and raising families. The men took their jobs back when they came home, making Fords and De Sotos instead of bombs. We fed babies, and also our men when they came in at the end of the day. Life settled down to being more as it had been before. After so much horror overseas, people wanted normalcy almost above anything else. Alice and I never went to the factory again.

I can't help feeling, as I watch the two young girls, that the one with the shorter hair does have a secret she's keeping. Maybe she is wondering if she can trust her friend enough to tell her what is in her heart. At that age, everything is so confusing, friendships are made and dissolved in the blinking of an eye, and it takes a very special friend indeed to share some secrets. How to be sure that this connection can endure? And, by telling, would she be ruining that chance forever? Either way, the telling or the not telling will nudge her life this way or that. Oh, but listen to me. They are probably just sharing an ice cream and nothing more.

I stood for a moment saying goodbye to Alice just now, you know. Inside the funeral home, with tears spilling down my cheeks, I told her what had always been on my heart, but I said it all silently, as I always did. Then I bent and kissed her. It was the first time I ever had.

__________

Darylized Story #3

Every Sunday, the amazing fashionista Daryl has a feature called Tell Me A Story, in which she posts a photograph she has taken, and asks her readers to tell her a story about it. Here is Daryl's photograph, and my story spun from it.

"Hello? Let me talk to my Fairy Godmother, please. It's me, Pandora. She's FGM # 512. (sigh) Yes, I'll hold."

(Jeopardy! theme....)

"Hello? Hi, it's me. Well, I'm fiiine. BUT. We need to talk."

(pause)

"Well tell her to wait! I've been on hold half the day. Now listen. This guy you sent me...."

(holds phone away from ear for a moment)

"God Mom, that was frogs. We talked about frogs, and how I might have to kiss a lot of them in order to find my Prince. This guy is a toad. Well of course I'm sure. I'm looking right at him, as we speak. What?"

(listens for a minute)

"No. God Mom, I'm telling you. Toad City. He clearly buys ALL of his clothes at Sports Authority. I am so not going out with this guy, only to be taken to some place that advertises 13 Big Screen Tvs! All Games! No. No. God Mom. Nooooooooooo."

(listens and makes a face)

"He's wearing Axe. I can smell it from here. And he slouches. What? I do NOT sound like my mother! You've got to do better. It's meeeeee, God Mom, your little favorite, Pandora. C'mon, find me a dream, or I sign with the Sandman. Oh yes, I would. Okay. Love you, too. Buh bye."
____________

4 Girls

Every Sunday, the amazing Daryl has a feature called Tell Me A Story, in which she posts a photograph she has taken, and asks her readers to tell her a story about it. Here is Daryl's photograph, and my story spun from it.

Meet, from left to right, Ann, Bonnie, Carla and Danielle.

In the beginning,

Ann and Carla were friends, as were Bonnie and Danielle.

Bonnie thinks Ann and Carla are the definition of cool, and wants to be like them.

Danielle has no idea.

Carla tries to get Ann to sleep with her, but she won't, saying she's straight.

Meanwhile, Ann and Bonnie have become lovers, and are doing it like rabbits.

Danielle has no idea.

Neither does Carla.

After a month, Ann stops sleeping with Bonnie. She doesn't tell her why.

Ann has started hanging with Danielle.

Bonnie has no idea, but Carla knows.

Bonnie complains to Carla about Ann.

Ann has no idea, until Carla tells Bonnie about Danielle, and then confronts Ann about Bonnie.

Bonnie stops talking to both Ann and Danielle.

Ann stops talking to Carla.

Danielle goes back to her old school.

Ann goes back to boys.

Bonnie and Carla stay friends.

Stay tuned.
_________

Darylized Story Time

The amazing Daryl has started a feature called Tell Me A Story, in which she posts a photograph and asks her readers to make up a story about it. Here is mine. The photograph is, of course, Daryl's. :-)

The Little Orange Phone was happy. This had not always been the case.

Shortly after being born, in a dismal factory someplace far away, the Little Orange Phone was sold (sold!) to someone called FlyDJ4u, who smelled bad and listened to worse music.

What? Did you think that a phone cannot smell nor listen? They certainly can. The Little Orange Phone's favorite scent is lilac. Its favorite music is Diana Krall.

After only a day, FlyDJ4u returned the phone to the store, because he said it wasn't working properly. It wasn't. It didn't like him.

After being repackaged and set on the shelf again, The Little Orange Phone was bought by LilacGrrl. Everything about Lilacgrrl is wonderful, according to the Little Orange Phone. She smells good, listens to Diana Krall and wears the most agreeable and pleasing jewelry.

One day, Rockgod54 texted Lilacgrrl. He said not-nice things. He said u better call me. He said, who do u think u r, the queen of the world?

The Little Orange Phone knew Lilacgrrl would be upset. So, it made a decision. All by itself, it texted Rockgod54 back. Calling itself CraZ4LG, it said, leave Lilacgrrl alone. If you have a problem, come see me at Jim's Karate School, and gave an address, then added: and she IS the Queen of the World.

Then the Little Orange Phone lay back inside Lilacgrrl's bag, and smiled to itself. You didn't think a phone can smile? It can, when it is very very happy.

The Disappointed Teddy Bear

The disappointed teddy bear says,

"I was supposed to be cuddly, to sleep on a child's bed, guarding her dreams."

The unfulfilled flower pot says,

"I was supposed to bear beautiful flowers to line the garden, but instead I am upside down and stacked."

The teddy bear's heart is as heavy as the rest of him.

The flower pot's heart is full, but only with emptiness.

This is why it rains in the garden--

It is the only way they can cry.

________

Photograph by Daryl Edelstein. Once again, Daryl's photography has moved me to write a poem to go with the picture she created. Click on the title of the poem to visit her original post!

A Feline Fairy Tale

A cat may look at a king,

At anyone or

Anything.

Late last night and the night before,

I was here, though you did not

See me.

Little robbers at my door.

Such thievery

Pleases me.

Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been?

Waiting under the branches from night

Until day.

I've been to London to look at the Queen.

After checking to be sure that the king

Was away.

Make a cat your confessor, tell her your sin,

You'll come barefoot through the dawn

Calling my name

A cat won't blink when you do it again.

Crying, "gato amante!

You heard and you came!"

__________

Photograph by Daryl Edelstein. Click on the title for the link!

Occupation:

There is no picture this time because there is no better picture for this poem than the one that partially inspired the poem. It can be found at the very stylish Daryl's blog.

If someone had asked me last week
"Who are you? What do you do?"
I'd have answered both by saying,
"I am a poet,"
And given a playful rustle of my succubus-tinged angel wings.

The world seemed a soft place
Like a loaf of bread
Or a still-warm bed.

But this week,
I am setting all the poems on fire.
I can drop them from my window
One by one like dying stars.

Below, there is a wrought iron gate,
Similarly solid stairs,
A cinder block wall,
And some sort of gravel courtyard.

Poetry,
Even if it is burning,
Will not phase them.

If anyone asks me this week
"Who are you? What do you do?"
I will say,
"I am nobody.
I deliver the mail."
__________

Stone Angels

Blame Daryl for this one. ;-)

Stone angels

Fall out of Heaven,

Landing in church courtyards

And people's gardens.

Some come down in cemeteries,

But are quickly stolen.

Stone angels

May appear serene,

But their thoughts are jangled:

"My nose itches, but I can't scratch it!"

"Here comes that dog again!"

"I'm one step removed from garden gnome. Oy."

When they flutter their wings,

Gardeners and priests end up in casts

And flight is out of the question.

They cannot ride bicycles.

They are poor joggers.

They have trouble getting warm on cloudy days.

The stone angels

Don't get picked for badminton

But they have beautiful souls

And, like small children and honest lovers,

They can describe the Divine

In an easy and familiar way.

_________