Belief needed in the moment–
See diamonds, rubies, sapphires,
Gold, treasures to cherish.
Let the mirror reflect
The lies to eyes
And souls
In needing desire.
Do not hold them in harsh sun.
Too thin,
Too frail,
Too fragile
To withstand such blazing light.
Gently bury them deep
Beneath the soil
Of a needing heart
And the damp decay
Of foolish wants.
Let the lies take root
Growing into the very soul.
Believing
The lies
We tell ourselves,
We smile
To keep
The truth at bay,
As the lies grow
The rot of hopelessness
Into our very souls.
                       image from Dreamtime.com
I Words scattered across the page. Words littering the soul.
All these words Piled upon the table, A hoarder’s table of words.
Words left unsaid, Unwritten, A bouquet of words Wilting in the heart and mind.
Words twisted in contortionist meaning Of manipulations, Weaponized for destruction, Yet leaving victims living. II Words of things that can’t be said. Words of things that should have been. Words of things we could not speak out of fears too deep. Words of things we could not begin to understand Of ourselves, of each other. Words of things we wanted so to believe Of others, of the world. Words of hope Of love Of charity Of peace. Words of what we have lost. Words of what we may never again find. III Words, words, words Slipping through the fingers Like water in a desert, Dripping away, evaporating Before they can be used.
Words, words, words Twisting round the wrists, Writhing up the arms, Biting the face and neck, Killing before they can be used.
Words, words, words Left unread by faded ink, Left unwritten by a tired mind, Left unsaid by a fear filled mouth.
No roots here, Not under this. Not under this, North Texas sky. Nothing grew, Nothing rooted, Although I tried.
I planted native plants, Fertilized and tended, Weeded and watered, Talked lovingly even, Became the crazy lady With the plants.
For a bit, just a bit, Each plant bloomed In wonderful cinematic, Glorious technicolor. I would think– I’ve got it right! But no. Each would start To wilt and fade. I googled and researched, Soil tested even. Yes, it’s true– to know What to do. But I was doing everything right.
No expert could tell me true, Just why I could not Get anything to flourish, to grow, to root In this, this North Texas soil Under this, this North Texas sky.
My hope is Different now, Changed, evolved. Once a verdant green Of fresh, newborn spring. Now evolved into this chilly thing– Brown, dried husks, A few barely clinging To a tree in late autumn. Seems something, someone Sucked the hope out, Fed on it as if it were life’s blood, And I am left drained, a leftover hull Of what once was. But I go on As if all is the same and nothing Is gone. A tree in winter, Hoping enough green Is left to grow, to live in spring.
I had not realized That still I wore the black, The widow’s weeds of anger, These five years hence Your death. Until today, When at your grave, I stood and, in finality, Cast them away.
Now, emerging from the black chrysalis Of my anger, Perching upon the vine, I can spread the wings, Waving them, allowing them to dry.
And you, my wife, are not here. Not under this six feet of earth. You have long flown away, Beyond the things we were and were not, Beyond the languages we spoke and wrote To one another yet could not understand, Beyond the desire of ego and want and need, Beyond the hurts and the pains of life and selfishness To where only truth, love, and real atonement Color a spirit and soul in a prism of flames.
And in my freedom from anger and pain, I wear your vine with my own rose, and I am the Monarch with wings ready to fly.
Images of the year Drift in my mind Like so many Snowflakes melting In a cold rain. My blood turns icy With so much frozen regret.
My dog stops. We’ve reached a crosswalk. Unlike me, she’s learned Her lessons well. But she reminds me The years of regret are done, So we walk on since no traffic comes.
The sun peeks out, Deciding it’s safe, She comes out all the way To warm and cheer us. My dog looks up at me And seems to smile.
This year will be done. Yes, soon, this year will be done.
We reject the second mother you would give us, reject subjugation of ripped rib bone, accept not the pain from seeking knowledge.
We have borne brutality for the ages, Silent always, In churches, In governments, In streets, And in our homes. Our mouths learned silence, keeping us, at least, alive.
Oh, we were worthy of protection As long as we were your possessions: Your mothers, your daughters, Your sisters, your wives. As long as you owned us And we did as we were told, We lived, perhaps, unbruised.
But the brave have shown us Through the ages and now again They show us another way. We find our voice, Too strident for your ears, But even our whispers Are too strident for you.
You will mock us, Vilify us, this we know. Proudly we wear the mantle Of the first mother, Lilith, the one you deemed An enemy long ago and banished. Her spirit moves us to speak Against the men who take Even our bodies from us. You may beat us, kill us, Force us into marriage and childbearing, Rape us, place weapons into the hands Of the children we bear, Weld the chains of slavery upon us, And laughingly say we asked for it Should we complain.
Yet after all that and more, Our submission you will not have. We will rise like an ocean wave Wakened by a great quake Beneath the sea and drown you With the devastation of your hate.
Soon some of Lilith’s daughters Will march. Some will wait across The Earth.
But Lilith’s mantle Covers us all. The quake is coming. The wave will free us all.
You, your perfume, Or something in the scent of you Clogged my nose, My sinuses, My bronchial tubes With fluid like cement, Leaving me no air To live on.
Really, suffocation Never felt so sweet.
You were warmth personified Like fire you fed on the oxygen Whenever you wanted, Wherever you were. But God, it felt like heaven To warm myself near your flames. Until it felt like hell And I burned in the flames, Sucking in nothing but smoke.
Broken nesting dolls Lie in splinters Emptied of each other. At their core, Among the splinters And dust of months And years, There rests At their center A small letter Of seasons and time And meanings Within a silver ring.
In the cleaning Of brokenness, A small splinter Works under skin To be lost And never found.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 