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.
My daughter, at twenty-one, stands to my right.
The gentleman to my left turns to light my candle.
I do not know him, in that moment he is a friend.
I turn to my daughter, and with the small flame of my candle,
Light the candle she holds.
I lift my eyes to look upon her face and I know.
I feel it within me. A tiny spark jumps back
As I think of my own mother and wonder.
Did she ever look at me and feel that light, that flame inside?
Feel that spark of her soul live inside me?
It matters not what I have left undone:
No trip to Paris, No months spent living in Europe,
No books published, Nothing I wish for is important.
Nothing I long for matters to be lived, matters to be accomplished.
I have accomplished all that truly matters
And I can be at peace with any death
because
My daughter lives.
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.
The things we hide
Even from cloudy light
Of day
Lie curled,
Coiled in the vault
Of soul.
The echo of their hiss
A vibration ignored
By our smiling faces.
Only In the dark hours
Of early morn
Or in moments
Of honest naked prayer,
Do we glance
At the skins
Left in the shedding
Of our sins
Unconfessed
Remember whispered intimations
In the time before sleep.
Having faced down the hours
Of another day of what must be done,
How long will it take before
Forgetfulness wipes the whispers away
Of well-intentioned comfort
Along with any memory
Of facades presented but to a few
Who knew the truth?
Until then, stumble onward
Facing the intimidation
Of a blank page,
Smash a soul against it.
Read the splatters left
And know time is the matter.
Time, neither too fast, nor too slow
Can it pass before realizing
Nothing really mattered,
But the kindness
In forgetfulness.
Never could breathe
When in your air.
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.
Now, from the ashes,
I rise and breathe.
Once again,
I know the air.
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.
My view, tho' somewhat askew...
Book reviews, writing advice, poetry, and more.
Raku pottery, vases, and gifts
Phillip's latest reveries
People family relationships children cooking jam making and being a gay dad
As Young Adults We Can Survive - Find Happiness, Success and Support Other Survivors
Just another WordPress.com weblog
giving myself a good talkin to
“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” — Albert Einstein
write, or be written off @treacleheartx
Life past present, thoughts about the future
Inspired to inspire
tips , tricks , free plr articles
Thoughts on my life... by Donald B. Wilson
WRITING is just the beginning, READER finishes the PROCESS!
#joke #lol #haha #funny #hilarious
Poetry, Essays & Creative Nonfiction
Poetry, Asian American Culture, Feminism, Spirituality, Politics, Memoir
Poets Pub
This is a space for me to write, share my words and play with poetry. You are very welcome here.
This is a blog about my life. It's about much more than living with cancer. It's about reading books, cold water swimming, mothering, eating. All that stuff that people who don't have cancer do. If you're looking for my poems you need to go to fmmewritespoems.wordpress.com
I am more than breath & bones.
Survive Narcissistic Abuse, fight Chronic Illness, and begin to Heal.
Fragments of a chaotic mind
BY GRACE THROUGH FAITH
my humanity in written form
Gen X’er chronicles the art form of living in the Angelino metropolitan environment through poetry, creative writing, art, photography, and culture.
"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." William Wordsworth
Grab a Blanket, But Don't Get Too Cozy...
A dark spill of worlds and words
A selfish poet
Pen to paper.
The Lone Wolf
Digital Products That Work
wide awake when my head hits the pillow
Psychology to Motivate | Inspire | Uplift
About inspiration and #loyality# Nature#ideas
Stories and photos from Scotland
Speech Therapy Resources For Your Sweet Peas
The therapeutic ramblings of a Welsh poet
All you need to read about all you need to read
Memoir, poetry, & writing theory
Rhymes and Reasons
