I forged this armor
with my blood and bone
like smelted metal from
years of saved up pocket change
and the woven hip length hair
from my nearly shaved head
when I was twenty-two
and have worn it since.
The strength of this armor--
Unparalleled.
The weight of it
made me strong,
yet it weighs heavy
after all these years.
I cannot begin to count the scratches,
the dents, the pockmark scars
of battle wounds.
That much is very true.
My armor is far from new.
Yes, I should have
replaced it a time or two.
It’s been steadfast,
a friend, truer than any lover
ever has been, yes.
My shield, I can barely lift.
My arm and body weary
from the weight of shield
and armor—
The sword? I laid it down
a little while ago
when I finished forever
the battles with myself, you see.
Yet the armor, the shield
have protected me,
though they weigh heavy,
and I am weary.
Forgive me, forgive me
that my fingers tremble
at the buckles.
For when the weight
of this armor falls,
you would be the first
to truly know me at all.
—
A few minutes every day,
at times, stretching into hours,
I write to you
in this book,
writing words
whispering mysteries
of the winds in the mountains.
At times, my words still,
shifting, settling then sighing
as moonstone white clouds rest,
caressing the tops of mountains.
I have burned hundreds
of ink filled books
over these many years
when disgusted with
the imperfection
of my scribbled pages.
The heat of their fires
never offered much warmth.
Now, I save my scribble filled books
though you may never see them.
Forty-five years,
I have written words to you,
yet you never knew,
and neither did I
until this moment.
This is an older poem that I’ve dusted off and changed around a little. The end is entirely new but in keeping with the hike in Colorado that inspired it. I was so struck by seeing the one tree leaning upon the other I did not think to whip out my phone to take a picture of the sight. In that moment of observation of the trees, it seemed a violation to do so.
In the woods
two trees stand,
equally rooted,
firmly in the ground.
Yet, as if deciding
it a curse of solitude
to try and touch a Sky
who never reached back,
one turned
to touch the other,
leaning its trunk
against its forest mate’s.
And so, I found them,
standing as lovers,
one resting upon the other,
limbs entwined in embrace.
I lowered my head
out of respect mingled
with a bit of embarrassment
at glimpsing their
beautiful intimacy.
I turned,
walked down the trail,
crunching dried leaves
beneath the fall of my heavy boots
as I continued on among the trees
in silence and solitude.
My scars flames–
The sides of my back,
pock marked brown
drying dark
if not daily oiled in
the red, orange, white
of flames,
trailing once welted scars,
faded, now barely.
if even seen–
Feathered flames
enabling flight,
if I should like,
or if I so prefer,
burning back past paths
behind so I may fly
to places I wish,
keeping promises
to my soul.
My scars flame–
Only I see
and only I know
the power contained
in my flaming scars.
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.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 