The Fear of Men

I was once the fearful fret

Who learned, not courage,

But regret

And so got caught,

Tangled, in the net

Of a thing considered wise:

The living fear of men.

 

So rampant was this revere,

Of this plague,

This crippling fear,

That many encouraged it

In females of any year

Proclaiming that purity

Was the fruit of the fear of men.

 

Rules and standards ruled the hearts

Of multitudes of women

Told to “be smart”.

As though intelligence

Was the equivalent part

Of a cowardice:

The ever-present fear of men.

 

There were no stories of self-defense

There were no heros

Who spoke of consent

There was no hope

For male friends;

Women were all equally helpless

And shared a fear of men.

 

I am happy to point out

This is written

To tell about

Something quite past tense,

Something I presently live without

Because Christ never said

To live in fear of men.

Motherhood is Forever

She ached, not from the weight,

But from the absence of it.

The gentle waves of breath,

Rising and falling had ceased

And her arms had nothing

To pull in close…

She hung her head in

Unbearable unhappiness,

But it found nothing to kiss-

No soft fuzzy head,

So tiny wrinkly fingers,

No relaxed little hand.

She did not miss what was, but rather,

What could have been.

She was tired from what

She no longer carried

Exhausted from grieving

With no one offering to understand.

The Forest Edge

Let my breath be swept away,

Let my eyes search for days,

A never ending horizon opens up to me

And I cannot stop my feet-

My soul runs over memories,

Mountains ever reaching,

Canyons and valleys,

A lake I long to swim though again,

A hill with boulders I must scramble atop

Sometime when

I catch my breath and

Time holds fast my hand,

Carrying me across the lands:

Painted rocks of never ending

Colors and shapes,

Textures soft to rough,

As every care stops

To stare,

And moments of exhilarating peace

Sweep my very breath away.

Justify Work, Beauty Becomes

I used to know

my art-  a place where

work

and

beauty collide

in the eye

and I

becomes

me and you,

people

of a hopeful group.

I want to

justify

my artwork.

I want to

work

as an artist.

But if

beauty

is in the eye of the beholder,

What

becomes

of the people whose eyes’ don’t

see like mine.

Home

Home was

Once the

Near and

Dear, but then I tasted mountain air.

Understanding my heart is unclear; I was never

Ready to leave.

And now, I’m never ready to return.

So, this is what a heartache is:

,

Farther distance than reality. I

Am no longer me.

Rather, not the me I was,

Ever-hopeful,

When I slept to the

Echoing thunder above. And only feared “will I

Learn to

Love and to

,

Leave?”

Of course, my hope chases

Vivid memories

Ever- wondering if home is not a space, but a heart-shaped collection of places.

398.2

Her problem was that she

believed in a world too big,  too unreal and without edges;

bounding past logic and reason and

diving beneath waterfalls of mystery.

She didn’t need the answers of reality, her soul

fed on unknowns and adventures- she

saw magic everywhere and never once

flinched at the unexplained.

.

.

.

(398.2 is the Dewey Decimal systems number for Fairy-tales)

A Piece of Paradise

(Alternatively titled, “I need a Vacation”)

Take me where the mountains touch the sea,

Where the ocean kisses the rocks shamelessly,

And with loving refreshment pours over and cleans

Minute by minute, the stones, till they gleam.

.

Take me to where the range steps inside the Caribbean waters,

Where it stands waiting for the tide,

When the waves come much closer to the view the crag hides;

Unending open sunny skies.

.

Take me to that ledge, a rough rocky throne,

I’d watch the sunset and rise from that sandy pedestal-

But I cannot stay forever there, it is not yet my eternal home,

Where the mountains touch the sea.  

November

November escapes me,

it is nearly gone.

My own distaste heeds

any words born. I scorn my entitlement-

what is ability? what is talent?

And just as November gusts

sleek the clouds,

what I must say, I say out loud-

November, November please stay!

Light From Light

The shining of yellow on the edges of the leaves,

A stained glass window in a temple of trees,

A playful push of October’s breeze,

In moments like these

My very bones believe.

 

Believe in one Father Almighty,

Maker of woods and shadows who breath,

Of all things visible and dreamy,

Of one Lord, My Jesus Christ,

Who with love, created this moment for me.

 

In humble honesty,

Again my feet crunched the leaves

And my eye wandered from the golden canopy

Without another prayer of tranquility,

I left a doorless church behind me.

 

But

 

I think I may now understand,

what is truly meant when

We faithfully utter words such as

“Light from Light”.

Amen.

 

“… God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God…..”

–Nicene Creed

And Then it Was Autumn

I woke up this morning,

But that’s nothing new,

I woke up yesterday,

And the morning before, too.

But this wake was different

As the sun came through

My cracked open window

All hazy; golden brewed.

And a crisp good morning

Crept from my heel to head,

As my feet touched the cool floor

And my blankets shed.

I woke up this morning,

Refreshed and then some

I opened my eyes

And then it was autumn.