Mother, WRITER, artist, student, dreamer, civil and human rights activist,
humanitarian, minister in process, mystic, sentient being.
I write to remember; I write to discover; I write to understand; in order to be closer/higher/connected.
There should be clear answers But there are not, There ought to be specific directions, Instructions in a manual of how to operate This vessel, In this life, But there are not, No “How to”, to be in different modes, Different states of being, In times of joy and great despair, Instead, one is left with hearsay, Lessons, from others who have traveled, Down their own paths, This wisdom shared to guide in the unknown; Herein lay the hope: There is no one right track, No one right way to traverse This path you tread, You lead; It is unpaved, Meant to be worn by this very trek, Thereby shaped by you.
I don’t want to go back, But I am unsure of forward; Frustration meets me In this state of being Stuck; Home is where the heart is, Still, a place is needed, To be, For one to be lifted up By land and Held by space, That which is affirming and accepting, And welcomes you to its setting, I am working on that for me, For us, After adversity jettisoned us From where we had Only meant to be temporarily, Somehow, I had forgotten; Midnight, Deja-vu, Online, I am here and now looking, For a place, the next move.
Things get bad And some of us go under Ground, The marching, Declaring, Identifying, Having Pride Seems quiet, Silent almost; But here, We remain, We are, Existing, Doing that thing that hate wishes most to end.
But someone still Needs to teach The little ones, Gender irrelevant, How to do, To survive, To get by, When a “man” is gone, Not present, Never present, Or passed on; What of little girls never taught To change a tire; Or mow the lawn? We teach her To understand dependence, Believe it, Then rip off the illusion With age; Man, woman Mortality is the great equalizer, Teach the little ones, all: How.
A white feather, From one of my ventures, Resides on my vehicle dashboard, The air through my windows on a hot day Lifted and carried the feather In flight, As such things are meant to; Scurrying to recapture my feather, I am reminded It was never mine, It never grew from my body, And yet now I hold to it As if it were a part of me, In a way, it is, The remembrance of its coming to be with me, And the miles, Moments, Mishaps and memories I also collected with it present; The feather, Worn but white, is a symbol Of what I have been through, Carried by the wind, To always make a landing, With grace, Wherever I may descend.
Butterfly went home After their first flight; Home to cocoons And caterpillars, Who each longed to know of their possible future, But could not yet understand What air beneath one’s wings Could feel like, Each at their own time to cocoon Metamorphosis awaiting at their own pace, In their own way; Not all will get to fly For some time is much shorter But they all change, They all in the end are freed Of corporeal vessels Of various form, Even if they will never know The flight of a butterfly, They all may appreciate The diversity in their shapes And the cycle That unites them all.