Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
“It’s a man’s world,”
they say,
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.
Here I am,
Freer than I can remember being
In a long while,
All these fresh, glistening feelings
Settle in upon me:
Emotions, sensations,
needs, desires;
Things I’ve pushed away
For so long,
Too long
Aspects of being,
Delights of life that I have denied myself
Become now apparent glittering possibilities,
Present reminders
of my sensitive, seductive self;
Pieces I shuttered for safe keeping
For too long,
But never gone
Only held;
Rising, here and now
Transformed
Into a new manifestation;
a Goddess,
Refined with time and pressure
Ready too for her due from life,
In more than the hefty weight of the world,
But in the ripe exquisite beauty and pleasure of its bearings,
Forged and fiery,
with light of the sun she gleams,
A diamond emerged from the rough.
I
never realized I was held
by fear of him
Until I gained the strength
to go;
Until push came hard enough to shove
And I realized
I
was not yet
as fully powerful
As I thought,
While I stayed,
Under his weight;
It was in the run,
In running
Away
That
I
felt the surge
Felt the start
Of me coming into me,
In the run
I
saw who I was
saw who I could be,
Saw myself standing out of his shadow,
And saw what I was capable of;
In leaving,
I
returned.
I never meant to
Hurt you,
In doing me,
In being free,
I never considered all the pieces,
Laid out for you,
To see,
A half filled life,
With something missing,
Someone not beside me,
Not of their choosing,
In doing the necessary,
To get by,
These were never steps,
Toward saying goodbye,
This was never about you,
This was always just me,
Exercising
What it means to be
Free
July 19, 2017
Lost my muse,
Lost my voice
Picking up the quill again,
Where I left off,
My choice.
July 11, 2017
Starting over,
Picking pieces
To put together
A bouquet
Of my own
Independence is fragrant
With excitement
and trepidation
But this is my own
And I will own
this arrangement
As one picked
by and for
All that is essential
to me
She of Letters 