Grow

I see.

From my planting in the weeds,

Growing.

Before my sight,

Beyond my reach,

Behind my back.

Rows of pretty maids

Reaching and sucking in

And blooming.

I’m still entrenched

Roots held fast,

Gnarled,

Waiting,

Drying and dead

Petals in the dirt that I sacrificed.

Giving back

Ready to nourish

For the next cycle.

And around me,

I marvel

Stalks and stems

smiling for the sun,

Craned and warm

Impervious to

Pestilence and pain,

Daring the rain to stay away.

My storm already came.

I gave over my water so

That I could see vibrant color,

Not live within them

Or them in me.

The leaving

Unused puddle

Around my core,

Sucking, seeping

To the patent veins

Still open to expression.

My acceptance of

Growth is gone.

I’m parched and starving.

But I can still smell the water.

The flood didn’t take everything.

It’s there.

I don’t have to beg

The gods for rain.

They have given.

I look at the gift,

Offered while I decay,

Dis-entangle and

Disappear.

If I can stand the summer,

Pulls, stretch, reach,

The corner curl of

Any petal

Any jagger

Any persistent,

Stubborn,

Un-killable cell

That wants to

Unfurl from the mud

After winter,

If I can be selfish enough

To take a drop for me–

I can grow.

Stay warm in the light.

Offer breath in exchange

For toxicity.

Be beautiful,

Not for what I do,

Or contribute over

Other cuttings,

But simply because

I am beautiful.

After Three

Stare.

Stare.

Stare.

Blink.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Drink.

Hot.

Hot.

Hot.

Sweat.

Cold.

Cold.

Cold.

Regret.

Tight.

Tight.

Tight.

Release.

Fight.

Fight.

Fight.

Peace.

Rise.

Rise.

Rise.

Admit.

Sink.

Sink.

Sink.

Forfeit.

Ache.

Ache.

Ache.

Sustain.

Love.

Love.

Love.

Refrain.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Collapse.

Crawl.

Crawl.

Crawl.

MIshaps.

Want.

Want.

Want.

Escape.

Skin.

Skin.

Skin.

Scrape.

Hold.

Hold.

Hold.

Hurt.

Hope.

Hope.

Hope.

Divert.

Look.

Look.

Look.

Away.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Stay.

Know Best

Know Best

No.

Do we know?

Heart screaming

Head calming nodding

Let the tantrum pass

If you give into her

She’ll never learn

No best

There are choices

Some better

Others dead

Paths

Different monster

At each end

Better if you know

Know best

Mother

Until you know

She doesn’t

Seen the dried tears

Painted smiles

Nothing’s wrong baby.

I’m just tired.

But you know.

Like she does.

Yes is not knowing

No stops the battles

Even if it starts the dying.

When you’re dead

Surely you know

What’s best

To keep living.

Until you know.

Heart will love.

Head will say no.

Keep knowing

That the hurt will pass

If the choice was right

Or not.

Another day to listen

Not know.

Know not

about tomorrow

Heart and brain

can manage

Not best.

But better.

Or

another day

To know another

Best.

So Proud of You

So proud of you

So…

Should I wait for…

You…

Almost done

Not my turn

Not my

Fundamental

Victory

Those come

In the

Parlor maids door

Serving drinks

For the quality

To celebrate

The quality of

Everything you do

You

Meant to be about you

Sorry

Forgot my choices

Again

Before

You

You won again.

So proud of you.

Not a sin

Not a single

day

Without

A confession

Leaving through

The absolvent’s curtain

Forgiving again

From both sides

Of the kneeler

Proud of the thief

Empathizing of the covetous

Stroking the vanity

Cloaking

The smile

The tears

Already masters

Of self defense

Of you.

For you

To you

This moment.

Harder to give away

When a moment

Is all you want.

And all I want

Is for the moment

To choke

On it.

When I breathed

Remembered

There weren’t hands around my neck

They were

There

And I didn’t have to prove,

I did.

I didn’t have to

But if I want to

There’s more to being proud.

Her Light

She is

not your spotlight

Focusing attention in the darkness

calling everyone to look

So you see

What it is you can do.

Not your search light

To guide you into harbor

when you’ve sailed your ships

Against warning

Into black and chopped waves.

Not to blame for

Being the siren who lured you back.

She was singing for herself

Not the mirror you held up

So she could see the faults

Not her hand that

Turned and burned you instead

The silence of your fury

Louder than the

Sighs of your disinterest.

Not your torch,

to frighten back creatures

You don’t understand.

She has her own monsters

creeping to her doors

and learning her language.

Carrying torches

Only grinds down

arthritic arms.

She put hers down.

She can’t do it

Too heavy.

The lights are too bright.

headaches are

far too dug in and planted

Photosynthesis the

Power line to

Migration.

Her own screwed in

Halogen

Fluorescent

Mixed white and blue and

Orange

Not matching when seen back

in her balanced eyes.

Her palms aren’t

Scarred and fibrous

As as her heart

to hold the light bulb

In place with bare hands.

It’s low watt but

Still

her fingers blister

fluid leaking

slipping

And she doesn’t have the grip

To twist

Your glass fragile

Illumination

In place.

She is candles and

altars with incense.

Low glow and quiet alone

With her disciple.

One you whispers,

knowing a harsh breath

kills the flame.

Happy in the room

She left dark.

The sun rises tomorrow

Isn’t it pretty to think

So dawn soft

Smoothed hair

Hazy unfocused

hands

Touched in shadows.

Chasing away the light

For just a little longer

Not needing to be

The brightness

But wanted to be

the still silhouette

Casting her own

Direction.

From her light.

Lost Feminist

I don’t think I’m a bed feminist.

But I’m definitely a lost one. 

I’ve gotten so entwined in the idea of being equal that I’ve lost sight of being me. 

Every man I bring close into my life, I find myself eventually treating as a competitor. 

And I won’t even get started on how I massacre my self-worth when I share my world with a woman. 

I don’t want to wage this war. I don’t have a competitive code in my DNA. My heart can’t endure it. 

Until it comes to the person with whom I share my life. It’s not that I want to win. I simply need to be seen as a cohort and colleague, not a student. 

You starting a blog? So will I. 

You learning to cook? Me too 

Becoming fluent in Spanish? Lo mismo. 

And you know what? 

It’s exhausting. I’m barely crawling out of bed with the weight and heft of it. 

Worst? I bring every second of it on myself. 

That’s not feminism. That’s self-defeating bullshit. 

Feminism does not mean being the same. That’s being a middle-school girl. 

I don’t have to play guitar to be equal to my partner. I don’t have to be as strong of a writer. I don’t have to have as much money in the bank. 

What I do have to be is better. 

Better me. Not another version of them. 

Not fitting in and re-informing every heinous stereotype of the the nightmare over-sensitive woman. 

Asking for help, coming for instruction from someone who has had the luxury of education and experience is not weakness. It feels vulnerable but in that is the potential for growth. That’s empowerment. 

Treating a person as their own and not holding them accountable for reparations for every mid-deed I’ve encountered before we met. 

Let them make their own mistakes. I’ll be making mine, to be sure. That’s equality and respect. 

I know there’s peace on the other side. I can see it. The warmth of the light peaking is warming my fingers. 

I have words to give. And love. And compassion. And curiosity. And listening. And a willingness to work. That’s what I have. 

I don’t have to be the same. 

I don’t have to be better than. 

I can be a little lost. 

In the end, I know where I am. 

Light

My newest Dark Yarn Production. 

This one is light. 

Sometimes there is too much dark. 

My hands yearned to craft the possible. 

A warmth made for hope, for love

with gratitude and longing.

To be given for comfort

without expectation. 

One to protect in coldness.

One to stroke for calm. 

One whose  greatest role

is to be set aside, when

love can do those things

in its place.

For days of light.