Beginning
I never dare to look at you
Except when I take pictures of you in my mind
And that happens always…
Maryanne
Maryanne
a colleague of mine
taught me what courage was.
She stood up to men
who tried to bully Her,
men more powerful
than She (or so they thought)
men with tenure
men who plotted
behind closed office doors.
But reason was Her weapon
of choice…and Her
steely eyes.
What is a Woman
She was a companion fashioned
From Adam’s side
So lovely and loveable
The two were one flesh
What she offered, he couldn’t refuse
Together they were, together they fell
The tempter in the Garden was a snake
Not a she
Hour 1, Prompt 1: write about a famous woman
Audre Lorde
I never knew you,
I don’t know you now.
I don’t know half of what would help me
speak my truth.
You tell me that my silence
will not protect me,
even though I have learned
it’s safer to hold my thoughts within.
I recognize, accept, and celebrate
our differences and the similarities
that make us sisters.
I want to be like you: powerful voice,
strength in vision.
You teach me it is not important
if I am afraid,
as long as I speak.
I am learning to define myself for myself,
not holding back for the world,
as I speak from the strength
of these words.
Bird Highway
Birds sail past our bedroom
window each morning at daybreak.
Coffee on, we watch from bed.
Mallards wing
east
to Lake Whatcom
ready to dabble weed and mud.
Some swim with ducklings, some alone.
In our group of two
we rise
and fry eggs.
1 – My History Lives On My Skin
I am struck by the ease with which we can permanently mark ourselves
Pieces of past hastily patched onto my skin in the form of
Ugly makeshift collagen, stitching over my damage
Nourished and replenished with the rest of me as a part of the whole
Needles bleed into incisions.
The open wounds, thirsting for antiseptic, willingly drink the laden ink,
Realizing their mistake a moment too late;
The moment it takes to sterilize – Paralyze – The helpless cells.
They don’t stand a chance against the poison.
Their battle is forever embalmed
Frozen in time by scar tissue
We age.
A spot appears for every story, A crease appears for every original thought,
So that someone could trace your skin as a map of your life
And read the dents and blemishes as easily as they read these words,
If only they would take the time to truly see another person.
To Gaze
She writes gazes in metaphors,
Using pen to paper as conviction,
She throws shade beneath her shades,
Choosing her words precisely,
She cuts into emotional baggage of readers,
before bringing it to life in moving imagery,
Does she ever distract her reader from gazing towards her.
FLAWLESS IMPERFECTION
Hour 1
Flawless Imperfection
She worried about her shortcomings
It kept her up at night and often interrupted her day to day
What could she do to be, you know, better
Take a class maybe or practice or seek help from others whose similar ideals shined far brighter than her lack luster luminous
In her reflection, she could not help but think of the others, the stronger ones in her eyes, those who seemingly had it together, had it all
So she watched them, listened to them
The more she studied, the deeper she looked, she would come to find something unexpected, something less than stellar
Did a mere blemish make THEM imperfect
Or did it add a uniqueness to their being
Was this self doubt and constant scrutiny actually diminishing her glow
Upon this awakening, she would swear an allegiance that her flawless imperfections would be enough
Talk To Me
She doesn’t stand more than five feet tall.
She’s proud of her height, looks older than she is.
Her hair is blond and curly.
She dreams of it dark and tame.
She raises her head to look
straight into my eyes.
“Who are you?”
She asks with excitement.
“Are you a ballerina?
Are you a zookeeper?
Hair dresser or author?”
“Where are you going?”
“Do you have a bunch of friends
you can tell silly jokes?
Can you put your foot behind your head?”
“Do you know how to laugh and smile?”
I look away, no longer meet her eyes.
Her pestering continues, desperate…
“Tell me about school! And all the books you’ve read!”
“What do you love these days?”
I cannot speak, though tears flow free.
Words clot in my throat, choked.
What can I do to not break her heart?
I am so disappointing.
No, no; no and no.
I have no idea.
No, no, not like before.
…What do I love?
I take her hand, lead her to my room.
Show her plants I’ve nurtured, green and growing.
“Wow! You must be proud!
I kill every plant I own.”
I reach far up to grab a basket
crocheted from t-shirts, holding knitted hats.
“That’s a little weird, and cool!
I’m not very patient, I could never.”
She seems happy now, and so am I.
I am still quiet, and cannot answer all her questions.
But I am not an imposter to her.
Only a not-so-grown-up woman,
Still weird and cool and proud.
Still happy.
The School Teacher Prompt 1
The School Teacher
The cards came mostly at Christmas
but sometimes on her birthday
or random other times of the year.
At Christmas there were fat, jolly Santas
or Currier and Ives’ prints reminiscent
of the school where they had been with her.
The letters told of their successes,
frequently clips from newspapers
called the Weekly Herald or
The EveryDay News with a picture.
She’d look at those, sometimes
touch the face, maybe say,
“he lost his hair” or “she’s as beautiful
as her mother.” Sometimes the florist
would deliver a Poinsettia
or a vase of cut flowers.
There was always news
of their families and maybe
a family picture. Opened on arrival,
she read these missives,
folded the contents back
into the envelopes
and rubber-banded the lot
together with a note to herself
on top. “Didn’t hear from Martin
this year or Marian got a new job.”
These were their stories.
The stories of the people
whose lives she had helped
to shape and how they now fit into society.
20.06.27 7 a.m. MDT