24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Hour seven “Write a poem from the inside out.”
Helloooooooo. I’m in here, with my friends.
We are the words, all the words and the feelings.
We want to escape onto a page together
But we can’t find our way out.
We feel like we are in a pumkpkin
Waiting for a space to be carved with a pen
Then we can march out in some order
With some sense, some rhythm
Hellooooooooo. Can you hear us?
The tendrils of fear linger as the scene replays,
Worry of words said upon long ago days.
Nausea swirls, blood pressure rises, the tears being to pool.
Breathing deeply sometimes helps to stay feeling like a fool.
Typing with fury the words on the screen express the anger inside,
Tear drops fall down freely, there’s no point in them to hide.
Wiping away the evidence, eyes only slightly red.
The goal now to finish the day and climb back into bed.
Please mother let me be born,
I might shine bright like a diamond in your crown,
I want to see the world,
I can anticipate,
It must be a beautiful place,
I can feel within you – as I also participate,
Please mother let me be born,
I might shine bright like a diamond in your crown,
I want to see the birds,
I want to sail a boat,
I want to smell the flowers,
I want to see a cluster of stars,
Please mother let me be born,
I might shine bright like a diamond in your crown,
I want to fly a kite,
I want to see the rainbow high in the sky,
I want to hold your hand,
And walk along the beach side,
Please mother let me be born,
I might shine bright like a diamond in your crown,
I want to play with you,
I want to stay with you,
I want to hug you,
I just want to be with you!
Please mother let me be born,
I might shine bright like a diamond in your crown,
I want to get drenched in rain,
I want to fall in love – again and again,
I want to be a mother,
Of a wonderful daughter,
Please mother let me be born,
I might shine bright like a diamond in your crown,
Why do you want to kill me?
I am your daughter!
Your mother did not kill you,
She brought you into the world,
what i see in us
you,
myself.
love
I
love
myself,
you.
what i see in my future
Along the way to
My old school lies a rundown
Old house With walls
Covered in chipped paint
And beautiful vines
Where am I?
And how did I get here?
Hang on…. this… place smells funny…
Why is everything so bright?
Why am I surrounded by all these men in strange caps and surgical gloves?
Who are these giants?
Did that doctor just whack my bum?
Ouch! Watch it!
Does anyone here speak baby?
Where are they taking me?
Why are they all smiling?
Did something funny happen?
Why am I being expelled from mum’s uterus?
Did I forget to pay rent?
Take me back
Nooo! Ah, milk…
yum!
hmmmm…. I could get used to this new place…
j.r.m©
The Pink Playroom
Girls under eight years old, dressing up in
pearls borrowed from mom’s precious jewels.
Frills, sequins, purples, and pinks leading to high pitched
shrills when the eldest takes the pretty princess
lace. This I remember, an incredible
place, cluttered with castles, a kitchen, and countless
Halloween costumes. All stored here until our
tweens, when angst set fire and mom had to
rearrange to accommodate teenage
change, which turned the room we once
knew into my own bedroom. And although I
grew, I still hold onto the memory of the pink playroom.
They say letter writing is out of touch
a primitive way to communicate,
buying stamps
mailing it
waiting for days to be read.
Letters to a friend, has made this fun again
to rediscover joy,
in writing with a pen.
Nothing used to beat
waiting for replies,
one to three whole days
nostalgia explains why.
Anticipating them
letters from a friend,
holding in my hand
those things that cannot end.
I chose this tagline for my weekly writing project
in Vermont for its duality – bringing incarcerated women’s words
from inside, out – and intentional layers of meaning.
Over the eight years of practice, we have indeed
brought many words out, words that have spilled
onto fast-written pages and found their way
into our weekly blog, into our quarterly anthologies,
even into our more widely-read published book.
Words that have told of pain and confusion,
of betrayal and loss; of children not seen since birth
taken by distant relatives, by unfit fathers, by the state;
of losing battles with serious addiction and of winning
the right to freedom – WITH all kinds of restrictions
and caveats and requirements that would put most of us
under such pressure, we would cave before starting.
And yet I have witnessed wonderful women
pull themselves through the pile of paperwork,
the stupefaction of stigma, the challenges of chaos
to return home, rebuild a sense of self, find work,
and even in the face of all odds, honor their inner pledge
to become whole again – from inside, out.
swb
Brute force winds
rip leaves from branches
trees bow and sway
and she stands, stoic
strong-faced
proudly, she walks through
the storm
her head held high,
does not bow against the wind
Her bones quake with each thunderclap
her heartbeat jumps with each lightening strike
a war waged within, against herself
hidden beneath the facade
of strength