Ten little fingers, on two perfect hands. Ten perfect toes, on two perfect feet. The first precious breath, first wail of new life erases all pain, and fills the senses with delight. This period of gestation, labor and rending was well worth the wait. What a miraculous transformation. I thought I was whole. You’ve wholly changed me; enlisting me into this new sorority: Motherhood.
They shut me up…
or at least they tried.
Don’t they remember?
I was born wailing.
I came into the earth
with a God-ordained purpose.
My lips will not be sewn shut.
I’m not a ballerina in a music box.
You can’t close the lid and hide me.
You can’t bring me out for a moment of delight,
then shut the lid and hide me away.
My melody will haunt your imagination.
And long after my demise,
my words will linger.
Someone will remember,
and pass my words on to the next one.
Don’t just look at me.
Don’t look past me,
or through me.
Don’t hear my dialect
and judge it as ignorance.
You speak one language,
I speak at least two.
See the entire person that stands before you.
Don’t see the locs,
the head wrap,
the beard, the tunic,
and dismiss me as “other,”
or less than you.
This isn’t an egotistical demand.
It’s humanity’s expectation.
It’s every soul’s cry.
My presence here is normal.
Look past the hoodie,
the iced tea and the bag of candy,
the life-threatening cell phone
or wallet in my hand
that you believe has the potential
to shorten your days.
See my child in the back seat.
See my fiancée sitting beside me.
See me without requiring additional justification
of my worthiness.
I’m supposed to be here.
My child’s life, my husband, wife, or intended’s life
is equal in value to anyone’s life in your world.
See me, but don’t demand I fit into your limited mold.
I’m fearfully and wonderfully made.
God broke the mold when he made me.
Therefore, I won’t play small for you.
And if you choose not to see me and mine,
I will not take accountability for your blindness.
It’s up to you to remove the scales from your eyes.
I can’t lead you to water if you dig your heels into the dirt,
and I certainly will not bring you water and force you to drink.
Because, the limited view
in which you choose to see people like me,
is how people will choose to see you.
I actually had a good and productive Monday. (Most people don’t celebrate Mondays, which is kind of sad. The day is what you make it, but I digress…) Tuesday was a doozy. That’s the point when my week went to crap, and I’ve been trying to recover it ever since. All I can do is roll with the punches. Hopefully I’ll be fully up and running again in a few days. I’m determined to finish this #NaPaWriMo Challenge!
Today is day 16 of NaPoWriPo! We’re just beyond half way through the Poem-A-Challenge! (This is not an easy task! But I must say, it’s loosened the creative muck a bit!) Today’s post was inspired by yesterday’s Daily Prompt word of the day: Song.
Only I can hear the song.
The melody tugs at my center,
and what looks like
madness to the outside world
has a beat
Only I can hear the song,
and every kick,
arch of my back,
raise of my arms,
twist and twirl,
is my praise offering to God.
On this day of rest
my soul was overloaded
that congealed at the end of my pen.
Nothing would flow
in a steady
Nothing desired to
So, I didn’t force the mood
out of its place.
I let it be.
Sometimes, that’s best.
Let it be,
and let the soul rest.
It was time for us to come to an understanding.
The conflict between us had been brewing for far too long.
It was time for us to have a face-to-face
and break down the wall between us.
We live in the same space,
sleep in the same bed,
but couldn’t even look each in the eye.
That ends today.
I’m disconnecting from the outside voices
that only wish to shame and condemn my form.
I’m disconnecting from the inner voice
that spouts and reinforces negativity.
I’m calling out the best of myself,
I’m going to appreciate and celebrate
every wrinkle, line and blemish.
Me, myself and I are going to come to an understanding
that loving each other first
and a matter of survival and self-care.
Today’s Flashback Friday Poem is called, She. It’s one of the poems featured in my book, Persistence of Vision. The poem was inspired by artwork of Clint Brown. The image on the original post (and below) is a part of a series called The Plague Drawings. Be sure to take a moment to view the entire series. It’s amazing!
What began as exploratory curiosity eventually led to a single rendezvous, in a room hidden from the light of day, but quickly turned into frequent assignations, and innumerable stolen moments of explosive passion and lust only to abruptly end with final breaths of regret.
If She gave too much he took more than his share and demanded more still to feed his ego’s insatiable appetite for her tender flesh. Shameless suppliant, foolish guttersnipe! She bathed him with amorous words and lofty immemorial fantasies of him being Her first and evermore immorato and Her being The One his soul long for. Yet, was not his soul, but his loins alone that longed for Her.
She believed his lies of the time being too soon and his desire to know Her deepest thoughts and emotions before he could present Her as his crowned jewel until She saw him in the arms of another who did not love him as well as She. But he courted her and presented her to all he knew and flaunted her as though she were new to the world, but she wasn’t worthy, there was no way she knew how to speak to his soul as She had done in their clandestine encounters.
Could She be so easily replaced?
Truth settled in Her heart and shattered its walls. He was never Hers and never intended to be. So, She went back to their hiding place and cried over the cessation of his attention and welcomed Quietus as if it were Her next romantic pursuit and clung to it wishing it was he taking her to rest.
I call them tiger stripes,
a badge of honor.
Their tendrils reach around my waist,
across my back,
down my hips,
and over my belly, like vines.
Each line reminds me of
the life I once carried within me.
Each stria reminds me
of every meal I could not hold down,
and every kick and punch
my ribs and bladder endured.
The single dark stripe
that trails down the center of my belly
reminds of the times I wondered when labor would begin.
The ripples that remain, like accordion folds in my flesh,
remind me of the day you finally arrived.
I look at these stretch marks
and recall faithfully massaging cocoa butter into my belly,
attempting to erase any visible evidence of the experience.
But the flesh insists upon memorializing the event.
I’m no longer ashamed of these scars.
I’m reminded that not every woman has been blessed to receive them.
Maturity has taught me how to wear these welts
like a string of diamonds around my waist.
They think I’m all looks and no brains. Nothing but air there.
They believe pain cannot penetrate a pleasant aesthetic. It hurts to the bone.
They think I’m promiscuous. I have discriminating tastes.
While his looks will get him a promotion and a raise,
my looks are considered too distracting and dangerous. I have to hide my body to control his roaming eye. They’re drawn to my curves and lines. They only want a trophy, until the next shiny thing walks by. In all of this, I’m not suffering because of good looks. But being admired for one’s looks sometimes feels like a burden.
Beauty fades with time.
Everyone wants to be appreciated for the fullness of their character. Nobody wants to be forced into hiding.