Women’s March 2019

It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, to absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

 

A Woman Waits for Me

A Women Waits for Me

They are tann’d in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,

Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,

They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves…

They are ultimate in their own right-

they are clam, clear, well-possessed of themselves.

Walt Whitman

 

By-Stander

Where there had once been fresh grass…now a pristine, glossy, cross.

A well intention granite bench…f8bddbaa55dc3c7074419ff08f6b46e1-932x408x1

bystander, where have you gone?

Does this mean…a universe of pipe dreams…are lost?

I look at my impression…and, a decade of dusty pipe dreams…

You had been there…quietly, in the in-between.

Que me veux tu - What you want me 1928 Claude Cahun (French, 1894–1954) France Photographer
Claude Cahun:

From a stoop made for one, I watch tourist town drudgery, through my own faults.

I have become a by-stander, as well.

Canary yellows with fitted foot.  Army greens abided by loose fingered hosters..

Chaos in neon posters.

Ambient lights with traces of human clues.

Sometimes sadness set upon an ocean of deep blues.

the art of a small town 1
Joesph Kildune, Toad Hall

From my everyday stoop.

Thinking of the stranger I never met…but felt I knew.

The understated cross and its forever stone pew.

Where is the by-stander…I never met…but felt I knew.

 

Amazon in Bohemian Clothes!

It does no good to look toward pain for, yet, another day.

It will await me either way.

IT will hold my hand, as it always does.

Making love to me with ITS vicious touch.

I will pay respect to the searing stab, as I always do.

I will allot transgressions…their due.

 

But I am a proud woman warrior in bohemian clothes.

And, as vague ability diminishes.

So shall my inner strength grow.

Any day,

when the battle between pain and I reunite…

I will go on fighting well into the night.

Splintered Cords of Wood

take a right 3

The cord splintered in my hands.

As though it were Goliath…and, I, David.

Just a majestic Madam of being more than avid.

Lumbering in and out…

the muddy waters that held my feet…steady.

Dreams of yesterday’s strength…oh, so, petty.

A union of handmade scars requesting that I, now, rescind that myth.

My inner child pays homage to growth.

Such as, the rings on newly fallen trees.

A well built structure,

calls me to a new way home.

Leather-ed hands toil over acres of what I have yet to see.

Oh, but, those wet with humidity, afternoons, set my child free.

Always within the run of my blood…

But not so distant that the taste of wooden soil…

gently attracts.

Robust sawdust…

Pine shavings…

Protecting me, her, us.

Just a rural muscle still ahead of the curve.

The limbs of everyday chores touching upon my able bodied nerves.