Growing Old in the Fold

threshold of the skyApril showers, how repentant.  As if I eluded February…to stay in such a bogus fight.

How dare my carriage be discovered so lusterless with such spite.

Gregarious women warriors did not sit pantry-side…deliberating yeast for might.

No fireside banter…wronged versus right.

No paragon in which to huddle.

For the many, the cosmopolitan, visibility a squeamish black hole.

Their consumption’s a salty wine from abiding the fold.

Who will douse the sweat from my brow…as I, grow old?

to What Women Say

I believed in what was said

Thou I wished I accepted less of everything

This book of gospel seeping into rabbit holes

Trifle left accept gritty, grains of falsehood

Reeling from inclement pavement

Reeling from obedient hearsayfeet on the beach

My becoming, a clay footprint, fragile, breakable when placed upon such an erroneous display

My first impression out…

A caged animal sedated nonetheless alert

Second step…

casting the shackles away

to which I held the original key…to what women say

 

 

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.