at Peace    1969 -   
Thou cometh the Winter
in discontent
the leaves of Summer
must give up the rent
~ Helen 04/05/14

Remember this,
To be touched
is not just
Fingertips on skin
Hugs of the soul
are a deeper embrace
They reach beyond
the human face
to see where
you truly begin
~ Helen 26/12/13

'When the time comes
place the coin,
beneath my tongue
so I may pay
Charon!
Or else my
journey
has scarce begun'
~ Helen 01/12/13

All poems posted are original and written by me, Helen Doogan, under copyright law except where expressed and acknowledged to the original author.

In other words... don't steal my shit ;)
Thou cometh the Winter
in discontent
the leaves of Summer
must give up the rent
~ Helen 04/05/14

Remember this,
To be touched
is not just
Fingertips on skin
Hugs of the soul
are a deeper embrace
They reach beyond
the human face
to see where
you truly begin
~ Helen 26/12/13

'When the time comes
place the coin,
beneath my tongue
so I may pay
Charon!
Or else my
journey
has scarce begun'
~ Helen 01/12/13

All poems posted are original and written by me, Helen Doogan, under copyright law except where expressed and acknowledged to the original author.

In other words... don't steal my shit ;)
Helen
Helen
1 day ago      1 day ago

because it may be sure that...

Never argue with an idiot. They will only bring you down to their level and beat you with experience.
~ George Carlin

and as true as that may be
they underestimate, greatly
that intelligence is a weapon
that will surely defeat them

and while they drag you down
remember, they are beneath your feet
planted firmly upon their crown
ensures you can step up
and the pit they dug for themselves
is where they have to sleep

Always argue with an idiot
for if they drag you down
you can crawl back from their vitriol
and look down upon them
from higher ground

I love having 'concise debates' with people on Facebook.... As soon as they lose their shit and I'm told I'm a ignorant whore, bitch, fucking loser, dumb slut... I win :) and they're an idiot :)
  Reposted by Helen  ·  2 days ago
Moksha
Moksha
2 days ago      1 day ago

You are vile, cruel to women and callous,
This is not my country...this is not my home.


Your men fight battles over themselves
Cowards who wag tails for authority
and are not ashamed to beat up the weak
This is not my country...this is not my home

You who have silenced so many
On the topic of rape, sexual harassment and other crimes

You who have given me no choice as a woman
but to cleave my way through your vile judgments

Your insolence is all I can see, and I don't wish to return

I don't wish to be loyal to one who cannot hold any respect


For me or my fellow women


this is not my country.


this is not my home.

Helen
Helen
2 days ago

I stepped left when I should have stepped right.
It was a dance that ended my life.

in wartime, there are so many weapons designed to kill... however, in a time of Peace, nobody thought to go back and clean up after themselves... No point dancing in the sunshine after the rain when the puddles hide Death...
  Reposted by Helen  ·  2 days ago
uncaged
uncaged
2 days ago

she learned to read when she was three, and then never ever wanted to stop.
she read until her chubby wrists ached from taking turns holding open creased pages.  she sounded out words and turned them into songs, and beat out syllables with pencil drumsticks.  
at five, she learned how to read music, which she loved just as much (and some days more),
because she tap-danced on piano keys and drew ribbons in the air with a violin bow and hummed songs of quiet rebellion under her breath. 
(she needed at least one of her parts to be dancing at all times, which was frowned upon, so she learned to hide the rhythm underneath culture and fantasy.)  
for twenty years, she secretly wrote and secretly read and constructed both beautiful and ugly worlds of escape.  
nobody could touch her there.
their god didn’t exist in her head.

while she grew and read, some bad shit went down.  
(later she remembered thinking she was pretty good at dealing with the storm as it rolled into town – after all, she’d taken care of herself since age thirteen.
and before that wasn’t all a picnic.)  
she left home at fifteen (and managed that, too - but, in hindsight
she might have been running on adrenaline and fumes and could've just as easily crashed and burned.) 
she lived with strangers and learned to speak a new language
and picked up a habit or two before moving back to the states.
she tried out a new town where she met a boy
who would break her heart at least five thousand times.

and then she met the boy who would break it five million.

and all the while she never stopped reading.

and then some really bad shit went down.  

she had no idea how to keep going,
so she made a poor choice.  

she married a man who doesn’t read.  (he can read.
he’s not illiterate. he just doesn’t read. ever.)  
he killed the last part of her she still owned, the very core
of who she was.
he didn’t mean to.  he thought he was saving her.  
she thought she could learn to love him and
someday be okay with his no-kids policy and figure out
how to pretend that she wasn't dying.   
and only a few years ago she discovered
that when he met her he thought
he could learn to love her, too.  (and he did.  
but, she didn’t.)  

one day she woke up to find that responsibilities
are just tools to facilitate the process of
deluding humans into forgetting our own
mortality, and how little time we have.
we have allowed ourselves to become caged and stifled
and silenced and ridiculed and misunderstood and
taken for granted and
often cold and lonely.
(years of feeling less than.  
not enough.  
unloveable. undesirable. unforgivable.
every hopeless thing the therapist can get her to admit to,
and all the things she can’t.  the things that make her gasp
and shake if she lets her mind get too close to recall.  
(days previously catalogued under ‘best if quickly forgotten.’))
  
one day she said fuck it.  
she made a plan to start living.  

she read a book for pleasure, and it made her cry.
but a curtain was lifted - she saw a vision of who she was:
she danced to birdsongs on pine needles high in
the snowies, and worked on the perfect cast of line
to snag a sixteen-inch brookie. she played chopin on
the piano and cripple creek on the fiddle.
at the very center of all of her selves was a girl with a puppy in her lap
and her back against a tree,
reading an overdue library book.

she cried to learn she hadn’t died after all.  
she understood how much she had missed herself.  

and after all, finding herself was the hard part,
among stacks and corners and high shelves she had needed
to store the remnants of her essence.
but she had been found.
she was tired of being tired.  she just wanted to write
and read and dance and love and pull music out of strings.
so now she does a little of everything she loves every day.
because, why the hell not?

there is nothing better to do.

Helen
Helen
4 days ago

I sit and wait
patiently
waiting for you
to drink
the words
from me
we have an agreement
you and I
I give you life
You grant immortality

#life #death #immortality #drink
#boobies
  Reposted by Helen  ·  4 days ago
Bones
Bones
6 days ago      6 days ago

There's a forest
inside her
as vast as
the night
and no-one
to guide her
and no
guiding light
and no-one
to show her
that just
out of sight
is the path
she would make
if she walked,
so she waits
and moves
nowhere at all.

Helen
Helen
4 days ago

I think I would not like to be
a single tree on a barren prairie
for you see I'd be a rarity
eager to be culled by all that see

I think I would not like to be
a mermaid drifting out at sea
for you see even though I'm me
I'm an oddity not allowed to be free

I know I would never want to
be just a possession you have got to
Own!
Where is my voice?

I know I would never want to
be an oddity you have just got to
Possess!
Where is my choice?

 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment