"The flower that blooms in adversity
Is the most rare and beautiful of all."*

I climb to the top
I won't ever stop
I may be a woman
But I don't belong to a man

I am not the same
Or even sane
But I have fought
Because I've been taught

Fight
Never lose sight
Of life
Take the knife
Keep it near
To turn on peers

I've learned to defend
Against those who pretend
To be friends
But stab you in the end

I've fought so much
To die by my own touch.
I will fight my battles
And make the world rattle.

I'll stay true to me
Instead of flee.

it is not in my nature

to be as I am.

I am not just a creature

of mould or of damp.




I will not be converted

to some noxious disease,

nor will I be perverted

to just stand on my knees.




I will not bow my head,

nor my heart or my hands,

as they're all I have had

to stand tall through time's sands.




you can shout if you please,

I am still my own boss

and will never just seize

the days that have past.

Once upon a time we had the hymnal propped by the kitchen sink so's I could learn; years later Mum would sing along with me, and now...I like never but once in a blue moon dare to sing aloud, for missing her to tears.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXLVII)


What's happened to--me?  Rainy hours detail
Thet eye with silver's touch while green lawns fence
The minutes fog obscures by vague suspense
With softest carpets rolled out to avail,
And I'm not erm, my own in sheer betrayl;
Erst naked trees lost to mists' whitish sense
Of yonder, I could shiver, and do hence,
Cuz in a blink I'm his upon that scale.
One comment like my wont five days ere, poor
As what?  now he distracts aught hours 'til through
Suggestion I am giggling, sober, tour
His deepest sorrows, and maunt say he'd woo?!
Of course, I'm better searching violets, fer
All that.  Let purple wink low, saying we knew.

05Apr17b

She stood, barefoot,
at his burial
It was August and hot
Her onyx, knee length hair, hung loose,
blowing in the storm she was conjuring
Hailing from the eastern skies
Her burnt oil eyes, dry
She had no need for tears,
Heaven would cry for her
Born the first of 13
in a long line of darkened blood
300 years bread from Ireland,
to the Cumberland mountains and rolling hills
Every first before her, Born with a caul
"Knowing"
Each generation striving for 3 daughter's and seven sons
Seventh sons born water witches
Each first daughter a
"Seer", amongst other dark blessings
Cauls kept, and buried at midnight 'neath willow branches for blessings
These first daughters,
bore one of three hairs,
raven black, silver, or gold
from birth
Never greying
I watched her
stayed with my grandmother
beside her husband's grave
Till night fell
Her hair, never went grey