i oft wonder    when i stare at you
(& seeing how you live like sweet morningdew)
if perhaps, you are the work of athena–
or instead, pantheons altogether
          painstakingly threaded your body together.
          i touch your skin and i feel the weather.

did they toil over parenthetical curves
in your eyelashes, so? did they, in fact,
          under faintly ambered nightglo,
paint soothing hairline melodies into your soul?
          it was they!
          who carefully composed       your ballet!
     betwixt your brows and your lips
lies the aria of your kiss,
          and your murmur: the solemn swell of viols.

call me daft and sound your drums!
i think it had to be the ones who
          mastered the craft,    endeavoured to create,
who fired in kilns the earths to bake;
          who designed the bold mackerel,
          its iridescent scale, the peach, how
                    malt can turn into ale;
the celestial potter who sculpted the stars,
        and Jupiter
                 and Saturn
                                and Venus and Mars;
the ones who spun all into creation,
          and could undo infernal damnation;
who weaved you from threads cut by the fates
from the months and years we celebrate.
          from flowers sprouted from the dirt of eden
turned into watercolour, your colour, it deepens.
          as designed how grapes
          may blossom to wine,
the specks on your skin birthed from the divine.

i oft believe    when i stare at you
(& think of how you light me anew)
that i’m a curator given an exquisite delight -
trembling in awe of your beauty and light -
          to treasure and love and care for and feather,
          i touch your skin and i feel the weather.
          i touch your skin and i feel the weather.

Let my hands be the pages
That hold your unspoken words
Let my voice be the letters
That refills the pages once burned

1434

Go not too near a House of Rose—
The depredation of a Breeze—
Or inundation of a Dew
Alarms its walls away—

Nor try to tie the Butterfly,
Nor climb the Bars of Ecstasy,
In insecurity to lie
Is Joy’s insuring quality.

We pity those mortals
who have tasks at hand,
who, if they turn the leaflet,
must do so within the lap of an hour.

For the gods who abode in wilderness
attain the aspects of midges,
and fruit that strikes the barren floor
must return by way of mold,

And the idyllic breath of trees
is tainted by those of spiders,
who pass the day by hanging web
and small talking with their cohort.

Water, which does run its course
in magnificent reprisal
of the solidity of dust and mornings
that come crashing down on morrow,

Must take its penitence in life,
locked by pen and reed,
in its return trip to the sea, it meets
all possibility.

All foolery turns to error
when sung within a hymn,
we mistake that grave thing, Time
amidst the company of ghosts.

Bobby the cat sits in the yard outside,
with a ****** of crows on his mind.
Seven to be exact,
perched in a tree up high.
As Bobby,
down below in the grass where he lies
never flinching an eye, just stares wishing...     Wishing he could fly.

I,
made my bed.
I put prickly pear jelly on toast,
with an egg.
I ,
get me a coffee with lots of sugar,
and roll a cigarette.

I smoke, and watch,
and write and think...
And I see,
A little too much of Bobby the cat
sometimes, in me.

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest ******* made aware.

I struggle so deeply
to feel at home in my body,
all I feel when I look at my chest
is all of the men that used me like a doll
of my mom shaming me in my head
for my *******
and how "provocative " I am
for just existing,
for society sexualizing me,
for all the women that hated me for my body/looks,and objectified me
and all the men that "loved"  me /used me just for my body and sexualized me
with their eyes.

It hurts  so deeply to feel so violated  all the time
it echoes in my mind,body and soul
all the repeated violations words, looks and all the aching laughter,
the way everyone  in my family
sexualized me since I was a child,
so intern I internalized all the hatred to my body and my chest.

I just wander if these people  truly understand
how much their actions truly affect others,
how deeply I suffer with complex post trauma all the time
and dysphoria sometimes,
from the deep pain of ****** violence

when I truly look at it all,
its not even wanting to be a man
so much so , as wanting to be seen as a person.

who is worthy of being heard,
not because I am pretty ***** or curvy
or hot or ****,
but because I am smart I am strong
I am  impressive  and resiliant
have a beautiful mind
and I am not just how I look
or how I present.

My whole life I was influenced and taught to believe
that my only value as a women
was my looks,
or to be chosen by a  man or by my society,
and to exist as a  baby making machine,
while not complaining or being "too much ".
That I shouldn't show my body too much , & that I should always look good 24/7,like I am a doll of some kind, instead of a human being.

How my body was the reason for men sinning
and how I would go to hell for my thoughts or behaviors
if I wasn't perfect.

Now I am realizing none of that truly matters,
and I don't wanna live the rest of my life
chasing validation,
or feeling like I need others approval to feel whole inside,
I wanna accept who I am
love who I am
and like myself for who I am,
and not just for my looks or for my body or sexuality,
but for who I am down to my core
the good and the seemingly bad imperfections
to feel safe in myself and that is beautiful to just be me
without needing to put on a show for anyone.