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She wrote poems about sunflowers
and about the colors of each of the different flavors in her afternoon tea.

She wrote about the foot-worn path in the concrete floor of the history museum;
About a stranger’s dog who licked her hand at the park.

And to her future child,
And to the boundlessness of love she knew but could not fathom that existed in a forever-expanding space inside her,
And about that brave and resilient seed shared by all of science and art,
the interconnectedness of all things.

In radical joyful tones,
she documented the goodnesses of her Ordinary on scraps of paper and deposited them into a small chest,
her Memory Bank.

The people pointed at the lonely beergazer
The outraged wunderkind
The housebound widower
Each lost in the past or in the future.
Ah, misery.
The father of poetry.
They would shake their heads,
A shame, they would say.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town or maybe the world,
the mother of poetry, undeterred,
sat in her garden
singing to the souls of the vegetables.
Elizabeth Kelly Dec 2021
We are all mothers
As we care for one another while going about business as usual
Our greatness in the guidance of the women whose scalloped hands stirrup our feet in the rooms and halls and roads of our lives
Who we notice only when we focus our eyes on our own faces, on our own working hands, on our own burdened hearts.
Gabe Oct 2020
Men in power once thougt
to make decisions about women's bodies
without comprehension of such aberration of human rights
Once you **** women off, better run.

Lions in nature
They fight for themselves and their cognates.
So beware of their anger
Once you **** women off, better run.

Those beautiful, mistakenly considered fragile
creatures are ready to sacrifice the universe
To protect their families
Thus why to test their patience and persistence?
I'm from Poland and recently the government has outlawed abortion due to feutal defects and as a woman I cannot agree to that
Kara Shirlene Aug 2020
Do not treat me like an object.
I'm not a pleasure tool for your lust.
I am a human,
I do not care about your ******.

So listen as these words hiss off my lips:
I demand respect, and will accept nothing less.

Do not whistle at my back.
I am not here for your entertainment.
I will not turn to give your ego attention.
My patience has been spent.

And lest you er forget-
Without my kind you would not exist.
Alone you were not sufficient,
So God took out a rib.
©KSS 7/2018
Kimi Sanchez Jun 2018
there is power in being a girl
but there's also sadness
                    ­        anger
and most of the time it's hard to find strength in being a girl
except in knowing that the sisterhood is rising,
we're coming,
a force to be reckoned with
and nothing to stop us

there is power in being a girl
and there is also inevitability
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Endless scoldings from the Nanny
mean-face global fascist granny;
data-driven witch of woe
born of winter’s frigid flow.

Boys rebel in her dull school:
passive subversion of her rule.
Minds thus stagnate—shut down early
graduating sullen, surly;
unsure why they hate the world,
emasculated and begirled.
Oh snap! No Haiku.
Got to come up with one quick . . .
OK (breathe again)
ConnectHook Apr 2018
We’ll give GOD credit
while you shriek: humanity !
On it must go—
dialectic insanity.
You have been programmed
for dumbed-down diversity:
through global perversity.
is a God-given blessing.
Appreciate it.
The Mother, gets Father
to crush them when
they are babies.

Father always wanted too
crush them anyways,
While Momma, she...

Tamed him, Father; see?
By giving them over
to be crushed
some day.

...always defer to some other camp,
put it in VEGAS terms...
focus on and then to say,
Revolve your mind
turn around.

When my grandmother dies,
I hope they fill her casket with flowers.
So that the last time we see her,
she is nestled in amongst
the delicate feathered petals of mountain bluet
haloed by the bright yellow of birdsfoot
the length
of her soft
decaying body
is caressed by the long stalks of bottle brush
and bog candle
so that we can imagine her,
splayed out in a warm field
on the outskirts of St Johns
laughing in the sunlight
the weight
of such a long life,
of mothering so many children,
melting away
into the warm red soil.

I hope the service
is held in a small white church
with all the windows thrown open;
the clear air and the sunlight
tumbling down onto our heads,
onto her lightly clasped hands,
onto her soft  lips...

I hope they read poems for her
play light happy songs for her
I hope
everyone remembers to tell her
they love her.
I will ask,
that they bury her somewhere
with a good view of the stars,
lay her to rest where the wind
blows the smell of the ocean over her,
and she can admire the sunrise
under the arms of a gentle Alder.

I hope we remember
that she has loved
so deeply
that she has laughed
and lost
and been so unbearably human
all of her life
even when she has been quiet
even as she has cared for us.

I hope we remember
what a resilient woman she is
but also how tender.
How new she once was,
to love
and to it’s touch.

And when I
am someone’s grandmother
I hope they remember
that even I,
was once somebody’s lover.
JLB Apr 2014
I  find myself diving inside of you where the weird dream shamans draw sketches of naked humans.
And you’re a human, and we're both naked. You’re purple, you’re just the perfect shade. I place my flag inside, to abscond us away inside of a womb where our world will open to portals to all of our favorite places. A floating haven, of cashmere. Gestating where the climate is warm and damp, and coloring me dark with wine—sweet wine of lovers, penal, forgotten, and fermented anew in maternal rite, because…
This swarming melodic nectar that swims through my nostrils and rolls in my eyes cannot be drank casually. It’s the elixir of love. I love you,
And in you, I find that I love myself.

What’s more, the shamanists exclaim, “She wants to give you all of herself.” Yes, they’re right. Even what I do not love so much, I want you to have, if you’ll take it, because I have to live with it, and if you live with me, you’ll have to live with it too. And then, when you crack open your sternum to let the things in, the scribes of my life’s doing, of ancient passion proclaim! They burn their papyrus scrolls soaked in the blood that I drew from my veins to pass unto yours— and you swallow them whole like divine burritos. And then we are ready for the world to fall suddenly, if it felt so inclined. Now that our chests are pressed together, and our tongues are fused tight.  We are the daughters of the prima mother. We are the goddesses of our dreams.

— The End —