I give myself a cheery wave,
I deserve a good start at least.
This time is more confident, knowing, loved.

This time
The reflection stays and basks
in the warmth of the love reflected.
The smile is calm, accepting and comfortable.

What once was a shell
has cascaded as it rolled down the hill
gained momentum,
picking things up along the way,
gaining speed and ******* soaring.

Shell no longer, my bounty is full
and I couldn't be more grateful.
My insides are starting to match
my expectations of my outsides again
which feels good.
More than that--I feel like myself.

Heya friend!
I call to my reflection.
Her eyes crinkle and she smiles
throwing the peace sign,
Then she gives me a serious look
and points to our heart
and mouths:

"Protect It,
But Don't Waste Your Potential.
Go Love. Be Loved. Be Love."

She turns to go,
But over her shoulder she turns
and says:

"By the way, I'm proud of you.
I'm proud to reflect who you have become.
You deserve all the happiness life can bring
and all the sadness that sharpens the joy.
Now the goal is to experience everything,
Take it all in,
Don't take any of it for granted
and worship life.
Love and worship really living."

My reflection doesn't leave me,
Even when things are rough these days,
I have learned a lot in days numbered, years, decades,
I can't reclaim my youth
but I can avoid its mistakes for my own sake.

This world is scary enough right now,
People sowing the hatred that snuffs out light
That breaks the glass of shops and places of prayer
and homes of people
who just want to be able to live their best lives,
my hopes for the future dwindle low
but my candle still burns,
and with a thousand candles
and two thousand feet
and ten thousand fingers raised
maybe someone will see
maybe it will cause change?

What will it take?
I hope violence isn't the answer.
I have a family to raise.
A life to live.
In the community I want to make friends in.
I don't want this,
But I have to be a good example
To the generations who come and will
Need. Good. Examples.

I feed my reflection positivity now.
I feed my reflection ferocity and the willingness to speak up.
I feed my reflection hope with motivation to enact change.
I feed my reflection the willingness to accept flaws.
I feed my reflection patience to understand others' perspectives.

A few things have changed though.
We hardened up a little bit.
Around the block a little bit.
I don't put up with narcissist *******,
I handle myself with decorum but push me
and I bite back,
Verbally. Don't talk to me
as if you already know me

I have friends and you friend
are not a friend so go back to
Your friends, this conversation
Is at an end.

What feminine people go through
while you can come out stronger,
it takes a lot of tumbling to get that
gem nice and shiny.

Starting a new chapter,
Me.
I think we've made good choices so far
that lead us here.
There are some weird bumps ahead,
But I think with the support of partners
and loves and lovers and friends
We will help each other get through this
Fighting when we have to,
Leaning on each other,
And never forgetting what we're fighting for.

if I went onto smelling everyone's intentions, wouldn't I have a nose
bleed?' yet even the intentions of love can lead me into an injury –
buckled while smitten, with shaking in excitement of two bruised
knees

and perhaps it is love, that you...

let me run my fingers through your thoughts; curls of your dreams
tangled in my fingers. truly I'm at a loss for words – our tethering
feelings, connected to your heart; we are one pulse

we are stars who shine out their love for each other, though we're
sometimes far apart – we are a spark to a flame blaring echoes of love.
and does the world look at us, as two fallen stars who’ve fallen
in love? here in our silence,
                       as I humbly wait for your response.

Pragya Bhagat's Poem:
this poem isn’t an answer
it’s a question
how do we become the stories we tell ourselves
how do we become the stories we tell
how do we become the stories
how do we become
how do we
how

My response:
Answer Can Be

Or rather the stories become us
Perhaps no becoming
Perhaps they just are
As they wait for expression
Hidden beyond sight

Was the world ever tame,
was the work of mankind ever done,
did we believe we'ld watch the world

work better with our intervention,
our flood preventions failing, time after time,

then came the fuel from eons too distant, as time flees,

we trust the expositors, setting knowledge in foldable
orders of value, secrets worth keeping to use in consort.

Having witnessed the intention declared, the prophet,
bows and backs away, laughing to himself, happy hunting,

here I come, seeking something I may distantly need,
not now, though, ghostly ghucking surrealism seems

certainly, this pose, the position I hold, paid for repose,
bending certain assumptions into gumptions taken on odds,

you bet I can't make myself let you read my mind.
I win.

Larger worlds live in constant once,
upon this time in this bubble.
For a poet in Tanzania it is tomorrow already.

Unexpected things

never startle me, I just --


respond too slowly.

In response to Edge by Sylvia Plath

"The moon has nothing to be sad about,  
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag."
-Edge by Sylvia Plath


The night drips on and on
As they all just watch.
Wonder what got her so far-
What's got her in knots.
This is how they wanted her,
No denying that now.
Perfection in her silence,
Her last breath,
Her broken vow.
The moon has nothing to be sad about.

She looks down on her with apathy,
Just another face in the crowd-
They watch her as she scorches it
All to the ground.
Her body a vessel for pain and for persons,
Her mind gone numb from being treated so worthless.
The moon-
Having seen this all before,
Illuminates the horror within that small home
Staring from her hood of bone.

Although not new,
It is still tragic-
To see such a woman drained of all her magic.
To have once brought life,
The same that she has taken,
And now on her kitchen floor they all lie
Naked.
The moon just sends them back
To the roots of being- for
She is used to this sort of thing.

Life here on earth feels particularly brutal,
Like there is no escape
And to dream of such would be futile.
Don’t let it get you down,
For it is truly just womanhood,
You belong to the silence-
To the frowns.
So tightly sew that pretty mouth shut,
Sworn to be either dead or gagged-
Her blacks crackle and drag.

This here drunk moon sets
The bottle not to blame
A feeble heart all but smitten