I cannot recall you gentle
yet through your heavy love
I have become
an image of your once delicate flesh
split with deceitful longings.

When strangers come and compliment me
your aged spirit takes a bow
jingling with pride
but once you hid that secret
in the center of furies
hanging me
with deep ******* and wiry hair
with your own split flesh
and long suffering eyes
buried in myths of little worth.

But I have peeled away your anger
down to the core of love
and look mother
I Am
a dark temple where your true spirit rises
beautiful
and tough as chestnut
stanchion against your nightmare of weakness
and if eyes conceal
a squadron of conflicting rebellions
I learned from you
to define myself
through your denials

audre lorde

The world is full of shade and prose
And I don’t know what to do anymore
Audre Lorde said “silence will not protect you”
But I been weaving my silences into a survivor’s quilt
Because I’m tired of surviving
And I’m cold and want to use it as my blanket
Out there in that cold *** world

The world is full of shade and prose
*** workers on boulder highway
Wanna be poets writing in spanglish
White privilege, patriarchy and all
I kinda wish I’d write songs instead of poems
You know, songs about love
But no
Cuz the world is full of shade and prose
Bus stops/stop and frisk
Judgment day enthusiasts/Holocaust deniers
I am tired of “it happened before I was born”
And “I feel guilty but I did not ask to be privileged”
And when I say: Then do something
They ask me “what?”
I reply: NO
The world is full of shade and prose

The chicken never made it across the street
There is so much deconstruction
And so little relief
We will soon end up homeless
And will have to pawn the master’s tools
Or maybe just sell them at the swapmeet
For a dollar or two

I mean who cares as long as we’re in love
If at the end
The world is full of shade and prose.

Give me fire and I will sing you morning
Finding you heart
And a birth of fruit
For you, a flame that will stay beauty
Song will take us by the hand
And lead us back to light.

Give me fire and I will sing you evening
Asking you water
And a quick breath
No farewell winds like a willow switch
Against my body
In a dark room.

audre lorde.

"At this point in time, I believe that women carry within ourselves the possibility for fusion of these two approaches as keystone for survival, and we come closest to this combination in our poetry. I speak here of poetry as the revelation or distillation of experience, not the sterile word play that, too often, the white fathers distorted the word poetry to mean — in order to cover their desperate wish for imagination without insight."

"Poetry is not a luxury... Through poetry we give name to those ideas which are until the poem nameless and formless."

by Audre Lorde

This is a poem for nobody’s eyes
About my students
my flowering black and brown baby girls
more bud than human, saying all singsong how
black is ugly ugly ugly
holding their arms up to
one another, comparing hues
About the instant I realized
I loved women too
and sagged hard against my bedroom door while
dread and hope danced a strange dance
in the pit of my gut
About the college kids I see in class everyday
popping Aspirin and Xanax and the pill
with their headphones and angry publicness and
******* ******* **** this
and notebooks and pens and
soft privateness and
I love you I need you I need you
About the boy I couldn’t speak to for years
without feeling sick or small or unrequited
About Audre, Toni, and Maya teaching me
how to start revolutions with a word
About how I dream again and again
of kissing the girl I am in love with
and sometimes
we are the in the dark and sometimes
we are laughing and sometimes
I am moving breathless
into the room saying
I have never loved you more than I do at this moment
and lips are on lips are on lips
About how I can’t look at this one
pink nightgown because I was wearing it
when my father said he was cheating and
too many tears fell on those
tiny satin cherries
About Holden Caufield and that
******* merry-go-round
About a crazy, unquiet and
utterly illuminated self
Me, spoken yet unspoken

Each day that passes, I am more proud to be a woman.
I witness the sexism I face in the most basic of conversations but women I aspire to be more like motivate me, remind me
We hold so much power.
I may not have marched with Angela Davis or Audre Lorde,

But a girl asked if I thought she was pretty today.
As I applied man made make up to her face so maybe just maybe someone would notice her like I did,
I thought of how this response could change her outlook.
"Yes. Do you like your hair and make up?"
"Yes. Do you like it?"
"I think you're perfect."

See in that moment no man could tell me that it's easy being a woman or that I'm too uptight or take my job too seriously because these girls look up to me. Knocking on my door for whatever reason because they trust me. They listen when I'm stern and embrace my humor. As a woman I am able to tell girls they are beautiful as they look at me as inspiration. Moments like this I am Audre or Angela simply because I am making a difference, shaping young women. I hold so much power.

Like Rilke, Plath, and Angelou,
Who carved their pain in something true—
Like Ginsberg’s howl, like Frost’s still road,
Like Keats who sang though death forebode—

I want to stand among those names,
Not draped in wealth, not lit in flames,
But whispered low in quiet rooms
Where hearts still bloom and silence looms.

Let Dickinson’s hush guide my tone,
And Neruda's fire fuel my own.
Let Audre’s rage and Hughes’ grace
Be echoes laced in what I face.

No gilded frame, no grand parade—
Just poems that don't slip or fade.
A line that someone can’t erase,
A verse that finds its proper place.

Not viral clicks or printed fame—
But lovers mouthing out my name
Beside a lamp, a sleepless bed,
A single line still in their head.

Like Lowell’s ache, like Bishop’s gaze,
Like Whitman’s vast, embracing phrase—
I want to write the kind of truth
That outlives time and shatters youth.

So mark me not with gold or stone,
But let my stanzas walk alone—
Alive in those who chance to see
The soul I left in poetry.