"granddaughters" poems
how many generations can
lay with you in your bed?
Matriarch Mama,
honorific due you,
title earned, not learned,
and now a teaching PhDs of
Matriachal Science
let us have tea,
a tea party in you garden,
and the granddaughters
dressed in their church finest,
running noisy but that's ok,
mass is over, and the party
is now a backyard affair
me, a recorder,
standing in the corner,
invisible observing,
leaning on that old banyan tree,
smile playing on
my eyes,
counting
cousins daughters sisters,
and best of the best,
grand babies wilding in their Sunday finery,
even seeing
invisible fathers standing beside me,
but espy only one
Matriarch Mama,
sallying forth,
gunslinger of poetry,
nobody messes with Sally,
she is the brood defender,
poetess not
of the day
she is a
generational inscriber,
an author of a
gene pool of life's best,
her existence,
from heaven, sent a manna,
to feed-across-time
just one family,
an ordinary,
if such there was,
Matriarch Mama
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
My porcelain skin is no match
For the velvety brown of yours
Your soft chocolate eyes are lovelier
While my greens are merely cold
And I should know better than to refuse
To wipe my face on the floor
I should be more of a lady (or a nun)
If I'm to be all you're asking for
You reference the way I was raised
A single mother and an only daughter
And you're sure that I will lead astray
Your potential grandsons and granddaughters
Know that your son is all
The good you exclaim him to be
But he sees the light in these witch's eyes
Where you see death and greed
I now understand that I will never
Be righteous enough in your sight
And it is because of your background
That you accuse and criticize
You will always be his mother
Who cares for him nonetheless
But I will stay his lover
Even while I don't pass your test
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Thirty Hours
Who are these men,
Do they have daughters,
Mothers, sisters, granddaughters?
Do they call tenderly their loving
Wives
Their ******
Behind closed doors?
Thirty hours
In the country
I live, love and worry and wonder about...
This is Justice blinded,
But worse,
Publicly, proclaiming,
I am
Deaf and Dumb,
And lost in Her way.
Thirty hours.
I too, have a question.
Have you no shame?
---------------------------
WASHINGTON — For roughly 30 hours over several days, defense lawyers for three former United States Naval Academy football players grilled a female midshipman about her ****** habits. In a public hearing, they asked the woman, who has accused the three athletes of ****** her, whether she wore a bra, how wide she opened her mouth during oral *** and whether she had apologized to another midshipman with whom she had *********** “for being a **
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/21/us/intrusive-grilling-in-rape-case-raises-alarm-on-military-hearings.html?emc=eta1&_r=0
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
I cannot believe the **** culture that exists in these modern times. We, as Women live life thinking that our rights have have come a long way since those times when we had little to none but have they really? Have our rights gone anywhere when we are still, now WARNED about **** when we are told ‘you need to be careful, you’re vulnerable, watch out for **** Why is it our responsibility to not be ***** why is it not our responsibility as a nation to educate our young Men on **** to educate them on a Woman’s right to say ‘No’ and to not have it ignored, argued with or discussed, to have it accepted, respected. Why is this placed upon our shoulders, something for us to guard against, something for us to worry about as we walk down a street, as we walk through our towns and something for us to be blamed for when we wear a short skirt, a tank top, tight jeans and are therefore ‘asking for it’. I was warned about being ***** today on the bus, an old man said to me ‘you be careful, you watch out, a young woman with a body like yours’. This is the body God gave me, this is the gender God gave me, this is the woman that God made me and why should I therefore have to protect myself against being ***** because of it? This is **** culture and it needs to change NOW.
How can this be accepted? How can we ignore this when we have daughters, granddaughters, sisters, nieces, friends, sons, grandsons, brothers being raised with this perspective, this ideology, this **** culture?
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
dear lost damaged goods the next time u come my way, remember how last time u acted foolish and karma made u pay
dear lost and damaged goods next time u get into anther pretendership remember sometimes big ***** women cheat and lie too
dear lost damaged goods please remember that when u speak those negative words to her they will be repeated to your daughter and future granddaughters
dear lost and damaged goods remember she only wanted ur time and loyalty so when ur with the next chick left feeling sick and blue remember.... her the one u over looked who wanted nothing more than ur friendship first pure and true
dear lost and damaged goods remember she was hurt multiple times to but never once did she ever deceive you
dear lost damaged goods next time u god places u before another queen like me bow down let her know the real you! Damaged broken man
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:25 PM UTC
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay
this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,
even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,
what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s
couplets.
to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
decade,
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend
Pradip,
my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
<>
Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York
<>
read the poetry of
https://hellopoetry.com/pradip-chattopadhyay/
<>
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 12:27 PM UTC
(the hours in between)
It is the morning after reuniting, wining and talking...the stirring of the curtains transparent, become slow moving hands and calming whispers of a hypnotist, blending perfectly with the gentle whiff of a breeze...and the soft sounds of one who has just woken...a hint of a breath of life...there is much gratitude.....these early morning whispers could still be heard...quietude is a swaying hammock, but sleepy eyes peep through the window, gazing far, enthralled by the horizon...red, orange, purple.....merging.....against green and brown of the mountains...and from all these mix of colors, finally emerges a sky so blue...a new day is born, the Almighty is most kind...but something else unsettles the mind of one who has gone through many arduous journeys...asking:
"How did I fare"? Can I still...? Will I...?"
Now shining bright is a list of
Things yet to happen...intentions---
Disguised as questions.
Though this has long been conceptualized,
There's this pressing feeling, they must now be prioritized
Pray they soon be realized
Before exit from this world has materialized.
Can I still -
Be brave enough to swim? drive a car? ride a bike?
Meet with distant friends? learn new languages?
Write with more depth, even when I turn 80... and older?
Fly in a plane with my son as the pilot in command?
See my granddaughters finish college?
Will I still be able -
To satisfy this wanderlust endlessly stirring within me?
To ride a camel in the deserts of Morocco?
To feel the sun, the air, even the rain, while walking the cobbled streets in Tuscany?
To spend an evening in Florence?
To visit Greece, Spain, Ireland, Wales, and relive stories read?
To feel and breathe the air there, brimming with adventure?
We walk through various labyrinths in life, so absorbed in our own worlds...hours, days, become prosy, they move oh, so slowly.......still, when the dark is upon us, we sit and reflect...wondering:
Will we see another day unfold before us?
Do we get to witness
The Blue Hours of another sunrise and sunset,
And further be enchanted by the day's breath-taking
A L P E N G L O W ?
How many more
A L P E N G L O W S ?
Sally
Copyright August 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
When I grow old, I hope I have wooden bones
that chip with a sculptors chisel and decompose
into the same soil as the dirt underneath my nails.
When I grow old, I hope I've found my green thumb,
and haven't forgotten Eden's hum, to have a garden to
drink coffee in.
When I grow old, I hope I still smoke tobacco from a pipe,
and read by candlelight, I hope I look back on life
and feel at peace when I go to bed at night.
When I grow old, I hope I find company in a woman with
grey hair whose somber, but bright eyes still stare at the Robins through the morning sun's glare. I hope she hasn't forgotten
how to smile when I'm being senile. And her joyous laugh still resonates deep in her stomach.
I hope we talk about the weather, how last winter was
better, and that we grieve well growing old together.
When I grow old, I hope the young ones will take my
mundane advice, and even if they find it trite,
pretend that it's wise.
I hope I have granddaughters and sons who'll be
just as excited for the sunrise as I, sharing the same
childish wonder for dawn's light sky.
When I grow old, I hope I still hope,
and haven't sunken into the stodgy bitterness that
plagues old men,
but still remain with fiery kind eyes that yearn
to turn earth into God's garden again.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 2:10 PM UTC
Snow is falling outside
And the night wind is blowing.
Three little sisters run in the white fields,
Wearing gloves and coats.
They throw snow ***** at each other, filling the
Wind with laughter. They move away now,
And begin making a snowman.
Once his body is completed,
The girls run to fetch a blue snow-hat,
A green scarf, a carrot for the snowman’s,
And two pebbles for his eyes.
Now they have a snowy friend to keep them company.
Bells are ringing! It is time to decorate the tree!
A box is brought outside and from
It the girls pick their ornaments.
With smiles that reach their ears and gentle hands,
The sisters hang the different colored *****
And behold a twinkling Christmas tree.
The third poem that I wrote for my friend's three granddaughters
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
for Onorio Zaralli
Wherever we look, my friend,
we see children at play.
and children in school .
We see children in triumph
and children at risk.
We see mothers at work
or lost in thought.
We see mothers on the edge -
survivors striving for a rainbow.
We see aged ones,
proud of their grand-kin's deeds
and of marks they have etched
on the universal ledger.
We are our forefathers and sons,
granddaughters and mothers,
foraging our way through chaos -
searching for the best map home.
So we hone our skills
and practice our trades
to harvest our daily portions
and navigate the tides of time.
Whoever we are today,
wherever we might wander.
we are our only hope for a better day
the only “us” we can cherish.
Lost in dreams, my eyes gently close
hoping for a well-marked path to follow
paved with respect, compassion and justice
where we may all walk together in harmony.
© 2019 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
My blood pressure escalated
Upon sight of the messy living room.
There was clutter everywhere,
Even on the dining table.
The bedrooms weren't spared at all.
I went to the bathroom, I slid and hit the floor...
What's a ball doing inside the bathroom?
My eyebrows curled....but,
I refused to give in to the situation.
With a sigh, I went to the kitchen
To get coffee and a sandwich,
With marmalade and cheese....
As I opened the fridge, an avalanche
Of cheese, butter and bread
Fell on my feet.
I was really upset by now, but,
I decided to print some recipes, instead
I loaded some paper into the paper tray,
But got stuck all the way. Just as I suspected....
Carefully, I pulled out underneath the tray,
A ball pen, a pencil, and some sticks of crayolas.
Too much to take at this early hour, I told myself.
I sat on the sofa, smiled as I saw a photo of
Myself, with five beautiful girls.....sweet little angels....
I imagined their faces, wearing naughty smiles,
Their antics, and their tactics, as well, their mischief...
I thought that,
...........life is too short, time is fleeting............
...........also, I'm not getting any younger.............
...........precious moments rarely happen twice.......
...........they'll be young ladies soon enough........
...........the house would be too neat by then........
...........no more cookie crumbs on the carpet........
...........no more scattered toys and books on the floor......
...........no more writings on the wall,
...........disastrous games and all..........
I miss my five granddaughters already.......
Oh, what the heck! I sat back and relaxed
Amidst the mess and clutter.....I closed my eyes,
Savoring moments of pleasure, past and present,
On a stressful day, like today........
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
This is the tale of a shy quiet lad who never went anywhere without his lucky coin.
When alone he would toss it in the air but never too high because he was afraid he might lose it.
And if he were to lose it; he'd lose it.
During holidays he kept it in the front pocket of his dress coat; so it was close to his heart.
In public it was always in his hand which was plunged deep in his pocket. He'd toss and turn it there making sure it never left.
When he slept he placed it in an envelope and stuffed it under his pillow. He knew that it would be there when he woke and would sleep soundly through the night.
This tale of a shy quiet lad continued into his adulthood.
He kept doing this same thing with the coin.
Tossing.
Front pocket.
Hand.
Envelope.
Tossing.
Front pocket.
Hand.
Envelope.
Tossing.
Front pocket....
The shy boy, now a man, had married.
They had a son who grew to be successful and greedy.
The shy boy got older and his wife grew weak and fragile. She past one night in December at only 60 years of age. He was broken.
His son had since married and had children.
Three girls.
And finally a son.
The shy boy, lonely and still very shy, watched as his granddaughters grew into beautiful women.
They were eager, smart, cunning, social, and talented.
There was something different about his grandson.
He was quiet and kept to himself.
The shy boy looked at him one day. He was sitting in the garden reading a book. Two young boys came up to him and asked him to play football. He politely declined and went back to his book.
The shy boy smiled and thought. . . . .
This is the tale of a shy quiet lad who never went anywhere without his lucky coin.
When alone he would toss it in the air but never too high because he was afraid he might lose it.
And if he were to lose it; he'd lose him
During holidays he kept it in the front pocket of his dress coat; so he was close to his heart.
In public it was always in his hand which was plunged deep in his pocket. He'd toss and turn it there making sure he was always with him.
When he slept he placed it in an envelope and stuffed it under his pillow. He knew that he was watching over him and would sleep soundly through the night.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 5:39 AM UTC
He is the buddha in their household.
When he arrives from work,
his two elder daughters run to his sides
already holding their guitars,
wanting to start jamming with him
right there and then.
The two younger ones
stand close to his feet,
waiting to be swung with his arms
as soon as he puts down
his heavy black bag.
His third daughter just hugs him tight,
his tummy choking within her tiny arms.
Right now, he is walking on air,
smiling widely, as his five girls
give him their gifts of homemade
loom bands and paper robots,
as they all greet him loudly---
"happy father's day, daddy!"
He is my son, Norman,
he is the father of my five
granddaughters...
He is the buddha in their
household....
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
i wonder if he looks back on his life and feels
disappointment.
this man who calls two strangers his granddaughters,
strangers who can’t speak in his tongue and who know
nothing about him. not even his name.
to us he is ye-ye and not much more.
i wonder if i will cry when he dies.
ye-ye has heart problems
again, my dad tells me. his arteries are too small,
the blood can’t get through.
i don’t think i will cry
but i can sense my dad’s quiet panic.
it manifests itself in his voice,
the number of phone calls back to china,
his google searches on my laptop that appear on my phone.
he knows his father’s time is coming,
and guilt scratches at my throat because the tears don’t come.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
" I was not looking for a cage
In which to mope in my old age." --- W H Auden
Turning sixty-five is not without its pleasures,
though the parameters of youth are rendered void.
You discover illusions are become a virtual reality,
a chimera you never outlived whose core is unmalleable.
So, one finds solace in their granddaughter,
who is unshackled by your paradoxes,
who presupposes only links to the obtainable.
And yet, she loves her "silly grandpa".
Old age is unexpected and doubt arises in the doctrine of wisdom,
a daily glass of prune juice becoming regiment.
Yet, granddaughters can connect the dots,
and, just maybe, afford us that second chance.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
(Morning Poetry with Lola)
Wednesday started with a cold, cold morning.
i wrapped myself with a thick blanket,
hid my "popsicle toes,".....seeking warmth
from recollections that played in my mind
like pleasant, joyful summer, music.
when my kids were toddlers,
i started them off with, "all things bright and
beautiful, all creatures great and small..."
but, as they grew a little older, my mother,
she woke them up each morning with,
"o captain, my captain,
our fearful trip is done..."
and then, tomorrow, we would hear,
" i shot an arrow into the air
it fell to earth...i knew not where,"
the next morning, my mother's feature could be,
"of course, i love my country,
the land in which i live,"
some days we would hear reruns....but,
the week would never be complete, without
her most favored one....which, she delivered
with a valiant voice, while pounding her chest:
"...i am the master of my fate;
i am the captain of my soul!"
my kids rubbed-open their eyes in awe,
as they listened to their lola..'til they were done
with their morning rituals.
their lola kept a copy of longfellow's evangeline
but she didn't live long enough
to share it with her five great-granddaughters.
God knows...my late mother knows, i did my part,
to open the eyes...and minds of these girls,
to waken THAT awareness in them, that would
make them see, and feel...the beauty of poetry.
not everyone realizes the importance,
the necessity.....of poetry,
that life itself...........is poetry,
that, when you're a poet,
and when you're deep into it,
........you cannot just let go
for, it clings to your heart and soul,
it is like,
your second skin
...................
it's a hard habit
to break.
..................
............
the older girls read poetry...and mythology, as well,
a mix of classic and contemporary,
......but they and i, have added thoreau,
dylan thomas, teasedale, and many more
names to their lola's most favored
longfellow, henney, and whitman.
.................
.......
Sally
Copyright December 7, 2017
rrab
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
Morals are learned
from the person that means the most to you in your life
She taught me how to live
regardLESS of what others thought
she taught me how to be one of the others
and let people live how they want to
REGARDless of what I think.
she taught me to shoot for my dreams
no matter how big or small.
Be outspoken but not too.
be nice and sometimes too much.
cherish every moment no matter how sad.
keep calm and cook on.
she taught me how to do something for someone
that someone mostly being her.
She taught me to take people in as if they were my own.
Care for them
feed them
house them.
she taught me to search and find remarkable people.
She is remarkable.
She cares for the earth and the continuation of the human race
more than any mother or father loves their child.
She's getting up there in the ages.
old as the dust bowl
old as Woodrow Wilson through Barack Obama
old as the true spirit of Council Grove
She started Council Grove as far as I'm concerned.
She can and will live as long as I am alive.
I will continue my life for her.
I will stop being mean for her
I will never attempt to allow the world to end for her.
She did it for not only me,
but her son
her daughters
her grandsons and granddaughters
her family that isnt of the same blood
and even for you,
The clueless reader.
Let me break it down for you
so you know what I say is true
Helen Judd made a ******* difference.
How about you?
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
I find myself wondering
about young men today
why don't they open doors
for their women?
What happened to chivalry?
Please don't start screaming
about women "burning their bras"
because there's more to it than that
What happened to the generation
of fathers that taught their sons
about respecting ladies
and protecting them?
now it seems most of the
younger male generation
use girls for ****** gratification
and personal idolization
I have granddaughters
they have been taught well
they will not degrade themselves
for some pimple faced ****
with a bad attitude
come on down to Maw Maws house
I'll give a lesson or two about manners
yup me, my sweet tea and my trusty 347
bring it on *******
this old lady ain't no frump
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Today the skies were sunny and
bright, but not for me.
People were out walking in the
streets, I had nowhere to be.
Somebody was singing karaoke
while hearing a favorite song.
I couldn't seem to do anything
right, without thinking wrong.
In the garage I found one of my
granddaughters favorite toys.
Then I found myself becoming
sad because I have no boys.
My wife saw something on sale,
she said I would like this honey.
I kept saying to myself, we just
don't have the money.
Usually I'm the one who could
tell the best told stories.
Nothing seem to be right anymore
since fibromyalgia stole my glory.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
A small pond sits quiet in a meadow,
Circling it are three majestic willows.
The long green branches reach down
And the leaves brush the water’s surface,
Creating tiny ripples that grow and spread.
It is quiet here, in this meadow.
The breeze that lifts the
Willow branches is calm,
And the animals that occupy
The little corners are at peace.
Here, in this quiet meadow,
Stand three majestic willows,
Each one casting a reflection in the water.
Another poem of three that I wrote for my friend's granddaughters
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
(a repost...edited)
I AM GRATEFUL---
for having my family
my five granddaughters, especially
they are safe and healthy
we have roof over our heads and
clothes to keep us warm
there is always food on our table...
I AM GRATEFUL, THAT ---
on each new day, i am able to
get up, alone...without much effort
can wash my face, brush my teeth,
clean my bathroom regularly
take a shower on my own
cook what i want to eat,
eat alone...
change the curtains in our house,
change my bedsheets without help,
as often as i want to...
I AM GRATEFUL, THAT I ---
still celebrated another birthday
was able to say THANK YOU!
will be with family and friends on Thanksgiving day
made scary decors for Halloween
decked our house with a tree and lanterns before December
hang stars, angels in corners and in between
am strong enough to put them all away when Christmas is over...
I AM GRATEFUL I AM STILL ABLE TO WITNESS
how a night of fireworks and celebrations
easily segues into a day of new beginnings...
I AM GRATEFUL THAT I CAN ---
write, share my thoughts, my moments,
look back to the past with a smile,
find contentment where i am now,
be with good friends, old and new,
look forward to my future,
wake up to each new day
and another.......and
another.....and
another...
and
A N O T H E R .
Thanksgiving must come with every breath
For we are showered with Blessings without end...
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
You’ve had fifty fantastic years,
Many were there but now not here.
And many are here
That were not there.
That’s how life unfurls over fifty years.
Let’s celebrate these decades
Of devotion to one another;
For around us we have familiar faces,
A family of sisters and brothers,
Aunts, Uncles, Fathers and Mothers;
Grandas, Nanas, Papas and Grams,
Daughters, sons, nieces and nephews,
Granddaughters and grandsons,
Cousins, in-laws, and step-laws too.
We are family.
A tribe that began with the original six,
Then Danny met Maura to add to the mix
With Colleen and Sean our clan's enhanced,
And since many more are heaven sent.
So let me end with a toast and a wish,
That we continue to multiply
Like the loaves and the fish.
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
my face is on my grandmother's lacy diningroom table
it used to laugh through the creaky hallways
and pounce up the wooden stairs
and lay in the creek
but now it is imprisoned on the table
with all the other relatives
who are gone
that my grandmother
leaves there.
she walks by them
dusts the shelves by the big window
arranges chairs
avoids my frightening grandfather
reads books
drinks her tea
stares at the ghosts of her granddaughters
seated around her diningroom table.
i didn't mean to haunt her
i am sorry
grandmother
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
To the girl who lies awake
Who cannot remember a time
She wasn't crying
She wasn't aching
She wasn't struggling
To breathe, to love, to live
To the girl
Who cannot see
Through the broken glass
Thick with the words of others
Who has been called
Nothing
Worthless
Annoying
Or sensitive
To the girl who has been told
You are not strong
You are not smart
You are not capable
To the girls who have been told
To keep their mouths shut
To obey
To conform
To stop fighting
To the WOMEN
Because we should stop
Calling you girls
We should stop limiting your potential
Minimizing your pain
Generalizing your struggles
To the WOMEN
With voices
And opinions
And emotions
To the WOMEN
Who fight day in and day out
To the WOMEN
Who have been told
Your pain is less than another's
Your story is not important
Your testimony is not
Enough
To all of the women
Who have seen and felt and wanted
Who have loved and hated
Who have been hurt
Oppressed
And smothered
To the women who remember
The very last day of their girlhood
With painful clarity
To the women who hear us
And cannot speak
To the women who have been waiting
For this movement
This is for the women who have watched us
Screaming at the top of our lungs
Fighting for this moment
For change
For a new world where our daughters
May walk with their heads held high
Where our sisters
May march like warriors
And KNOW
That there is fire in their blood
Where our mothers
May watch us manipulate our destiny
And carve out our dreams among the stars
So the we may sit in thrones
Alongside them
Because we are mighty
We are fierce
And we are where we are today
Because of the sacrifices they made
The women before us
Suffering
Despairing
And fighting
We will not give up
We will not give in
This is to all of my sisters
Women who feel the same calling
Who feel the defiance
Burning in their eyes
In the faces of their oppressors
This is to my sisters
Who feel they do not have the voice
Or the strength
Or the will
To keep fighting
We will fight for you
We will carry you
We will be your voice
We are no longer alone
And fear no longer has a say here
Time's up
And the time is now
We will rip the muzzles from our mouths
And we will scream
Until the streets run red
With the truth we live
Every
Single
Day
We will not be silenced
We will not be stopped
We will ferociously
And furiously
And fearlessly
Fight
The bonds will break
The earth will rattle beneath our feet
And we will bring a change with us
That will ripple through time
So that our granddaughters may sing
A song full of freedom
This is to all of you
A promise
An invitation
I will fight for you
My voice will join the millions of others
And I will stand
Until my legs fail
And my body crumbles
And even then I will still cry out for you
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC