"guerilla" poems
Dear Black Girl
I am Sorry
That from girlhood you are not
taught to see
The Beauty in Ebony
Or to realize that the stars are
only seen
With the inkiest skies
And by Year One
You are tucked into a Guerilla
Warfare.
How to avoid jests
From the best of fair critics
Calling the bluff at your skin tone.
How your Lips are some what large
And how your career is in shaking your *** on TV 5 years to come.
How you have to be compared with the lighter skinned girls
Or how you stared many times at the bleaching cream
BUT "YOU ARE PRETTY FOR A BLACK GIRL"
Don't let them define you by the melanin
The one in your Skin
Cos you don't have to be a ******
To make Heaven.
So by your teenage years
You feel you are the PLAN B
of the Black Kings
They only plan to *** you
And leave you
YOU ARE BLACK
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL
So smile
Hold your head up high
Like they say
Black Don't Crack.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
Burnt adolescence, the smell of survivors
The satiric regime beholds.
White-gloved landlords, picking at grapefruit
By what means was this chapter told?
By a pigheaded guerilla lad
In a trench coat and top hat
With an ego to the distance of the sun
Alcohol is flammable
To the ones with sharpened mandibles
For myself, it was all jolly good fun
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
At Bookshop Santa Cruz
I look at a book about the East Bay then and now
One picture strikes me: 1969 Sproul Plaza
Govener Ronald Reagan has the National Guard spray
tear gas on protesters on the steps of this Berkeley Administration Building
People run in black and white
they look like my parents
The helicopter is so close to the ground, like the Vietnam War
I was three
In the backseat of our VW Bug
My mother was driving me to Strawberry Canyon
for a swim
Then she got scared--something on the radio
We turned around
I didn't understand
She had to protect us from tear gas
We lived in a war zone
Everyone was very upset
We were attacked by our own government
Even children were fair game
An innocent frog is placed in water
If the water temperature is raised gradually
the frog will sit there until it dies
In 1980 Ronald Reagan became our President
Much to our dismay
"70% of pollution comes from trees" he had announced
as Governer, he was obviously a man of science
The vice grip clenched, the water temperature raised
as we felt around us the world becoming more
difficult as a middle class
we were supposed to wait for crumbs to fall
from the table of the rich folks
fighting over the bits like starving animals
Budgets were cut
Prices rose, wages fell or disappeared completely
We were at war
1985: I took a class in Economics in college, a UC
I learned that Supply Side Economics was
a silly idea written on a napkin at a fancy restaurant
where the fat ones eat
and the crumbs are thrown away
It was all a sham
An excuse
The vice grip tightened, the world became
more difficult
not the American Dream my parents grew up in
To be middle class was to struggle and struggle and still
not have anything
The frog began to die
Somehow we saw that
Reagan drifted away, but his ghost
remained, a respite in the 90's
Then we were at war again
Not just tear gas, but carpet bombing
Guerilla warfare in the streets of a hot arid country
Oil companies, already saturating our ground and our air with their products
Cashed in
The frog is near death
We struggle, and nothing gets better
Only a respite
At a fancy restaurant
on a napkin someone wrote
a new theory of Economics
that became like Scientology
Outgrew it's ridiculous inception
And became real
Ronald Reagan dropped tear gas
from helicopters on Sproul Plaza
and it drifted to Strawberry Canyon
where children learned to swim
But that is child's play now
the frog is about to die
I want to pull it out.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
if you drill down,
past the hair,
flesh and bone.
into my mind
where the ego
and id reside.
then turn to the left,
and follow the i.q.
down the alley,
you will find
a place.
where on thrones of
cogitating thoughts,
king big questions asked,
reigns in conjunction,
with, queen yet unanswered.
they watch with interest benign,
over a field of an eternal tourney,
split roughly down the middle
by a chasm quite wide.
on one side
of the gorge is arrayed,
the banners of philosophy.
at the vanguard,
the epistemological knights;
plato, descartes, ferrier,
kant, hume,spinoza
and bosanquet.
the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought.
followed by the lesser lights,
and those,
obscure or forgotten,
who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and
to set the tent poles.
as to the other side,
that is given to,
the seminaries of religion;
bhuddism, taoism,
islam, hindu, juche,
rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo,
judaism and christianity
with all its clans.
they array themselves in cadres,
according to belief.
and to the rear,
there rides,
an interesting guerilla band,
of intertestemantals,
about 3 or 4 hundred years wide.
these are the few who are accounted for,
when god spoke nothing,
or perhaps
a lot but the message just got lost.
they number in their disparate clan,
alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans
and pompey the great,
not all, but the noteworthy.
across the divide,
by arrowing thought
were fought rallies of acumen
and battles of wit
and occasionally,
a persipacious fire was lit.
but there is one more player,
to mention.
apathy,
the great hulking ******
who for want of gumption, and get up and go,
sat crouched,
(quite uncomfortably so)
on a spire.
made of mediocracy,
cemented by woe,
in the iddle of the rifted abyss.
unable to decide
with which team to go.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
Copious amounts of lava
seeping over the table
steaming mugs of java
cutting off the cable.
Rara Avis is a Latin term
no sneakers for me today
eaten by the Conqueror Worm
during the month of May.
Date **** drugs
and Sugar Twin
white punk thugs
chasing Rin-Tin-Tin.
Rainbows of black
babies howling out loud
guerilla attacks
a huge raver crowd.
Windshield wipers
with ribbons attached
little sticky diapers
and gates made of thatch.
Alphagetti monsters
smoking a jay
card-carrying punsters
greasy burgers on a tray.
Cute cotton *******
on lithe little nymphs
disappearing shanties
owned by drugged-up pimps.
Rhymes gone bad
a little cash in my pocket
hanging at the pad
and watching Davy Crockett.
People eating doughnuts
***** up on the beaches
hips that do the low strut
and blood ******* leeches.
It all comes down
to a single final thought:
was the Queen's big crown
really traded for a ***
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 11:15 AM UTC
Well Annie now you've done it
through your gyrations, characterizations
imitations
a spot of light of spirit
flipped out into the ether
like some kind of spiritual dandruff
all crystal prisms
twinkling stars shook off of you
and floated
through my eyes and ears
and penetrated and infused
my pumping heart
through my circulatory system
snapping synaptic changes,
touching those places
of
dreams and trances.
Well Annie now you've done it all night long
with images of Olive Oil
and no Popeye
I have become a sailor man
unmoored from the safety of the slip
dragging the anchor
until the tether breaks
and find myself floating
on some Jungian sea
of the unconscious far away from the shore.
Well Annie now you've really done it -
How will this all play out
when walking down the faux marble hallways
as I roll up one wave of imitation
and down another in
clients/secretaries/billing clerks
deranged psychiatrists stories
and all of this reality
grabbing trying ranting riffing
how is this all going to play out
when strange guerilla theatre
erupts on backwards
in administrators offices
and leadership committee meetings
when I spread my legs
as my grand opening
in carrot top hangings
and turn to clients
offer them too
this spirit spark of
courage.
Well you've really done it this time Annie
when my door is locked
and pagers are begging for my attention
but I will be in the room at that desk
throwing rules, regulations
and my professional reputation
to the current winds of unwinding
truths and soulful stories.
When they turn to me
and ask for my forgiveness
in their true confession
or when I shift shapes
to the big onion
when everyone who wanders near weeps
when they ask me for that magic sentence
to make it all okay
or write a treatment plan
or
just a hand on the shoulder;
as they begin to talk
like rooms of old echoes-
I will tell them that will cost them extra.
You've done it now Annie forever
in my minute little world
rocked the boat
that spirit
like the butterfly wings causing the hurricane
of courage.
You've done it now Olive Oil Annie
I have found my spinach
and
freedom cannot be far behind...
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
The Mujahideen fight for their way of life
They simply want to practice their religion
Follow their religion
And live in peace
The Soviets have no right to invade
And tell them how to live
Rocket propelled grenades
Were effectivey used at the Kandahar pass
Soviet tanks were sitting ducks
They met their end
Guerilla fighters
Walk and fight in the mountains
They mastered the ambush
The Battle of Arghandab
The Soviets attacked
An entrenched Mujahideen
The Afghan government forces often defected to the resistance
Some Soviet aircraft
Were shot down by Stinger missles
Provided by the U.S.
The Russian people were lied to
About what their military was doing there
They were told they were nation building
The war caused around one million civilian deaths
And the emigration of 5 to 10 million Afghans
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
The city's shrouded in smoke today
smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes
& I know, I know.
I should be writing in form,
in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima
some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like
everyone's jumped on the bandwagon
yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme
but sometimes this is just the tune
your heart sings, a broken smile
& the way the images build up
waiting to sail like ships in the harbor
& besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted,
the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse,
talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch
& the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked
behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic
glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn
& dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds
like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging
on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening,
searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life,
changing countries like some change bed sheets,
others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling
for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet
childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets,
picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds,
spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol,
writing poems of unrequited love to poets
far better than us, while Elvis croons
in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds
in the Russian town of my ancestors
& an open air film plays in black & white
& this colorless summer is nearly over
& they still haven't lifted their sanctions
them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry,
always lining up the next undesirables :
you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes
you the believer, you the dreamer of visions
Oh pity them, the children of smoke,
blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover
lost children always seeking out the same roads
the city is shrouded in smoke
& I wonder if it's not always been there
& if we're living amongst blind men
ones that never read poems
or else how could all this happen
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Just taking time out to see who's on the park. Been here for a while and there are a few guys who know what the board's for. There's a lad from Deptford who can turn a neat Olley on a Grind. Bit of a curiosity with my long board and northern street style. Had a couple of skate offs and found where the cracks are. Pulled the shoulder AGAIN but nothing serious. Thought there might be the odd ramp here seeing as it's London, the South Bank and all.
Been working on my rotationals. Three Sixty is just fine but the Five Forty is **** I don't think any of these guys here know what a One Seventy is. Well they do now.
Nobody here seems to skate off-park even though there are some well good grind rails and step jumps. Too many people about I suppose.
Saw this lass hitting Toe Edge to Heal Edge turns - VERY bright. Wappo better watch out! She's got him covered. The guys from Wakey would probably clean up down here, but we're guerilla skaters and would probably have the 'ol blue boys on our backs if we did the business. Maybe we should do a recce one weekend? Sleep on my sister's floor.
Reckon Paris is better though - there's those parcours guys about to show you the space. When my Dad goes to Centre Pompidou there's all these great buskers - some serious **** Nobody playing anything round here.
Ok back to the park and a few Primos I reckon. Seen no one doing a glimmer of a Rail Stand so time to clean up a bit.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
<robotic singing>
*The Russians have Colonel Troutman,
Don't know what to do about him,
And the Russians have Colonel Troutman.*
Cannot get any respect in...
...his People they were abandoned,
Heart in chest, it is pounding,
America in fight since founding,
And the Russians have Colonel Troutman.
*The Russians have Colonel Troutman,
Don't know what to do about him,
And the Russians have Colonel Troutman.*
You better believe he's coming,
His name, -Rambo/he's cunning,
The Enemy's weak are running,
Rescue the Colonel, -don't doubt him,
Commie's cannot have the Troutman!
*The Russians have Colonel Troutman,
Don't know what to do about him,
And the Russians have Colonel Troutman,*
Rambo, John J.
Cannot be stopped they say,
Patriot's heart in play,
Russians are going to pay.
Cold War became Hot today,
They don't know what to do about him?
They ****** up when they seized the Troutman!
The Russians have Colonel Troutman,
Don't know what to do about him,
And the Russians have Colonel Troutman.
Rambo is all about 'em,
Coming now, -never doubt him,
John J. the guerilla, -a mountain,
and the Russians had Colonel Troutman.
*The Russians had Colonel Troutman,
Didn't know what to do about him,
And the Russians lost Colonel Troutman.*
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 1:12 AM UTC
Won’t stay too long
You’ll be glad that I did
Trust me
I’m just
An aggressive, bad kid
I see conflict where none exists
Peace in the nothingness
Warring with wretched warmongering
Mind’s abyss
Raised by the lioness
And the guerilla head hunter
The hungriest
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
I wake up and feel something is askew.
Then I remember what I heard last night on the news.
Then I push it aside and turn on the TV.
I’m sure someone can deal with it better than me!
Our politics are failing. Society’s flailing.
Getting’ crushed under the weight of our own pompous detailing.
But I don’t mind, there’s nothing I can do.
I’ll just grab a bite, get another tattoo.
Maybe by the time I’m done, it’ll have worked itself out.
If it hasn’t I’ll just shut my eyes and think of something else!
I guess I could try to make a difference,
But I’ve got more important things I have to deal with.
Like the season finale of my favorite show,
A bottle of Jack to finish and a party to throw!
I guess I can try to help out, if I’ve got the time. We’ll see.
Hey, look! Beer over there is buy-one-get-one-free!
I gotta stock up for the big game tonight.
Gotta go. I’m sure you got the problem covered, right?
Drunks and liars and posers, you’re fired.
Idiots, ********* worldwide mob masses.
Outcasts that walk alone, self-loathers, homophobes.
Jesus freaks. One more drink. Intelligence levels sink.
Dumb jocks and ****** Gangbangers. Guerilla wars.
Drop the dime, save the time. Pretend you’ve lost your mind.
Uppers and downers. Immigrants, minors.
Emos and cheaters, and ******* wife-beaters.
****** ex-girlfriends, freaks, frauds, text message sends.
Alcoholics relapsing. Governments collapsing.
Oil spills, anything for thrills. Hold on, just one more ****
Suicide bombers, no mothers, no fathers.
This world’s so ****** up, how will it end up?
I don’t wanna know, don’t wanna see.
Don’t make me face reality!
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
As I watch
as he
sits in the corner
drinking grain alcohol
that tastes like regret and pain and general unpleasantry
and he weeps
those tears of solid resignation and misery
the scene unfolds before me
of his early days
of being young like me
but having so much passion and commitment to a bigger idea
that he committed
human atrocity
for something bigger
than himself.
As I watch
I cry my own tears
for this man’s lack of youth
because he had no time to squander
and instead
was forced
to live a life
of the worst kind of sacrifice.
And I cry some more
because I
am a self-aggrandizing
son of a *****
if I think my petulant, schoolgirl drama
is ****
compared to this.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
Enlightenment is explosion Its means your mind is virtually certain Either been butchered Or wobbling or wondering Like a curtain thrown from system strongholds Threat of retaliation, with its more we feel the beauty
Trash bins for leftover, Buddha said the same thing A Zen master would say sidewalks If you work too hard the latent anarchists or God will attain anything Not to make everyone the same prostitution Capital into an asphalt jungle, the proportions of our own body Ritual *** on the other hand it may be too idealistic
Blood **** ended no need to talk about Unorganized and we can see the beauty Her face covered with blood you try to do it all at once Since most of the victims realized that you are one One whole, many thousands of innocents Brainwashed whites with reality Anarchy and savagery grew emptiness Subsequently died in a wise and effective way
If an artist becomes, Short intense raids on the system river Sources and supply and human life Put some strength into their veins and die With fingers encircling and incantations of Satan worship Her pretty face was smudged little by little She moaned of eternal life
The meaning lies in a flash about fifty yards in almost a direct hit From a secluded densely wooded suffer in your difficulties Exploded inside your body The projectiles began calmness Something in itself is enlightenment weapons especially for guerilla distress Your life in your effort thundering in the midst We saw beautiful blossoms of some meaning in their ****** toll Know the answer, but while it lasted
Apr 28, 2011
Apr 28, 2011 at 9:19 AM UTC
**** the police I run the city
I am a menace hate and fear me
**** the police I run the city
I am a giant don't get near me
**** the police I run the city
I am a menace hate and fear me
**** the police I run the city
I am a giant don't get near me
I can't be controlled
Guerilla titan rampaging in Seoul
And New York City's under my control
I got the world locked
in a choke hold
Cower in my shadow
Fall down at my feet
Bring out the finest maidens and let beauty slay the beast
**** the police I run the city
Lit by the blaze you look so pretty
**** the police I run the city
Lit by the blaze you look so pretty
**** the police I run the city
Lit by the blaze you look so pretty
**** the police I run the city
Lit by the blaze you look so pretty
London Bridge is down
And oh no there goes Sydney Opera House
As Santiago crumbles to the ground
The world is burning now
Cower in my shadow
Fall down at my feet
Bring out the finest maidens and let beauty slay the beast
Athens... in ashes
Ghiza... under siege
Rio, you're free now
DC belongs to me...
**** the police I run the city
Guerilla Titan Eternity
**** the police I run the city
Guerilla Titan Eternity
**** the police I run the city
Guerilla Titan Eternity
**** the police I run the city
Guerilla Titan Eternity
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
glory glory
glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory glory gloria gloria gloria Gloria gloria gloria gloria gloria gloria gloria gloria glora gorilla gorrila gorrilaa gorilla geurilla geurilla guerilla geurilla geruilla warfare crouching behind a bush in the alaskan heat as the predator
makes it **** -- an albatross swoops by for the scraps a little while later .
still and on stilts, Hi- C and tasty, show biz
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 5:52 PM UTC
**a tribute to
Vivian Francesca Jarvis**
Allow me please some bragging rights
Of this I will attest
My mom's a brave, accomplished gal
She's one of the Best
Born to be an actress
A director and a coach
She starred in Joan of Arc
I have the right to boast
She's been in countless films
A career of great yield
She played with Sydney Poitier
In Lilies of the Field
She is a character actress
Won many awards
To hear her tell her tales of stage & screen
One is never bored!
Not only an actress
My mom's an activist
League of Women Voters
There is quite a list!
She stood up for the poor man
And during Vietnam
She directed guerilla theater
And was threatened with a bomb!
Someone threw a rock
With a note attached
Saying a Molotov Cocktail
Would go through our window next!
She's had trials and tribulations
Depression. Migraines long
But she always rose above it
The Show Must Go On!
Now she is still acting!
Though West Nile Virus took its share
Of a once sharp memory
And she's in a power chair!
She starred in Mother Courage
And truly this is she
I am grateful for my mom
and proud as proud can be!
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 3/6/2016
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
Called-up to muster on the streets,
Lay siege with pencils and paper shields,
Place couplet sentries on every corner,
March in-step with iambic feet,
Shoulder prosaic figures of speech.
Launch antithesis and irony,
Landmine metaphors and similes.
The poets engage guerilla warfare,
Surrounding the body politic
To water board with words and wit.
Our units are indeterminate,
Smearing ink for camouflage.
Be wary of everyone you meet,
Every tree lining your street;
We're making notes in small black pads,
To explicate the nots and haves.
Pens are shovels digging trenches,
Editing walls and blue pencilling fences,
Giving refuge to the marginalized,
From the onslaught of towering directives.
We're parading in our uniforms,
Raising banners, ragged and torn,
Calling on all to weather the storm,
To brace against cyclonic edicts
That swirl and funnel from posturing egots.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 8:24 AM UTC
I want my body to be post-morden art
I want my actions to be guerilla theatre
I want all my words to be poerty
I want my reality to be surreal
I want my mouth to be a ampilfer for my heart.
I want to be a teacher
I want the world to know every part of me
I want you to know how i feel.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Toy guerilla warrior
his voice is pagan smog
his eyes are bitter coal
a rolling pebble
pinning a breach
upon a hedgerow path
he is a Golem splitting a wall
freeing a maiden ******
A Summons to a devil
shoots their tin hearts
a Decoupage screen is
no trust in a redeemer
and I'm on my knees
this All Hallow's Eve.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
The Yellow River
Disoriented by Vietnamese beer,
I enter the hot zone
Approximately four inches
South of my intended
Insertion point,
And am repelled
By an aggressive
Guerilla resistance.
War is hell.
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
Up on the hillside the lone tot recants
The vow made in lust to the one who's free.
For love is not real when all's blood and plants.
A reality this boy can now see.
He looks to the left to the horizon,
a confederacy of dunces say
or so his tools claim, a false liaison.
Nothing is true without the light of day.
So the toy soldier was one with the wind.
This heart that he holds his spirit rescinds.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
Aiyo
Mr president **** you and the white house residents
destroyin' every day life aspects
**** what them ***** politics select
ya thank you can fool me
but muthphuck obama muthaphuck bush
muthaphuck the house of gumpies
ill slam on ya harder than Chris Humpries
**** all that ya talkin' small talkin' heres a big ***** walkin'
stompin' on the hardest grounds
buck the white house to the ground
easily a silhouette so don't forget im a threat
a terrorist by nature guerilla in the mist
**** them ****** suckin' on the devils ****
but make room for United nations cuz they give up *** with no hesitation
form my own syndication
15 millies strong funky cut no armstrong *****
ain't comin'g to be a hero im a violent anti
muthaphuck **** the fAiyo
Mr president **** you and the white house residents
destroyin' every day life aspects
**** what them ***** politics select
ya thank you can fool me
but muthphuck obama muthaphuck bush
muthaphuck the house of gumpies
ill slam on ya harder than Chris Humpries
**** all that ya talkin' small talkin' heres a big ***** walkin'
stompin' on the hardest grounds
buck the white house to the ground
easily a silhouette so don't forget im a threat
a terrorist by nature guerilla in the mist
**** them ****** suckin' on the devils ****
but make room for United nations cuz they give up *** with no hesitation
form my own syndication
15 millies strong funky cut no armstrong *****
ain't comin'g to be a hero im a violent anti
muthaphuck **** the flag smokin' top flight with my rag
top down lookin' for them clowns
so when i cut there nuts ya know i got ;em
rot 'em death scents smells lovely spirits floatin' above me
cuz im down with that t-r-u-e tg to og in everycity
showin' no pity
for them stackhouse clowns so suckas so suckas
better yield when see me approachin' with My G's
**** the WHiTE HOUSEE!!!!!lag smokin' top flight with my rag
top down lookin' for them clowns
so when i cut there nuts ya know i got ;em
rot 'em death scents smells lovely spirits floatin' above me
cuz im down with that t-r-u-e tg to og in everycity
showin' no pity
for them stackhouse clowns so suckas so suckas
better yield when see me approachin' with My G's
**** the WHiTE HOUSEE!!!!!
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
Secret mothers everywhere
On a guerilla mission
to claim their inner goddess
and stake the heart
of every man
to bring balance
to the earth.
Secret mothers need no words
with nothing but a look
recreating the womb
for your solace
let the walls fall
for no one to
pick up again.
Secret mothers everywhere
walking tall and
falling down
and getting up
and dancing for the gift
of their womanhood
with stretched out stomachs
like gunny sacks
full of breath once;
Empty now, but not of promise,
she perpetuates her cycles
like the moon
urging you silently
to cry and drop
the pointless boundaries
you create around
your heart
even though
it feels impossible.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC