"matriarchs" poems
A gentle soul that once,
Trod well, worn paths,
Laid down by matriarchs past.
Now just,
Brittle bones baked by a searing heat,
Bleached beyond a perfect white.
Here lies the last elephant.
© Nick Strong 2014
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Elevate the sound
Slowly and surely
you have to listen
smell, taste and touch
the music
Alcohol? Yes.
Drugs? Yes.
What kinds? All kinds.
60 people in a room w/ worn out walls
an unwanted male is followed by hecklers
the matriarchs have had enough
and bull him to the door
He doesn't want to leave
the party is just beginning
The clowns follow him
like wild hyenas
He fights like a lion
targets the clan of the matriarch
the young and weak
is it correct to aim the violence on the weak
because the strong is of the opposite gender?
Is it right to abuse the rule
Woman: the untouchable
People being to watch
w/ their dying spectators eyes
in another section a large male confronts the house owner
They begin their violent dance of limbs
Swarming bodies collide
violent outburst
chaotic music to accompany
I scream a devils scream
fighting everywhere
Another matriarch
she jumps on the crowd
using a whiskey bottle for a club
dancing on top of the twirling bodies of energy
A pit-bull barks aggressively
people start to jump out windows
everybody is way too high
The fighting stops
with the arrival of cops
nobody listens
their vision of authority thwarted
nobody is arrested
narcotics present
amphetamine fuel
We burned a cross in a large fire half an hour earlier
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
A delicate crimson rose endures
The snow and winds of winter's grasp
And closes up and wilts a while
Until Summer sun it finds at last
In this world of unrighteousness
Where brutes and ogres' egos roam
And selfishness abounds like weeds
She exists in shattered form
With silent seething disilusion
And saddened, unrequited love
Maddened by the unjust acts
of those who advertized their “love”
A vain and self-indulgent god
Did sieze himself her mind and oath
Presiding as the demons do
In hidden acts pronounced as gross
Enduring the madness of matriarchs
And the hostility of tribal gang
Where smiles of familial welcoming
Turned into savage, jealous fangs
Yet though the bitterness seeps through
And anger permeates her skin
Sweet dignity she still retains
And devotion stll resides within
Her adornment incorruptible
Her spirit mild and resolute
Did not return evil for evil
But stood and conquered it with good
Happy is she who has endured
And in mild subjection did remain
Showing honour to a painful degree
To bring honour to Jehovah's name
And though she stumbled in despair
Yet withstood for righteous sake
Her loyalty, the beast could not sever
Nor divine concsience could he break
For like the rose at winter's end
That bears a striking sharpened thorn
Her petals still are soft and pure
And her soul with beauty still adorned
For the righteous one who sees all things
And whose love she yet retains
Will never for eternity forget
The love she showed for his great name
And should she reach out and beseech
And trust his salvation once again
She would know with certainty
He has never let go her hand
(For my precious daughter, Cheryl, who has been to hell and back)
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
She is descended from strong women.
Bronze women. Stone matriarchs.
Pioneers. Immigrants. Fighters.
Hand in the earth, sun on the brow,
salt in the sweat, beautiful strong women.
Her ancestors rode ships to new horizons.
Forging destiny for their children's children
by riding waves to new lands.
Her grandparents tilled earth.
Beat back the scorching sun
and grew life in rows.
They sowed a future like seeds
for their children.
Her mother provided.
Giving hands full with
life wielding cast iron pots like
weapons. Fighting back
hunger and want.
She kept full bellies so her daughter
might have a full future.
She.
She has given her life to loving her family.
And has been lifelong devoted to that endeavor.
Never failing a step.
She has walked through foreign shores,
trailer parks, brand new hearts, and broken cycles.
She has cobbled together Christmases,
shattered hopes, family meals, lunch money, and hope.
She is tested.
She has walked the path of her ancestors.
She is a Pioneer.
A tiller.
A provider.
A fighter.
A warrior.
She is my mother.
And she will beat cancer.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
"How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob,
Your dwelling places, O Israel!"
Thy children gather,
telescoping generations,
O Jacob, what do thine eyes ascertain.
what history do they memorize?
Coalescing younger star clusters,
disparate related families uniting,
embedding as a single unity,
a star cloud,
shedding a new light,
the astronomers awed, witnesses,
a super-star cluster birthed.
The beauty of thy tents,
thy wealth, O Jacob,
is their multiplicity,
their construct and content.
The web of thy tissue,
bindings, linkages,
what resides within thy tents,
acknowledge, testify, that
the strength of thy issue,
are the Matriarchs,
managers of thy destiny,
mothers of thy dynasty,
The Sarah's, Leah's, the Rachel's,
the Fay's, the Ginger's, the Miriam's
these jewels bedeck, beautify,
brides and bridles of thy tents,
master mistresses of thy dwellings,
without them, O Jacob,
you, but, just,
another desert tribe.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
I.
I wear the stern face of my ancestors,
the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from rock and bone.
My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues
all affectionately name me "intimidating."
They say:
"You're the strong one."
"We'll send you to win the battle."
"They should have known not to cross you."
They name me fighter,
mouthpiece,
leader,
and stand like tin men in legions at my back.
I am obliged to march on;
I cannot remember a time
when my feet have rested.
My banner waves in the northwest wind
and I hold it, dutifully,
fearing its inevitable fall
as my arms shake.
II.
My arms
shake.
Wind camouflages
this constant trembling: the
fabric of my
flag
whips and ripples and any
falter
in its course
is blamed on the wind, but
veins shrink - skin
shrivels - muscles
shake - I am no Atlas,
my
breath slows
sharpens
stops -
III.
I am a dry sand-castle:
one touch will obliterate me.
I am the brittle leaf on concrete:
one shoe will shred me.
I am dandelion spores on a plain:
one gust will erase me.
IV.
In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors,
the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from soft earth and azaleas.
So name me weakling,
broken-down,
dependent;
give voice to all of me.
Lift this banner,
and give rest to my weary shoulders.
Hold me in your arms
when I need to collapse.
V.
At times,
even a general must be carried by her soldiers.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
I am the majority whose opinion is not listed. I am unnerving.
A symptom of stress, of solace and solitude. I am a treatment.
For one minute I recall the brave in fields of red remembrance. In another I am but deadly.
The artist recreating a by-gone era, too easily am I broken.
Holding matriarchs hostage, so to speak,
with their hands on their heads and fingers on lips.
Between friends I am comfortable, amongst fools I’m advised.
The calm before the lovers’ storm. I say it best.
Take my vow, be at one. For golden am I and Holy are my nights.
The unwritten word, the space between the notes
I speak volumes if you can spare a few minutes...
.. .4:33 to be precise.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
*Momma Thrashers working song , familiar voice of hedgerow levity
Timeless tune of the Springtide brevity
Pitch perfect Maytime sun-kissed divinity
Songs of hope and lasting serenity*
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Our reflections on a brass doorknob .
A skeleton key would slowly turn each tumbler ..
Dusty pinewood flooring , antique trinkets ..
Propane space heaters and fresh coffee balm private , erstwhile collective memories . A matriarchs kitchen , well water aroma and cross stitched towels , her flour tinged cotton apron , cast iron skillets and brass tea kettle with porcelain service ushers spirited times of conviviality over a simple oak dining room table ..
Hand made breakfast nook curtains , the majesty of tall Water Oaks
with foraging bantam hens and roosters ..
Dirt roads would tell of visitors long before they ever arrived ,
fishing for shell crackers at the old bridge with cane poles and and dough ***** , leftovers from cat head biscuits at breakfast ...
Pecans and crabapples fed young anglers on shady Summer afternoons . Feeding tall grass to black angus and hereford cattle through barbed wire fence , collecting afternoon eggs and walking the furrows at Dusk ,
days I'll never forget ..
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Do you remember when you were a go-go dancer and I a dom;
That was a long time ago; ages really.
Or the time we were tossed out of the family home on a drunkin whim?
Jealous matriarchs angered by youthful hope;
She’d long ago lost.
But we came a long way.
Career chicks;
With eyes for a better life
We carried our families with a clean hustle,
With sweat,
Eating tears,
Shared with each other
Eating it.. for the kids.
I’m speechless without you
My fire
My confidant
My sister
Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 7:53 PM UTC
degas’s dancers fell through neural skies,
i heard a song more dream than anything.
shocklines tore through my lungs,
my eye, it caught the sight of a beast.
let’s gift a narrative to the naive;
the sweet hollows of a saint that sings,
the dear juvenile darlings in dusk,
the broken boards of willow bark,
let these memories sway a cynic.
when the ones you love tear your home to pieces say “thank you”, bow your head;
only rest when they are gone.
your cousin creates ripples in your life that are angry and violent but well meaning.
you will lose two matriarchs and the sound of reified royalty breaks into low noted hymns.
they've turned to the death you sang about.
the kindest ghosts are the ones you are afraid of,
they only sing when you clasp hands over ears,
they only dance when you pull the covers over your head,
they only fade when you love them.
the ghosts whisper:
you have things to learn from broken hands in coffins,
that the world isn’t pretty unless you make it so,
that a home full of love means the same thing as a mansion,
that death looks like floral aprons and old mirrors.
van gogh though that he was a vile wretch,
and you think the same because
you forget that you can bleed yellow.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Just as over the course
of a year, the seasons change,
inevitably, over the course
of life, a woman's body will change.
The photoshopped
supermodel on the cover
of a fashion magazine
is an 'ideal' that does not exist.
While the allure of
youth & vitality cannot
be denied, neither can
the appreciation for time & experience.
It's the honorable path
walked by
all maidens
& matriarchs.
A path that comes with
blemishes,
cellulite,
scars & stretchmarks.
Wrapped
in every
shape,
size & skin color.
Yet, it's these so-called
'imperfections'
that render her
fascinating & unique.
A paragon of feminal
physique, so luminously
patterned &
intrinsically beautiful.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
To those who have an estranged parents would not need an introduction,
And those of you who have the gaping wounds would only be christened in self propelled justification,
But any of us in these journeys like all adventures do come to a close.
Proving to everyone your ways are correct,
Or dismiss the very thought you been wrong,
And all finales the conclusions the end is not all we may seem to understand.
No one will know the inner conflict that stirs all emotions into ejected unspeakable anger,
And no self righteous religious leaders would know how to quell the demon shadowed in your best illumination.
For all things are never bygones,
And patriarchs or matriarchs are but a human beings with chipped characters,
But no amount of apologies would dismiss their old follies.
Then the sands come to claim us, breathlessness plunged into a moment of silence,
And all solice come to a halt with all whispers sieze.
The person you feared all your life has become pale,
Body mass and muscles have left them,
While the frail body yielded them a hunched postures.
No matter the prospect you will not be fooled by their weakness,
Nor will you show sympathy to their coming times,
And all senses of love have been depleted bone dry.
No one can tell you "You are wrong,"
Because no one has dealt with your past,
And the world must shut their mouth.
That was about a 6 month ago,
To some it would take longer,
And others there would be no second thought.
Sometimes deepen pain can never be healed,
And those of you who took the picture of the frail parent in the hospital can't deny your feelings,
As you look at the healthy picture against the dying parents you have made up your mind.
The breath is asunder as the lungs clinge to what little air to grasp,
But those of you who choose to make peace and see the dying person one last time is a better person then I,
For not all of us can forgive and forget.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 10:13 PM UTC
Going through a matriarchs memories this morning . Family Bible , insurance papers , photo albums and trinkets ! Final affairs , funeral arrangements , prepared prior to her passing ..Sharing stories with siblings . The kind you've heard a thousand times that still bring a smile and a laugh ! This morning , no different , except for a brief spell of tears , a few hugs , smiles then back to the business at hand ..Mom's affairs and her Estate were quickly settled without argument nor trite , petty differences ! Household items , photographs , artwork and dishes were split three ways in accordance with Moms wishes ..The only thing left was towels , rags , clothing and shoes , sheets and blankets ! I opened the closet door , Lo and behold , taken aback , Moms pink robe hung in plain view on the center rack ! My brother replied , " May I have that ? I remember tugging on it when I was a child . " Sister declared , " Please , can it come home with me ? I will treasure it , you may see it anytime you like ! " I shed many a tear on this garment , somehow it means more to me than anything I could possibly inherit be it wine glass , silver set , gold ring or fancy dish .. After a few minutes of deliberation a deal was struck ! The robe was to be interred with Mother , along with a note from her children , one for each pocket ..A message from a little 'fella tugging on Moms robe for an extra Pop- **** . One from a little girl read to sleep by a loving parent . One from a little toddler needing a warm hug during stormy weather . And one extra note from all three , placed in Mothers hand , longing for the day when all four were back together again !
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
In a beautiful brown cardigan clutching each rocker arm , whispering a hymn to herself , smiling as Earths canvas , painted by Persimmon , Sweetgum , Oak in rapid escape before her . First sunlight upon brown blade .. A matriarchs recollections , good will and nurture released just as the leaves before her ...Red for uncompromising , passionate love . Brown for a tender touch . Yellow for honor regardless of duress ! Green for Harvest , family and tending garden .. Well planned rows , tilled , harrowed a year and one day , situated seedlings devoid of **** , rock or encumbrance followed by Fall harvest . On a Winter day I watched a Maple leaf fall from the canopy , lighting upon her grave , assuring me that love will remain the same , seeking frosted moor , ethereal , soaring , within reach , ready to be called upon ! . Eternal ...
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
The velvet glove of treachery .
The matriarchs have spoken .
The licenses are handed out .
Each confederate taken their token .
Got on their boots and knuckledusters .
All tooled up for the fight .
Not one of them can look at me .
Cause they attack in the dead of night .
Blindsided by a cowardly clan .
Of narcissistic rage .
All have been infantilised .
And remain that early age .
The women ruling at the top .
So bad they only worsen .
Clever , charming , well educated .
And they masters in coercion .
Hard . Not strong .
Dispassionate , cold and fully flawed.
Disdainful righteous haughty .
Acting as one God .
But if they meet the real one .
They shall be shaking in their shoes .
Ten pounds in a Sunday plate .
And an hour in the pews .
Is not enough to save them .
And their narcissistic clan .
They have tried to ruin me .
A good and honest man .
I moved away . Said nothing .
And I never shall again .
They never did deserve me .
In their demonic like domain .
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
Lovely Gertrude . What has become with her passing ?
Fruiting bodies became one with piercing thorn that drew blood .. Laborious annual rites of wine and song ! Hearts asleep on the beat , mouth culled with desire !
Blackberry Summer , my mourning matriarchs embrace ..
A grateful benefactor of her loving hand and good graces this July morning , in the field of berries , with warm memories !!
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
When did, ‘You can be
Anything’, become –
‘You must be everything’.
The mother, the provider, the
Teacher, the preacher
Of hopes and dreams for
Millennial babies. Their lot
In life cast only by themselves.
An epic of their own making.
9-5 then home again,
To dishes and husbands,
Both alike in tediousness
The warrior of sleepless
Nights, lost teeth, and
Abandoned dreams.
My mother was a Mosuo,
Her grandmother an Amazon,
Matriarchs of power
Who ruled as iron ladies.
Wooden spoons were
Their guns, and
Aprons their armour,
With a flint-like stare,
And perfectly curled hair,
They convened court in
Their sitting rooms with
Cups of tea and an intelligent
Eye; that told tales, tales
Of a proud matriarchal
Ancestry, a dynasty.
‘You are one of us,
Dear millennial baby,
A future queen whose
Kingdom will be your
Kitchen, a place where
No man dare step’.
I am not a feminist
Nor a suffragette or
A dictator. I am a
Millennial baby, and
My dreams are not aligned
With the ancestral stars.
I am a daughter and a
Sister, my voice is cast
From the silent mountains
Who rise like towers to the east,
To the drought stricken
Valley that grows more
Brown and crinkled with
Each day. Do you hear me
Now spirits of old?
You tell me to be a lawyer
So I will teach. My hopes
Do not align with your stars.
I am watched by
Eager eyes for the time
In which I may rise as queen.
Those eyes will be disappointed.
For millennial babies do not
Become queens. They are
A pair of ******* with legs,
To be gawked at by the peanut-
Crunching gallery of
Men. Men. Men. Those
Who reign in the bedroom
where their power is greatest.
‘You are Otrera. Esther.
Joan of Arc. You are Rosa Park,
Portia, Ophelia, Deborah’
Those matriarchs seem to
Say. ‘You are a matriarch,
Uphold our legacy!’
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 6:36 PM UTC
Where is my Lil Sister? I saw her walking to school. I hear her silent whispers. " I'm gone too soon! "
Mom drove to the store, and she didnt return. We still wait like always, with desperate heartburn.
OUR INDIGENOUS WOMEN ARE MURDERED AND MISSING!
North America and O Canada, No one cares to listen
So to our tribal Matriarchs, we say "Do nada*."
Auntie walked into the woods, she wanted to get an herb.
Now we go where she stood, she hasnt been seen or heard.
Who took them away and why? We mourn their disappearance.
We ask Mother Earth and Father Sky for our Intertribal quest prominence.
Until they leave no more, and we stomp grass again together,
Our Sacred feminine core, Turtle Island's own precious Flower.
Nov 30, 2023
Nov 30, 2023 at 10:15 AM UTC