Monday, April 9, 2018

My Angel

I hesitated a bit to share this on my blog, but my mom was always very proud of my writing and whenever I wrote something she really liked, she shared it with everyone. This is a poem I wrote her and gave to her for Christmas several years ago. It's about the son she had after my older sister, and before me. He passed away less than two weeks after being born. I never shared it because it belonged to her. Now that she's passed, it's mine again. She wanted it framed so people could see it at her memorial, along with a picture of his grave.

My Angel

A tragedy of the worst kind befell.
A mother’s tears can never say goodbye.
Bleeding hearts were left with an empty well.
Your time was mere days, as the story will tell.
The angels lamented their lullaby.
For the unending tears there is no why.

Years later, I came reaching for the sky,
But I feared the nightmares I couldn’t expel.
When all the while you watched over me.
You led me through darkness, so I could believe.
Though our hands never touched, you are my protector.
Surrounded by the light you bring, I am free.

For what you never were I will always grieve,
But not for what you are: my angel, my brother.


Tuesday, April 3, 2018

National Poetry Month Day Three

Three for three! Go me!
This one's explicit. Consider yourself warned.

This Is Why

I already said it, but I have to say it again.
Me Too. Fucking me too.
Some are sick of hearing it.
Well guess what?
It’s shit having to say it.
If I have to say it, people can damn well listen.
Maybe some don’t even know what it means.
Maybe it’s too broad, maybe some think we’re a bunch of bitches begging for attention,
Maybe they think we’re dirty rotten liars.
Why else would we have stayed silent so long?
That’s a good question.
I don’t fucking know why.
No, that’s not true. I do know.
Shame, blame, fear of being set aflame.
They shout, “Why now you dirty fucking cows?”
I say, “It isn’t fame, you blasted morons. It isn’t a game. It’s time to reclaim my name.”

Fucking me too.
I say “me too” because when I was sixteen my boss stood so close I could feel his breath on my face.
Because I’m afraid to take walks after dark.
Because I have to carry pepper spray in my purse,
Because I’ve lost count of the number of male co-workers who’ve harassed me incessantly.
I say “me too” because I’m called a bitch, a tease, a cunt, when I turn those co-workers down.
I say “me too” because I once drove all the way home without even going into the club because a man was harassing me through my car window. I was too afraid to get out of the car.
I say “me too” because I was choked by a friend’s ex-boyfriend for not giving up her whereabouts.
I say “me too” because saying no didn’t work.
No, not tonight.
No, I don’t want to do that.
No no no no no no.
I say “me too” because I’ve had my safety and life held as a threat until my no became a yes.
I say “me too” because I tried saying no again. It didn’t work.
Not even with someone I trusted. Not even with someone who loved me.
No. No. No.
I say “me too” because my no became a yes at the thought of losing everything.
I say “me too” because I’m tired of the shame, of carrying the blame, of hating my own name.
I’m not playing anymore fucking games.

I have two more words.
Him though.
Him. Not me.
Him and him and him and him.
Not me.
He, a forty-year-old man, stood so close to his sixteen-year-old subordinate because he could. Because he had the power.
He, a nameless, faceless he, walks the streets, waiting for women who walk alone.
Because he has the power.
He, a seventy-year-old man, harassed a twenty-year-old coworker for turning him down.
He had the credibility. He had the power.
He who insulted me and demeaned me because I had the nerve to say no.
He who stalked me outside my car until I was forced to leave instead of enjoying a night out.
He who ignored me when I said no.
He ignored me when I said no.
He didn’t give a fuck that I said no.
He knew what I feared. He used that fear.
Because he could. Because he had the power.
He didn’t give a fuck that I said no.
Yet another he ignored me when I said no.
He thought I was his. He thought because I’d said yes before, that my yes meant forever.
It didn’t.
He didn’t give a fuck that I said no.

So guess what? I don’t give a fucking damn who is sick of hearing “me too.”
It’s time.
Me too. But him.
He’s the one who’s wrong.
Him though. I have one more word.



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Monday, April 2, 2018

National Poetry Month Day Two

I'm two for two! I almost didn't make it today. So far, these are on the darker side, but that's life right now. Also, I'm a fan of dark poetry.


The Grief is living inside my being;
It’s like an entity greater than me,
Threatening to stop my heart from beating.
God, it’s too much; if only I could flee.

But it’s alive, stuck underneath my skin.
I managed to lock it in a cocoon,
But it’s just a fragile shell, so thin.
As the sorrow grows, the shell will pop like a balloon.

I’ll be flooded, with every aching memory
The beautiful and the ugly will rage like an angry sea
Maybe I’ll be swept away, by this entity greater than me.