azshewrites

[azshewrites]

T(work) of Fame

She (t)works in honor    and in a vain of those born centuries before her

She knows only of the now    cares only of the caring for lacks she lacks hold of

Opening windows to the    wide world, awaiting paid patronage in thumbed approval

she offers her sacredness as entrance to the temple

Divinely civilizing Enkidus    as a compassionate Shamhat Ishtar - Astarte Evening Star

- Aphrodite Lamia, Aphrodite Knidos –    Loving, looking, longing giving of her modest bottom-less love

Birth through and riding electric waves    they carry her name, her image, her body, her innocence

                             SHE

further from a history of her predecessors    further into a future for her successors chiseling the site of her

onto time’s invisible wall    Once a painted muse of philosophy and poetry rulers and kingdoms, tangos and jazz

She knows nothing of the temples she built

Knows not her names nor frame    Knows not the crown she wears nor the boundaries and borders she tears

Knows nothing of the wings    attached to chants patrons sing She knows none of this or then

Dare deem her Devadasi

but judge her not    or what she bares She knows only the dance

And this is her (t)work of fame.

KT ~ AzSheWrites

[azshewrites]

She Writes...

She Writes…

She writes to fill the space within her…within the world…with words left unspoken.

~AzSheWrites~

[azshewrites]

Beneath Sanity and Salvation (excerpt)

    The sound sparrows singing in the bush beneath the open kitchen window made the damp, grayed morning feel more alive for Dean. He sat at the lacquered table, nestled in a small nook wrapped by a bay window, and stared into a tree-lined backyard sprinkled in fall oranges, reds, and yellows. His eyes fell upon the Eden-esque oak, but focused on nothing but the dimmed liveliness of the day beginning. The idea of the word ‘liveliness’ made him chuckle through a sip of his coffee. Six weeks he craved dull liveliness and silence in his home and sky. In all those weeks, he had been up early enough to have the sun rise infront him and each day its shine grew more and more oppressive. Today, it rose behind the mass of clouds, behind him, without deafening glare. It just seemed to get lighter, not brighter. Like removing of your hands from your closed eyes but your eyes remain closed. It was a lethargic morning full of liveliness all because of silence filled with a flock of birds’ morning song. But it could not last.

    As Dean chuckled in his coffee, a skin curling scream from the master bedroom caused the sparrows to scatter in a cacophony of flapping wings that rattle and snap branches. Dean was taken a bit off guard by the scream and wings, spattered a bit of coffee on to his shirt, but he was oddly unruffled - concerned, but numbly moved. This isn’t the first time Izzy (Isabella, his wife) has awaken like this – six weeks of booming sunrises. Today’s lack of shine had him optimistic about the pessimistic beginning of the day, hoping without faith that today would be different.    

    Settling into his S.S.D.D. attitude, he took his time getting to the bedroom. Took his time to become the comforter of his wife’s nightmares.

    Mornings. Izzy’s waking. Each had taken on a dress of living-nightmare for him. He paused at the doorway, hidden to gather his strength, and heard Izzy mumbling to herself and fidgeting about. No, no, no, she kept saying to herself. Coming out of hiding, he catches Izzy, still in bed, quickly jerking the blanket to cover herself from the waist down. Without a word, and with growing whimpers and soft repetitive sorry’ from Izzy, Dean draws back the blanket. Izzy’s legs, from mid-thigh to mid-calf, are covered with bloody scratches, oozing welts, and purple-blue bruises.

    “My God, Izzy,” Dean says low and away from Izzy. He should have known from today’s beginning it would not be SSDD. Six weeks – six weeks. He’s hoped, prayed, even ignored the obvious, but did not except the obvious until tears fell from his eyes at the sight of his wife. Today was anything - everything – but a Same Shit Different Day deal.

    “What have you done,” he held Izzy’s cheek in his hand.

    “I didn’t I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t do it I swear I didn’t!” Izzy stammered out before she fell into a wild cry.

    “We have to get you help. Real help.”

    “Why won’t you listen to me It’s the dreams They’re getting worst more vivid They’re real!”

    Izzy’s manic behavior made Dean level his. “Listen to yourself, Izzy. Look at your legs. You can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep ignoring -”

    “Then quit ignoring me!” Izzy snapped.

    Dean, hand still on her cheek, calmly rose from Izzy’s bedside, and silently left the room. He will call their church’s crisis center. They will come and coax Izzy out of the bathroom she’s locked herself in when she heard Dean open the door for the two sterilely dressed strong men. She will kick and scream and cry and plead to Dean to not let them take her. She will beg him, the reverend, the sterile strong men, to believe her – the dreams are real. Dean will watch them drive away in an unmarked van with his delusional, screaming wife, on the advice that he follow them to their facilities. Dean will follow, but not too close. He will make a right when the van makes a left. He will have a long shot of whiskey to settle the morning before the afternoon takes him.

    Dean arrives at St. Benedict’s Crisis Center well after the transport van. He returned to the house after leaving the PubGrub, wanting to shower off the whiskey and smoke, figuring he’d be gone well into the night, maybe the next. He sat in his car in the parking lot for twenty minutes before heading to the center’s entrance, grinding his mind and memory for when and where things went wrong. How could Izzy have lost connection to reality and what was most important.

    As he approached the area where the receptionist instructed him Izzy was being held, Dean felt a sense of drowning. Every step closer to the room seemed to stick to the floor then sink beneath it. His heart jumped to his throat at a pace that quickened his breath and made it difficult for him to swallow rapidly forming saliva. He hesitated at her door, as he had done too many times before, as he had done a few hours before, then forced himself to his wife’s side.

    Izzy lay on a thinly padded aluminum scaffold with castors. Her arms were at her side, still, palm side up, and held in place with belted leather cuffs. Her feet, palely peeking from under the rough white cotton sheet, were daintily restrained at the ankle by the same. He went to touch her, to hold her clammy, tranquil hand, to stoke her once full dark hair now damp with sweat and thinned and matted from fear and despair, and kiss her silent lips. He thought of the first day they met and the horrible morning they just had interchangeably, and felt his knees weaken with his love for her.

    The shift nurse entered just in time to interrupt his desire to fall. “We gave her a strong sedative. She’ll be out for the rest of the day” she said meddling with Izzy’s chart, “The doctor will be in to decide care and therapy with you momentarily.”

    Dean thought that was an odd statement – that he and the doctor would decide Izzy’s care and therapy - about as odd as the contained and orderly short word ‘crisis’ for something not so contained and orderly. Not that the doctor would help, or even that he would offer options for Dean to decide from. No. The doctor would be part of the decision. He guessed that’s what happens in a crisis, at a crisis center: Someone else would become part of the equation, become the head of the house, take over. After all, he was there because he couldn’t handle the crisis on his own in the first place. It gave Dean the illusion that he wasn’t alone, though he knew everyone involve, he and Izzy and the doctor, were all alone, separated, in their endeavors.

    Six weeks passed before the doctor would talk to Dean about Izzy’s sessions. Another six weeks passed before the doctor would let Dean sit in on Izzy’s talk therapy sessions. On this cold, gray-hazed familiar morning, he’s allowed to sit in an adjacent room joined by a two-way mirror so he could see and hear Izzy, but Izzy would not regress or not participate due to his presence – she always cries and pleads with him to take her home whenever she sees him, followed by her cursing his name for not doing so.

    Izzy’s not herself, not totally. She’s medicatedly calm while being eerily alert and aware. She stares at mirror on her side, fixing her hair with a girlishly smile. Her actions are haunted but Dean dismisses them as grooming. He stares back at her with a boyish grin stuffed with love. Then she waves and his smile disappears.

    The doctor begins with his litany of repetitive questions, some geared to receive the same answer but poised to trick the patient into revealing her sanity of insanity. Izzy doesn’t fall for the trap. She’s occupied with the mirror’s reflection.

    “I know how this all end’s, doc.” Izzy monotonically sings, still smiling at the mirror.

    “Really,” the doctor says unmoved, “and how is that?”

    “Just like my dreams, in blood and fire and screams. That is, if I you don’t let me out and I stop it.”

    The doctor, unmoved by Izzy’s expected remarks, patronizes her into a game of mimic. She repeats everything he says to her, as he says it to her. Now she has his attention. And Dean’s.

    “What the hell?” Dean whispered to himself.

    Izzy smile brightens at she gazes deeper into the mirror, leaning in closer to what is her reflection, “Don’t worry, Dean. I can make it alright. Hell has very little to do with it.”

(tbc….)

KT ~ AzSheWrites

[azshewrites]

T(work) of Fame

She (t)works in honor    and in a vain of those born centuries before her

She knows only of the now    cares only of the caring for lacks she lacks hold of

Opening windows to the    wide world, awaiting paid patronage in thumbed approval

she offers her sacredness as entrance to the temple

Divinely civilizing Enkidus    as a compassionate Shamhat Ishtar - Astarte Evening Star

- Aphrodite Lamia, Aphrodite Knidos –    Loving, looking, longing giving of her modest bottom-less love

Birth through and riding electric waves    they carry her name, her image, her body, her innocence

                             SHE

further from a history of her predecessors    further into a future for her successors chiseling the site of her

onto time’s invisible wall    Once a painted muse of philosophy and poetry rulers and kingdoms, tangos and jazz

She knows nothing of the temples she built

Knows not her names nor frame    Knows not the crown she wears nor the boundaries and borders she tears

Knows nothing of the wings    attached to chants patrons sing She knows none of this or then

Dare deem her Devadasi

but judge her not    or what she bares She knows only the dance

And this is her (t)work of fame.

KT ~ AzSheWrites

[azshewrites]

“She surges forward, an abundant river, pregnant of life, hope, promise and sustenance for all who wade in her”

AzSheWrites (via azshewrites)

[azshewrites]

Inhered

We are the rhythms music

bop their notes to; the

mouth rivers spill into, the

current salmon

swim against; the

cave brown bears

hibernate in; the

diamonds coal

presses to be; the

mines filled

with gold; the

shine blooms

flower by; the

snow, the

rain, the

hail and sleet

condensed by our

breathed fever;

We are more than flesh.

[azshewrites]

No matter how cruel the world becomes You must never let go of your kindness.

carlinrose, advice from my mum (via wnq-writers)

[azshewrites]

Women In Literature

In honor of Women’s History Month, I’ve decided to post essays/critiques on “that which is written with women at its base”. Whether this base be a female protagonist/antagonist, supporting character or subject, or author/poet, the essay will surround aspects or portrayals of the female component. Some of the essays were composed in previous years but the lens and content of each remains relevant.

First up, Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko (1977). A great read with a great theme, plot, story progression, and I love the inclusion of Native American narratives throughout. Silko is “noted as a major contributor to the Native American literary and artistic renaissance, which began in the late 1960s” (Poetry Foundation). From what I recently read on her biography, it is no reason Ceremony has a sense of breath, truth, to it. That said, I did a deconstructive view on the novel - I love to point out what is said that isn’t spoken...

                               Ceremony: A Deconstructive View

    In Ceremony[1], we follow a year in the life of a young man, Tayo, who is of Native America and Caucasian decent. In a year of his life, he endures trials and triumphs while trying to heal from his post-traumatic stress disorder after World War II and learning his Native American heritage. Written in 1977, in the midst of cultural identity discourse and the aftermath of the Vietnam war, Silko’s Ceremony presents a theme concurrent with the discourse of the time, both of novel’s setting and in which it was written: the search for, and finding of, cultural identity in a climate of political, familial, cultural, and economic turmoil is not easy but can be – and must be – attempted. Ideologies that Ceremony seems to promote in this theme are, but not limited to, the preservation of cultural heritage, history, and growth as opposed to that of cultural integration. In this paper, I will discuss how the actions and portrayal of the main character Tayo, and other characters, in Ceremony seem to challenge the idea of cultural preservation and deconstructs the assumed need to seek out and obtain a stable cultural identity, which, in turn, proves the instability and undecidability of the text.

    Ceremony presents these ideologies through the view of an underrepresented group: Native American. Inserted within the narration, helping to support the ideology of strength and understanding of one’s Native American culture and the finding and retention of cultural identity, Silko includes several traditional Indian story narratives passed down through generations. These stories are apt to present a solitary connection between those inherent of the culture, almost separating and inclusive of one race. However, soon after the first inclusion of traditional narrative, the character Tayo seems to rebut the inclusivity of one race by noting his first realization of indifference between races. “…the man’s skin was not much different from his own…even white men were darker after death…There was no difference” (Silko 7). This is the first noticeable instance of instability within the next. In starting the text in line with the discourse of the time and a presented theme of the text - the need to search for and obtain cultural identity - by identifying an aspect of that identity, the text then presents an idea that identity is universal, diverse yet connected between all races.  

    The text tells how the Whites cheat, steal, and exploit Native Americans; Betonie speaks of an area where “…this is where Gallup keeps Indians until Ceremonial time. Then they want to show us off to the tourists” (Silko 117). Tayo is told, and believes, that the medical treatment he received from the Veteran Hospital was not helping, “Those White doctors haven’t helped you at all. Maybe we had better send for someone else…That boy needs a medicine man” (Silko 33). Statements like these seem to support the ideology of needed cultural preservation over cultural assimilation by implying that White represents oppression and lack of help for the oppressed. In essence, this presents the notion that the ideology of cultural preservation versus cultural assimilation can be seen as Native American versus White. The instability of this ideology within the text lies on two aspects: Tayo’s embodiment of the binary oppositions (Native American and White) and the ceremonies Betonie performs.

    As the embodiment of the presented binary opposites of Native American and White, Tayo experiences conflict within himself caused by outside forces. He receives ill treatment because of his white heritage by his native community on the familial and peer level. He is told his mother brought “shame to the family and to the people” (Silko 128) by having a “half-breed child” (Silko 30) by a White man by his Auntie; and he was called “half-breed” by a childhood friend, Emo. His Auntie does not want a medicine man to care for Tayo because “Some will say [using a medicine man is] not right…He’s not full blood anyway” (Silko 33). Betonie even told him that the “witchery”, the evils, of the world was the work of White people (132), yet that their (Native American) ancestors created the White man. Even the ritual Tayo was to undergo, a traditional Native American healing ceremony believed to ward off the “witchery”, used elements from the White culture: “We must have power from everywhere. Even the power we can get from the whites” (Silko 150).

    Would this help support the necessity for cultural preservation or Tayo’s necessity to search for and obtain cultural identity; or does it place blame, and connection, between the two cultures warring within Tayo? Tayo’s confusion of his cultural identity ambiguity because of conflicting discourse presented to him is evident when he “speaks for both sides” as a “half-breed” (Silko 42). He condemns each, the “dumb Indians” and the judgmental, unkind “white people” (41-42).

    In Tayo trying to heal and find inner peace, he is constantly reminded that his health is crucial to that of the tribal community, even to the “fragile world” (Silko 35). Ku’oosh explained that he “was afraid of what will happen to all of [the Native Americans] if [Tayo] and the others don’t get well” (38). Robert told Tayo he should come home from the ranch because people from the family and tribe were wondering why he was away so long. These instances reflect a sense of community and the belief that one may affect the many in loss and gain. This supports the thought that “if race, ethnicity, and culture produce our individual identity, then we are constituted as members of a group and not purely as individual” (Tsosie). Cultural identity, therefore, is based on a group belonging and not individuality. At the same time, Robert explained that the Government might send people to take him back also because Emo told them he was crazy and living in caves. Betonie explains that change and growth is not only something “The people must do”, but something Tayo “must do” as an individual (Silko 125). At the end, Tayo admits his progress and success on an individual level in stating “he had come a long way with [his family]; but it was his own two feet that got him [home]” (255). In presenting the ideology of a group mentality as preferable, in concerning cultural identity, the group versus the individual binary opposition is also presented. Yet, if in the end Tayo asserts that he has arrived victorious of his on merit, his “own two feet”, this presents a conflict within the text.        

    By showing these inclusions and mergers of the two cultures, Native American and White, the promotion of the ideology of cultural preservation over cultural assimilation becomes weak within the text. The text actually seems to deconstruct this presented ideology by proving cultural identity is secondary to the acceptance and inclusion of other cultures. Titling the text Ceremony, then explaining that the said ceremony is a meshing, a merging of two cultures, aids in the deconstruction of the text ideologies: cultural preservation/cultural assimilation and Native American/White. Tayo’s strength and healing came not in embracing his Native American half, but in embracing his total self. This “self” was beyond his tribal family or his White heritage, but more of accepting the fact that he is an individual that encompasses a blended package. In presenting this fact, this healing of strength Tayo found by his “own two feet”, the group ideology embedded in the ideology of cultural identity of the text’s purpose is also presented as unstable and limited. The fact that Tayo felt the ceremonies did help, however – based in Native culture though containing ideas/items from the white world – and the idea that the individual identity is inseparably tied to its cultural identity (Narvaes 1999), it could be assumed the text believes it has answered the question of “does finding cultural identity help find peace of self?” Actually, the answering of this question becomes double sided: Yes, it can…but with the help of an outside “other” culture. In this, the undecidability of the text is shown. The fight for cultural belonging is evident within the text and the ideology is not a blind one. This deconstruction of this ideology within Ceremony is not to prove such a search for cultural identity and preservation is impossible, but that such an ideology with set cultural boundaries of inclusion or exclusion has limitations.

                                                  Works Cited

Narvaes, Darcia, Irene Getz, and et al. “Individual Moral Judgment and Cultural Ideologies”. American Psychological Association, 14 June 1999.

Poetry Foundation. poetryfoundation.org.

Silko, Leslie Marmon. Ceremony. New York: Penguin, 1986. 262. Print.

Tsosie, Rebecca. “The New Challenge to Native Identity: An Essay on “Indigeneity” and “Whiteness”. Journal of Law and Policy, 18 Oct 2005. 

Tyson, Lois. Critical Theory Today. New York: Routledge, 2006. 249-280. Print.

[1] Silko, Leslie Marmon. Ceremony.

[azshewrites]

We Women (more than just...)

Does it all come down to this:

these legs,

these hips,

these breasts,

these lip?

Do they not comprise a bigger prize

not so hidden in this 3D picture?

They are not, I am not,

we are not

such a puzzle;

an ‘enigmaed’ riddle to be

figured out.

We are woman, baby.

Woman so

whoa, man

on the accusations that emotional sensations

are all that move we.

Yes, we are

emotional. We are

human and you, man,

are the same.

Don’t just look at us

from front to back because

our insides insist to be seen too.

If you could hold this

perceived puzzle, this

rumored riddle, in

the palm of your

hand then man, your hand

will feel its texture.

Its mixture of

gritty and smooth,

hot and cool,

thick and thin,

course and refined,

and, yes,

fine-looking.

And while you are looking

you will be enticed to look in  

to her many layers.

Layers that lay her

on your most wanted list.

The list that makes you listen

as you hold her close to

your ear to hear

the sound of her waves,

her deep ocean of self,

echoed in her beautiful shell.

Her shell will tell you her

insights and delights, her

desires and forging fires,  her

thoughts and wars fought, her

motives and motivations. Her

secrets will be declassified when

you look into her eyes and

see the sea of her soul.

Dive in.

Take a dip.

Hell, take a sip

and as you feel her on your lips...

watch the puzzle

dematerialize,

the riddle become

trivialized as you realize that,

man,

what a woman is

built up of,

breaks down to,

what she encompasses, encircles, and internalize;

the living, breathing, loving, and life giving

masterpiece

created when her

inside and outsides

all of her meet...

We women consist

of more than just

these legs,

these hips,

these breasts,

these lips.

[azshewrites]

Fear of the Full-Figured Woman

I am a Full-Figured woman

Yeah...

I am too much for you

All the voluptuousness that is I

Wonder how you may fit in?

How you may compare?

Well, I was built to carry this

            - all this -

Is it the curl of my lips?

No, it is

what swirls through them

Whether or not you want to

hear, I will be heard

Shouting whispers of sweet everythings

Eloquent wording, impressive to impress

Meant to cut without bleeding

Burn without fire

Smooth and soothing as a lullaby

Jazzy harmonious dissonance

Is it the fullness of my breast?

No, it is

what may weigh on them

without hindering a breath

The weight of the world

A mother’s love and fear

A lover’s fear and want

A woman’s want and need

An emotional creature I may be

But however heavy

I continue to breathe

Does my frame intimidate?

Weight more than you can handle?

Baby, I was built as a soldier

A warrior

Meant to be a leader

A comrade

Infantry and support

Made for the fight

  The battle

     The war

The world is my battlefield

Clyde could only have been so lucky

to have a Bonnie built like me

Intimidation isn’t the only

armor this frame adorns.

The layers of a full-figured woman are many

And the sizes vary

Full-figured-ness lies

not in what is seen

Not in your perception

of weight in lips, breasts, hips, and thighs

It is an attitude

A belief

An emotion

A way of being and

living; it lies in being

A woman

Fully and real

So, yes

Fear the Full-Figured Woman

Because she

does not

fear you

[azshewrites]

...

[azshewrites]

Pay Back

I walk in strides not held back by the tides

of time and change.

Wading in the waters in neck-deep

lady-like and womanhood’s creek.

Letting its damp floors of muck and grim

not slow or hinder my grind

or forget my sisters treading the same floor

nor those watching on bank and shore

who laid the path and await

for me to lay more.

   - I have a responsibility -

Whether or not I choose to see

closed eyes still have visibility

of fog and clear skies.

It is my job, given by  those

to be born and those that died

to weather and bear the path’s condition

while dispatching reconnaissance

to the future and the past.

See I owe it to those

who came before

to not break the link that

connects us to the far shore.

I owe it to those

that will follow behind

to remain a strong link

that anchors the bank line

     - I, as a woman, have responsibilities, yo -

I am the link connecting those

that come and go -

      just as she was my link.

She being that woman,

maybe mother maybe not,

who explained to me, that

after dropping it like it’s hot,

I must stand as a woman

in cold truth; As I have been

guided, I must become the guider

and my reach must be longer and wider

because the world and waters will

continue to grow.

This is how I pay her back: by not

letting one of us fall through the earth’s cracks,

get burned from the heat of hot droppings,

get caught in riotous fighting, gossip,

and “bitch” callings,

to be a fist for the openhanded,

to the quiet be a voice

yelling to those behind me the water’s cold

but full of life and giving of choice,

   and I must hold the line.

And since those behind

  by inheritance of gender and time

will have the same responsibility

the same pay pact

watch as women and womanhood

unceasingly prosper and grow

from our pay back.

~~

KT ~~ AzSheWrites

[azshewrites]

Now I will be too!!!

man: has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful? me: oh no sir, today is my first day out of doors and papà forbade mirrors in the house lest we fall victim to vanity

[azshewrites]

Have We Forgotten

Have we forgotten?

Forgotten the future laid in the past,

forgotten the blood, our blood,

shed for now,

the now which we feel we have ‘arrived’.

Have we forgotten?

Forgotten what was given,

and taken,

with aspirations of a right,

and a left.

Imagines of a choice.

Have we forgotten?

Forgotten enough to believe

we have the choice to forget,

to forget when reading was a fight,

when schooling was but a dream

to capture,

worthy of the reprimand if caught

in hand.

Schooling, now assumed a choice.

Have we forgotten?

Forgotten what a vote costs,

charges paid in flesh ,

and soul,

in gender and creed,

to be recognized, represented,

an inclusion, an opinion.

Voting, now assumed a choice.

Have we forgotten?

Forgotten when the family

was broken

in the name of building,

when a name meant corporation

not kin,

when heritage was given,

and held in secret.

Family, now assumed a choice.

Have we forgotten?

Forgotten that we have a choice,

or have we forgotten to choose?

The waking past weeps

for the slumbering  present,

while the future withers in a dream.

KT ~~ AzSheWrites

[azshewrites]

Pay Back

I walk in strides not held back by the tides

of time and change.

Wading in the waters in neck-deep

lady-like and womanhood’s creek.

Letting its damp floors of muck and grim

not slow or hinder my grind

or forget my sisters treading the same floor

nor those watching on bank and shore

who laid the path and await

for me to lay more.

   - I have a responsibility -

Whether or not I choose to see

closed eyes still have visibility

of fog and clear skies.

It is my job, given by  those

to be born and those that died

to weather and bear the path’s condition

while dispatching reconnaissance

to the future and the past.

See I owe it to those

who came before

to not break the link that

connects us to the far shore.

I owe it to those

that will follow behind

to remain a strong link

that anchors the bank line

     - I, as a woman, have responsibilities, yo -

I am the link connecting those

that come and go -

      just as she was my link.

She being that woman,

maybe mother maybe not,

who explained to me, that

after dropping it like it’s hot,

I must stand as a woman

in cold truth; As I have been

guided, I must become the guider

and my reach must be longer and wider

because the world and waters will

continue to grow.

This is how I pay her back: by not

letting one of us fall through the earth’s cracks,

get burned from the heat of hot droppings,

get caught in riotous fighting, gossip,

and “bitch” callings,

to be a fist for the openhanded,

to the quiet be a voice

yelling to those behind me the water’s cold

but full of life and giving of choice,

   and I must hold the line.

And since those behind

  by inheritance of gender and time

will have the same responsibility

the same pay pact

watch as women and womanhood

unceasingly prosper and grow

from our pay back.

~~

KT ~~ AzSheWrites

[azshewrites]

We both knew it was a lie

    when I said it,

but I will repeat it

    until it’s truth:

          “I Don’t Care”

              “I��m Just Fine”

K.T. Jennings - AzSheWrites

[azshewrites]

Poetic Butterflies

You are like butterflies

floating around my thoughts

on wings that flutter

meanings and emotions

held only in their span.

How beautiful your body

of work, your structured

spine sentences.

Punctuations bled in

colors that blend and

enjambed around the

space of your form. A

child follows you as if

your antennae looped a

leash around their neck;

they see you everywhere and

in everything. We adults

try to ignore our

leashed inner child, yet

your magic still conjures

smiles and imagined spaces.

O’, how I long to

catch you with my

imagination net.

Not to trap you,

enslave or hide you

away in jarred solitude.

I want to display your

talents, your capacity,

ability of transformation.

You deserve to be

seen, the breath of your

wings should be felt.

I would be satisfied if you’d

land on the edges of my

tongue and dance,

letting the song of your

form, your white

noised winged rhythms,

echo structured or

free-style in my voice.

Or brush the tips of my

fingers and I will tuck

you in sheets of paper

tinted of your many hues,

emphasizing and stressing

your wordy beauty.  

      K.T.  - AzSheWrites