... you begin the writes of a passage
and the telling arrests you bold
blatant holding back
of truths and the tale suffers
God give me the grace
to tell the parts of this story that matter
to the listener
help me to weed
the rocks from the soil
planting is necessary for growth
and I want to shoot taller
than this fear
these shoes rigged for flight
right or wrong
I am ignoring the pens scribbling
powerful in the audience
these stories
are truth lived through
survived against odds and even numbers
that fell short of being enough
this evening
I will be myself
regardless of what they say I will be me
out on the jagged limb
I will stand firm
and hope the wood does not break
even then
I will get up from the windows of things broken
mend again
the torn edges
spread the cloth out for viewing
again
such reds and oranges
cannot be silenced
forgive these inclinations to run
I am standing
staying
I am rooted in my choice
even if it rattles me trembling
in sandals
and skirt blowing
the wind can beckon
my face upturned
but I promise to remain
seated
committed to the splendor of sweeter things
than flight
home is the place that allows
the soft drift upon breezes
belting gentle on the narrow current
of
I'll be right back
my mother never did come back
forgive my mistrust
I am still working through the craters
she left gaping on my moon
soon
I will be better able to say things
without the urge to smooth them
for the ears that matter more than me
one day I will know for sure
that for me
no one matters more than me
and you
and the years we have lived through
remember when we were young
twenty years old
twenty six
what a time between effort and actuality
can you believe we were that young
once
I have a photo
smooth and hopeful we stare into the camera
certain of love and revolution
and our place in that struggle
these days
responsibility twists me necessary redesigning
the folds of me into angles
I am my most cruel critic
what can anyone tell me
that I have not flogged brutal on my own back
what can they say
that I do not say to myself
when I am most bruised
most bloodied
I am most strategically placed
nothing to do
but rise from the pulp of flesh
mangled and A-mortal
the spirit only knows
how to survive
long after the cockroaches are dead
I will lean ancient on this pen
and write a poem about us
and how we dared fate
and won
or lost
but we would have tried
the numbers who walk
against the grain in this generation
is small
gadgets and interest rates
and television clips knock more urgent than change
or human rights
or temples as bodies to worship whole
at the foot of one's great love
God grant me
the fortitude
to speak in a voice that will encourage
compassion
sisterhood is only one way to nirvana
if I am to be nothing
more than this
let me do it well
without pomp and ceremony
let me go easy
among the mouths that have
written their own Histories even when
the baring of such details
rapped impossible at doors refusing to be opened
help me
God of small things
to paint an accurate liking of these events
as they occured
see you at the theater/or online
or in our dreams
Staceyann
That was amazing beautiful, as are you. I think often, especially at this age of 18, of the day when I can stand and say, "Look at me. This is it. This is who I am" But today is not the day because I was born amongst the lowest, being female, Black, blue collar and then I grew into the shadows of those counted amongst the worst....gay, non-religious, and a liberal. I truly love this entry/poem/piece whatever. I really, really do.
Posted by: Kiara at July 3, 2005 06:27 PMI really loved this... the beauty of your words to me is that, upon first read, you relate. When you open your mouth to speak them and read them aloud again, you recognize and understand. This is definitely a most beautiful purge and prayer all at once.
Posted by: Kholi at July 27, 2005 03:59 PM