Poetry by Peg Sweeney
Women's History
I
Women, hidden away
for eons of time
Lost or found
in their aprons and wash.
Clinging to images
handed down by
worn and tired mothers
harping on how to be
who to be —
Seeking men to answer
their needs.
Centering their lives
on a man's time clock.
II
Women now, dressed
in finer clothes
labeled with magic names
cling to images of Independence
handed down by mothers
Thinking independence was freedom
Only to look into eyes
of latch-key children
dulled by television's noise.
Women centered now,
from nine to five.
III
The biological clock
ticks on and on.
Relentlessly greying hair,
weakening bones, dulling muscles
Ovaries and wombs unused,
or used too late become
life threatening.
Breasts are smoothed by creams
unsuckled by young mouths.
Whose image to follow?
Whose eyes will reflect our own?
What is quality time?
Wherein lies our center?
To Matt and Scott
Who are they
the two young men
standing now on the
ceremonial block?
What did they wish to say
to friends assembled
on their behalf?
Out in the world
they are bashed, mocked,
and yet revered for their talents,
artists, dancers, actors,
creativity runs hard and fast
in their blood.
Too many lights have gone out
too many dead.
And yet these two
hold hands and kiss
ready to take a vow
to love each other, always.
Hold fast family, friends,
ride their wild waves
and beat the drums,
They're out, the closet
is flooded with light and love.
Touch
White coated doctor
Mouths verdict of
Mastectomy, or lumpectomy
With matter of fact words,
Never shedding tears
Or reaching out hands
To reassure the woman
Who listens.
He forgets he once was
Comforted and nurtured
At a woman's breast
Given life, while now
Life may be lost.
White coated Doctor
Sitting safely behind his desk
Unable, afraid, to reach out
Forgetting healing, life,
begins
with
touch.
Light Source
The light changed
becoming crystalized.
Water reached the shore
in great finger holds.
Blueberry bushes ran
along the road's edge
climbing up into long
rocky fields.
Time was lost
in clothes blowing on a line.
Old farm houses flying flags.
White porches decked
with red geraniums.
Indeed, what can
I tell you
of light and air
wind, water and sky.
Time turned inside out
and upside down.
Watches, clocks, faceless.
Children running free
on beaches washed
by endless time.
Time so finally lost
it is found.
Warrior Women
Warrior Women write
of feelings deep, wild,
pushing up, out,
feelings stuffed, crushed
held in by guilt
or lessons well learned.
Warrior Women write
of abuse
by fathers, uncles, grandfathers,
brothers, friends
who pretended to love
but felt, caressed, penetrated
young girls, innocent in their age,
warned not to tell.
Warrior Women write
crying out to be heard
pointing the finger,
challenging mothers who
froze in submission
to beatings and threats
or said they didn't know.
Warrior Women write
holding the pen
writing on and on.
The healing takes
so very long.
The Center
Out the window door
lilacs bloom in
wild scented profusion.
Apple blossoms frame
the bright green meadow
setting a velvet stage
for the returning deer.
The old wicker rocker,
newly painted
is placed on the porch,
its ample seat ready
to welcome friends and animals.
A grandchild calls from
miles away
to tell of radishes we planted in March
now, bright red, and ready to eat.
Lingering, I watch an infant
open tiny hands, wrapping them
around a grandmother's thumb,
eyes and voices meeting,
each holding tightly to new lives
so recently found.
Out the window door lilacs bloom now,
the scent filling the air.
Gathering an armful,
I place them carefully
in the center
of my room.
Fifty is Nifty
or so They Say
My hands,
reflecting in the mirror
while I touch and probe
groping at the soft nipple
searching for the possible
hidden lump —
with its fear laden message.
Hands, lingering now
touching, caressing the nipples
remembering their hardness
and tenderness
engorged with milk.
Fingers, deftly directing
their flow
into eager, searching mouths.
Rocking back and forth
warm flesh
against my body,
sweet, sour smells,
lullabyes softly sung
Now, blasting music
jars my reverie —
as my eyes are drawn
to the window —
outside, adult children play
babbling voices
hurling bodies,
flinging their overgrown selves
in pursuit of a ball.
They're 'hanging out' now
until the laundry's finished
the dinner served
their stomachs full
once again.
Manitoba Night Prairie
The crescent-shaped moon
hangs golden in the
vast prairie sky
its promise of fullness
like a young girl
etched in a circle of light.
Across the horizon line
millions of stars stretch
becoming star soldiers
young men, dead, before their time,
banished forever to the sky
still vainly seeking
the crescent moon's promise.
Ribbons of light blue and scarlet
slowly fill the eastern sky.
Dawn erases the star soldiers
leaving only Venus
shining hopefully on.
Manitoba prairie
stretching across day and night,
moon touching earth
stars burning ever on.
Time rising on the back light
of the moon.