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.

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.