IWomen, hidden awayfor eons of timeLost or foundin their aprons and wash.Clinging to imageshanded down byworn and tired mothersharping on how to bewho to be —Seeking men to answertheir needs.Centering their liveson a man's time clock.IIWomen now, dressedin finer clotheslabeled with magic namescling to images of Independencehanded down by mothersThinking independence was freedomOnly to look into eyesof latch-key childrendulled by television's noise.Women centered now,from nine to five.IIIThe biological clockticks on and on.Relentlessly greying hair,weakening bones, dulling musclesOvaries and wombs unused,or used too late becomelife threatening.Breasts are smoothed by creamsunsuckled 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 theythe two young menstanding now on theceremonial block?What did they wish to sayto friends assembledon their behalf?Out in the worldthey are bashed, mocked,and yet revered for their talents,artists, dancers, actors,creativity runs hard and fastin their blood.Too many lights have gone outtoo many dead.And yet these twohold hands and kissready to take a vowto love each other, always.Hold fast family, friends,ride their wild wavesand beat the drums,They're out, the closetis flooded with light and love.
White coated doctorMouths verdict ofMastectomy, or lumpectomyWith matter of fact words,Never shedding tearsOr reaching out handsTo reassure the womanWho listens.He forgets he once wasComforted and nurturedAt a woman's breastGiven life, while nowLife may be lost.White coated DoctorSitting safely behind his deskUnable, afraid, to reach outForgetting healing, life, begins with touch.
The light changedbecoming crystalized.Water reached the shorein great finger holds.Blueberry bushes ranalong the road's edge climbing up into longrocky fields.Time was lostin clothes blowing on a line.Old farm houses flying flags.White porches deckedwith red geraniums.Indeed, what canI tell youof light and airwind, water and sky.Time turned inside outand upside down.Watches, clocks, faceless.Children running freeon beaches washedby endless time.Time so finally lostit is found.
Warrior Women writeof feelings deep, wild,pushing up, out,feelings stuffed, crushedheld in by guiltor lessons well learned.Warrior Women writeof abuseby fathers, uncles, grandfathers,brothers, friendswho pretended to lovebut felt, caressed, penetratedyoung girls, innocent in their age,warned not to tell.Warrior Women writecrying out to be heardpointing the finger,challenging mothers whofroze in submissionto beatings and threatsor said they didn't know.Warrior Women writeholding the penwriting on and on.The healing takesso very long.
Out the window doorlilacs bloom inwild scented profusion.Apple blossoms framethe bright green meadowsetting a velvet stagefor the returning deer.The old wicker rocker,newly paintedis placed on the porch,its ample seat readyto welcome friends and animals.A grandchild calls frommiles awayto tell of radishes we planted in Marchnow, bright red, and ready to eat.Lingering, I watch an infantopen tiny hands, wrapping themaround a grandmother's thumb,eyes and voices meeting,each holding tightly to new livesso recently found.Out the window door lilacs bloom now,the scent filling the air.Gathering an armful,I place them carefullyin the center of my room.
Fifty is Nifty
or so They Say
My hands,reflecting in the mirrorwhile I touch and probegroping at the soft nipplesearching for the possiblehidden lump —with its fear laden message.Hands, lingering nowtouching, caressing the nipplesremembering their hardnessand tendernessengorged with milk.Fingers, deftly directingtheir flowinto eager, searching mouths.Rocking back and forthwarm fleshagainst my body,sweet, sour smells,lullabyes softly sungNow, blasting musicjars my reverie —as my eyes are drawnto the window —outside, adult children playbabbling voiceshurling bodies, flinging their overgrown selvesin pursuit of a ball.They're 'hanging out' nowuntil the laundry's finishedthe dinner servedtheir stomachs fullonce again.
Manitoba Night Prairie
The crescent-shaped moonhangs golden in thevast prairie skyits promise of fullnesslike a young girletched in a circle of light.Across the horizon linemillions of stars stretchbecoming star soldiersyoung men, dead, before their time,banished forever to the skystill vainly seekingthe crescent moon's promise.Ribbons of light blue and scarletslowly fill the eastern sky.Dawn erases the star soldiersleaving only Venus shining hopefully on.Manitoba prairiestretching across day and night,moon touching earth stars burning ever on.Time rising on the back light of the moon.