These Are My People: Aunt Lizzie

The turning of the Wheel is honored in her space

the breathing of the seasons accounted at her grace

With eyes the color of summer sky she observes the holy

Appreciating each season as its revealed so slowly

Her hair is the color of bonfires, of cider mills or pumpkin pies

When she laughs, I mean really laughs, it could make you cry

She sees the world in music, notes upon a page,

Not a moment passes by that she’s not fully engaged.

She can make a piano dance a jig or an organ sing to God

But she believes, somewhere inside, that she is somehow flawed.

When she gives the gift of her, in whichever way she does,

There is never any doubt in mind, that you are truly loved.

 

Blue Gene

The thundering rain roiled violently in the warm November night

striking the man with sheets of his plight

He, on his knees on the side of the road,

had arms raised like and above his face

a thousand cries towards mercy

In supplication he wailed at the haunt of cars

A woman rushed to his side.

She didn’t touch him, but she united her voice with his prayers

He staggered to his feet as wings offered him passage

His breath of prayer accounted for, he was warmly embraced

He sobbed his shame into his cupped hands

while apologizing for his humanity

The chariot released him to the cross of spirits

easing his ailing heart.

He is loved.

“I’ll drink to that!”

Recklessly she discarded words,

that,

from another’s lips,

warrants confetti worthy celebration.

But because her breath is liquid lies,

the cloak of alcoholic obscurity

barely acknowledges discussion.

Smoke and mirrors,

meant with the road to hell’s best intentions,

whiskeys its way over the insult.

The gilded desperation staged as

Happily drunken after!

Rape Culture: TRIGGER WARNING

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A survivor’s observation

A short bit ago, I realized that I’d get unusually irritable or uncontrollably weepy around seven o’clock every night. My friend suggested that maybe I was running out of something, like my medication wore off, or my hormones were going haywire like clockwork. That suggestion held merit so I paid closer attention to what I was doing during the day.

It dawned on me that I was halting social media around that time each day to tend to dinner, my pups, and other things that are required for the night time maintenance of my home (closing the blinds, putting down the windows, turning on lights, etc.) But why was I feeling so much intense emotion because of setting down social media?

I’ve been diagnosed with non-combative PTSD resulting from more life events than I feel comfortable expressing in a written vomit, but suffice it to say, I’ve done my fair share of my sentence in a therapist’s office trying to sort through the violence I’ve experienced. In fact, in a way, I was brought up by therapists which is probably why I need to talk out loud to process current events, or in this case to figure out how to deal with the blasts of dangerous triggering that occurs all/every day lately.

It started with Brock Turner’s smug rapist face parading through my feed as if he were proud of his crime. That sent me into extreme rage where I relived things that happened in my own life. It kept me on edge, disrupted my sleep, caused unusual fears, and sequestered me to my home more than once because I feel safe here.

But then the “Pussygate” issue came into play, The Presidential nominee for the Republican party spewing vile nastiness from that anus of a pie-hole has made it very difficult for me to deal with things. It’s not the word that he used or even that he described in detail what he’s done. It’s that he’s still being seen as a leader.

He’s being defended because his actions and words are just “locker room” talk or “boys being boys.” This is where it starts to dig deeper into my scar tissue and wiggle around a bit to rip open some of the dark times that I have put to rest already. But his admission without reprimand disgusts my sense and need for justice. This is NOT okay.

For me, knowing that he gets away with it is the same as saying I don’t matter. It’s the same as saying that the rape kit, the hours of counseling, the ruining of good relationships because I was so broken, the hours spent crying or pondering suicide, the grappling of inappropriate coping mechanisms that cost me more than one relationship…means nothing.

Everything I’ve gone through in my life. Everything I fight against now regarding domestic abuse, rape, sexual assault, and violence is for naught. I’ve seen people posting such garbage in response to my objections that it feels as if I’m facing that nastiness in AZ where I was told that my rapist would go free because “You didn’t verbally say no.” But I did say “Get the fuck off me.” “STOP!” “I don’t know you.” That mattered not. It’s just words. It’s just another liar. Her words against his. They deferred to him.

It’s been difficult to even get out of bed most days. My people live far away from me. The only way I can be a part of their lives on a daily basis is through social media. It’s my window to a place where I felt happy, healthy, safe, and loved. But even that is being taken away as more and more stories come to light. It no longer seems safe to attend my newsfeeds for fear or tripping over another bullshit pile from Trump.

What I don’t understand is why he’s automatically assumed to be telling the truth despite the video, verbal, and written words that have him specifically saying he does these things. Why aren’t more people upset? Why are they looking to him as their personal messiah? Why are they believing him even when he denies the very words he just uttered? Why are the women that came forward get disregarded as Democratic plants, liars, or even a vindictive ex, but he is innocent?

If one person comes forward, it’s possible they may not be entirely truthful, but if 6+ come forward, there’s a pretty good chance they’re telling the truth even without him verbally saying he did kiss women without permission or grab them by “the pussy.”

When I say, “This is the perfect example of how rape culture works.” I’ve been rebuked by some or discounted because Miley Cyrus lets people touch her while she’s performing. Worse is the woman that said she doesn’t see it (the rape culture). But she was quick to dismiss me because, after all, I’m a Libtard, right? I don’t matter. My words don’t matter. My very being as a survivor doesn’t matter to them. I felt shame for them.

Someone else asked, “Well why didn’t they report it when it happened? Had to have time to make up a good story?”

WTF? Seriously? First, I’m glad you have no idea what it’s like to experience the theft of your personal control by pawing hands or smelly breath covering your face. I’m delighted you don’t know what it feels like to feel powerless under someone else. Oh, well maybe you do and thought it was normal. It isn’t.

Your body is YOURS. Nobody else has a right to touch it without consent. It’s not theirs. It’s yours. But to excuse it as a fabrication because it may change your views is not only disturbing but disgusting. Why would anyone, considering the way these women have been treated since the story broke, come forward if it weren’t true? It’s a far more courageous act to stand up to someone whom violates my personal space and safety with lewd and irresponsible acts against me than it would be to allow that person to harm someone else.

Despite all of the negative rhetoric towards women** just like me, women who have survived being sexually assaulted in the many layers of legalese, I feel more resolve towards educating the ignorant. I feel that if my voice is loud enough, maybe I can help someone else not feel the ostrasization, shame, or guilt that commonly follows an assault. I can’t in good conscience give up the mantle that was forced on me from nearly day one. I will, however, tell every woman or man that shares their story:

You are NOT alone

It wasn’t your fault

I believe you.

It’s the very least I can do considering they’re also seeing what happens when a victim/survivor comes forward with their story.

**Yes, I know that men are raped. I know that they are sexually assaulted. I am in no way discounting their trauma, but I am speaking as a woman with intimate knowledge, not as a male.

The Silent Key

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When I talk to the ceiling or look to the sky

I gaze upon God as both you and I.

When I pray with love, bowing my head,

Instead of my questions, listening to what’s said.

Joy fills my spirit, overflowing my cup

I remember my blessings, remember to look up

When I walk in the world with wonder in my eyes

It’s easy to remember to sing to the sky

But when shadows crawl, as they sometimes do

I can’t see me and I can’t feel you.

But, when I talk to the ceiling or look to the sky

I gaze upon God as both you and I,

And when I stand with breast open to light from above

Then my fears fall away into the light of love

Late September

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The late September thunderstorm drizzles gray on dark pavement.

The wind physically throws a tantrum of plants, chimes screaming alarm.

The trees relieve themselves of dead branches onto accumulated decayed leaves.

Darkness portends a bitter battle but refuses to acknowledge the calm.

The cars slide by with deeper tone, like a man’s voice taking over a woman’s.

The blinds clap merrily against the windows as I rush to keep dry beds.

The thunder is unexpected, rumbling like bowels filled with beans and broccoli.

A flash, a roll, a grumbling of disturbed pressure pockets, then wet, dripping, silence.

 

Third verse unwritten

Youthful feet, bare of shoes,

The tattering of proven roots

from family tree, judge recused

Forgiving of a prostitute

Mercy Seat, sang the blues

Eating of forbidden fruit

Self-mistreat, allowed abuse

Rejecting every business suit

Purely obsolete, troubled muse

Punctured soles of ill repute

 

Gypsy heart, wandering free

Creating life to love in hands

Brightly colored, feathery

Wandering compass of all lands

Fully engaged bourgeoisie

Complete with impish contraband

Lustful laugh, bountiful in jubilee

Sometimes dirt, sometimes the sand

Ripened joyful, blissful sensuality

Worth no roots in wonderland

Keep the Heart Fire burning

The moldy crust of forgiveness lay on your counter forgotten.

When I first baked it, brought it to your table, broke bread with you

We ate with greedy abandon. The suggestion of freedom beamed

like a hearth fire we’d built together, but you abandoned our haven

Though guilt didn’t lay a head on my pillow, nor did shame,

I wonder if you ever wonder about whatever we became

I built my oven with encouragement towards success

You kept blowing out the embers, dumping water on the heat

Leaving my bread unleavened, flat, and eventually, I also left.

I eat my dinner, more than bread, at the table of successful abundance

I hope, someday, you will understand what I gave to you

in that warmly baked, love filled loaf of doughy comfort food.

Ronnie Bill

I was told that I’m not allowed to offer family advice.

Twenty years gone but I made it out alive.

Let me tell you why you’re wrong, because you are.

I KNOW

what it’s like to hold bitterness

what it feels like to reject those who love me

what holidays, loneliness, and anger tastes like

what Christmas morning looks like without oranges

what Thanksgiving is like without mincemeat pie

what birthdays feel like without shared history seeping

what anguish unsupported loss endures

I KNOW

what it took to wake me up (although I’m sure you think it was you)

what I had to realize before I could bolster my courage

what it is to ask forgiveness for being a fool

to walk into the unknown with hat in hand

to step cautiously to the edge of the cliff and

JUMP

I KNOW

how much damage I’ve done but not to the extent

what rebuilding a bridge with still smoldering lumber is like

that sometimes bitterness takes the form of pride

that abuses of history, privilege, and birthright exist

that time goes faster than a blink

that it’s far later than you’d think

I KNOW

right now, (not that you’ll read this) you’re lost

you blame me for not having money, not loving him, but

most of all for loving you and not choking on your pride.

You are so far in the darkness that the light feels like an insult

I love you despite yourself.

I’ll still be here when you’re ready.

I made my six year old vow to always be there for you,

I KNOW

you didn’t and couldn’t understand why I couldn’t and didn’t for him

you won’t believe me.

I’m okay with that.

you need to return home before you’re too afraid to come back

you’re a better man than you’ve become

I believe in you even if I don’t understand why you chose this way.

I KNOW. I see. I LOVE you anyway.

TAMP: ORRUCIANS

 

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2009 Unitarian Universalist

I ran away as fast as I could to find a safer place to be

I crossed rivers and swam oceans, foraged forests and climbed up trees

I ascended high rimmed mountains, rode hills with horses fast

I have kissed a thousand frogs and even married an ass!

I have met a fairy queen who tiptoe dances the floor

She is married to a humble bard who has to duck the doors

I stumbled into an elfin circle that sews with the finest of threads

And if you offer them rich brownies they take away the dreads

I heard a trumpeting truth come down from the pulpit hall

surrounded by the boughing trees, I heeded the beckoned call.

I danced naked with the witches circle at full moon and new

But never blocked by architecture, the witches window skewed.

I met the elders as they assembled together

to make magic happen in all kinds of weather.

I cherish the wisdom like life’s breath forgiven

I discovered a love that was so close to heaven

I was accepted as a magic star that glimmered in their midst

And with the breath of dandelion, I was granted my wish.

Safe harbor, my safe haven, my beloved fairyland

I carry with me the magic that you granted to my hands