My “Silent but Deadly” litany chants in my head
“Don’t open your throat, let the demons be fed”
I want to reach out. I want to be heard. But…
Reality isn’t where I want to be disturbed
My brushes lay colorless, lifeless as corpses
My observances from the corner, bodily divorces
I’m running like hell hounds know my name
The bridges start smoldering in fingers of blame
and they all return to me. Their rejection is plain to see
If I’m not them, I’m never good enough as me.
My throne near the top of the willow tree
where I could oversee
my kingdom that resounded
with mournful train chords
and springtime robin red-breast
Thin the veil between worlds
Of retrospection cursed not blessed
It’s like a perpetual bloodstain
With solidly placed blame
Thats removed quietly with disdain
Where “It’s just how they are” to
Invisibility of me to an entire crew.
But I’ll not allow their foolishness
Not in my kingdom where I am best
Where I’m more than bone deep
Better than the company they sheep.
I’m no longer going to title myself with Mrs. or Miss or Ms. I’m not even going to impose myself on my brothers at arms standing tall in the Mister world. I’m claiming Mx. I’m setting my feet firmly on the label.
It’s the most commonly used gender neutral moniker used; where the x represents a wildcard. It’s the key to a freedom that I’ve desired since thinking about my gender in the sixth grade and feeling like I needed to be a boy, but not understanding the rejection I felt from the one person I trusted to tell at that age.
I’m not a man caught in a woman’s body. I thought of that for quite a while as well. I have several people that I love dearly who are transitioning between the worlds. It awakened a questioning that I didn’t even realize was there. It made me consider whether I was just a human without gender or am I something that I’ve dreamed about? Am I a Dude? (In the Big Lebowski way, YES I am, because this Dude Abides!) Would I feel more like me or less like me if I were to present as a more neutral gender or more masculine? What would my husband think? Despite those very difficult questions and hours more, I realized I’m a woman that rarely thinks of being one or anything really. I’m human and that’s good enough for me.
I saw this:
I had just had the conversation with my husband about me wanting to use Mr. instead of Mrs. or Ms. or Miss. I explained that I’d seen a Twitter meme where it pointed out that where a man’s title doesn’t change, the woman’s titles are only pointing to how they are related to the closes man in her life. I didn’t like the taste of that bitterness in my conscience which is where the entire thought process began.
May I give a special acknowledgement to Terran Gray who’s gentle support while I struggled to decide where I stand roiled around inside me. They never once made me feel as if I were weird or out of place any more than usual ( 🙂 ) Their kindness and compassion even when I was asking some pretty deep questions were nothing short of a blessed boone. I wish them nothing but the very best in any endeavor they choose. Someone that beautiful in this world is a rarity and I am grateful.
This is where I am in my life. No excuses. No guts. All the glory!
I want to violate you by releasing my raw primal rage
A bonfire of hatred emblazoned in my silent chest awaiting birth
The “Flesh your heart” punishment of original sin, raped
The mundane act of typing the violation of my rights
as a human. as a woman. as FIFTY ONE PERCENT of totality
while you prognosticate fodder for the war machine
I defiantly consider all acts of subjugation as Slavery of Women
When I’m no longer terrified of how I will sound unrestrained,
You will no longer exist other than in history as bad apples
bitter seeds of spill on the dirt floors of the prisons you built
for me
but will not hold this.
I wear our Blues to the table that tucks my knees against the underside
Because I’ve witnessed what we’re leaving for them, legacies of lies.
I’ve sat at the table, the children’s table, minding them for far too long
I’ve heard their tired voices arguing about who’s right or wrong.
They are not my future, but they are yours without a doubt.
You should sit and listen to the children’s table, so change can come about
They see blue as hopeful, I think, but only as hopeful as the Blues
We have gone and lost them a costly sum of what it means to choose.
Be gentle with me,
for I am but a fragile human
whose eyes may not see
the expression of your sexuality
as a sign of repressed individuality
because I may be jaded by my misogyny.
Be gentle with me,
for I am but a fragile human
and I am terrified to be
the openhearted embracing destiny;
to stake my claim on my personal history
as one not bound by mainstream society.
Be gentle with me,
for I am but a fragile human
I am unafraid to be
every breadth and depth of clarity
a shining hope against disparity
standing human by human in equanimity
Be gentle with me,
for although a fragile human I be,
I have stepped outside of me
the one they knew can no longer be
because who I am, I was born to be
And I can no longer hide
I AM FREE!
When you still wore stardust,
before you discovered this plane
When the galaxies danced at your whim or will
still then, nothing remained the same.
You wept when a planet was born or died
Your diamond tears descended as rain
Your divinity moving in and out the tides
Why then, my beloved, do you think these gifts arcane?
Now is the experience, like any other ride,
only now the power is that of indigenous hurricanes.
The sugar cookie pink dogwood sprinkles bridal paths;
creating instant asphalt chapels.
The scent of innocence found in clover and black walnuts
admire the buttercups, grape hyacinths, and forget-me-nots
I inhale the pastel afternoon of 72 degrees, skirt weather
rising sun peeking the treetops looking for reflections
The yellow skin blanket warms the earth,
nurturing the robins, crows, and a fashionable pair of bluebirds.
In the dark margarine yellow window boxes,
purple pansies assort themselves presentably.
There are four square pillars looking like an estate;
updated but settled into a routine of security.
A squeal of young girls holding a picnic at the curbside
interacting by taking turns instead of having a leader.
They worked in tandem, familiar with their abilities.
A nap in a hammock sounds incredibly plausible, but
I return to the silence of a squeaky cat and gentle spirit
The singing tree is abuzz with pollination
Beezus kneezus
They are tuned to lawn mower and cultivators of grand design
Twirtling whistles calling attractive charps.
I hear sky calling trills and thrills with a distant dog barker- carnival style
Deep fried in a crispy batter with enough calories to kill a small town faster than Walmart
Frogs are ritting and roting a love song to be begged generations long
Chattering bamboo charms cardinal directions hovering home
Guns ranged into collapsing sound; whips cracked precisely
S-s-s-s-sisserig rus-s-s-s-s-s-stling leaves and branches
Seabird seabird seabird bird bird trill
Barn Owl haunts the blue jays battle while carpenter beezus kneezus
Mourning dove calling sadly the droning plane cruising altitude
My favorite part of my home is if you stand
at the bottom of my kitchen steps
looking towards the front door at around 8PM
when the traffic returns home from their workday
my disco ball chandelier confetti’s my foyer
with dance party festivities.
My favorite part of my home is
if you sit on my back deck under my ancient oak
while the chickens are bathing in the dirt or
scratching where my Hosta’s used to grow and bloom
you can hear St. Thomas on one side, 4th Reformed
greeting midday with their church bells
My favorite part of my home is
if it rains, any amount at all, the basement
because of the slope of our just under quarter acre,
floods rudely sopping the carpet
but not the floor unless it’s a ridiculous amount
which you’d know nothing about here.
A favorite part of my home is found,
almost as much and as frequently,
as the obligatory Kawphy
served in: brewed, pour-over, cappuccino, or Keurig,
because one type isn’t enough when you love it,
are the multitude of teas that can be brought to life
nearly as instantly as the hot pot can boil.
My favorite place in my home is my mailbox.
I feel like “Walking on Sunshine” knowing maybe…
That today might be the day that one of several
who write me frequently may have done so.
They never fail to lift my spirits, bring me joy,
remind me that I matter in the great white north,
in the deep rainy south, in the breezy southwest,
No matter what or where, I am uplifted in their love.
My second favorite part of my mailbox is the flag.
When I see it up, then down, knowing maybe…
they will also know they are loved by me unequivocally.
Another favorite part of my home is my studio
It is my place of solace and solitude
where I can stretch my head and heart
to write whimsical or paint darkness.
I can embrace the mood of muse intimately
without pride or caution as she warms me thickly.
But what I love more than any of those things,
what gives me purpose to breathe life into the walls,
to shovel out the walk for the fourth time today,
to sort the recycling and the trash every Wednesday night
are my family.
Punky the Chihuhua, Herbie the turtle,
Louise, Fifty, Julie, Roy, and Maude the chickens,
(Two of which are indoor and wear diapers)
Our pet Human, Will, that I found on a street corner,
guitar strapped to his back as he headed out to busk
one freezing sunny snowy Sunday morning a couple of years ago.
Back then, he asked for a warm place to sleep for the night,
he’s never left and I don’t want him to, neither does Ben.
Without Ben the Great or me, we aren’t the we,
that make our Home at Kawphy Hill
An Independent Nondiscriminatory Platform With No Religious, Political, Financial, or Social Affiliations - FOUNDED 2014
Life is a patchwork of moments — laughter, solitude, everyday joys, and quiet aches. Through scribbled stories, I explore travels both far and inward, from sunrise over unfamiliar streets to the comfort of home. This is life as I see it, captured in ink and memory. Stick around; let's wander together.
Hosanna High Community Burial Project
True wealth is the wealth of the soul
Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Life as an American poet of excellence
Epic fantasy & military sci-fi author.
Love Letters to the Tar Pit
Making Space for Dreams
binge thinking and other things in life
Mare Martell 