Love Bless You

allyouneedislove

Love = God

If God’s original intent was to be perfect love for creation, then does it not make sense that Love, in name, is vain? Because, it created itself to be adored; in fact it requires adoration and glorification. It means that without the nurturing, cherishing, and honor done to those loved, it kills the very thing it proclaims to protect.

This is particularly accurate in relationships. If one or both allows life, possessions, or other things to come in between two people whom love each other, that love can rapidly become resentment, frustration, and anger. But when time is spent to prioritize the bond shared between two people, love does, indeed, flourish. So in this sense, love is not above wanting or needing to be appreciated.

But then what of the flowers that know nothing else but to be beautiful? Or a worm that worships at the flower’s roots? Or the bees that tend to the needs of beauty without a thought to why they pollinate the face of roses, daisies, and daffodils as certainly as they do the dandelions? Are they proof of the love we are meant to experience? Or are they merely energy used to engage us in questions of our own worthiness to be loved?

Love = Mortality

However, the beauty we are gifted with all around us are all reminders of a darker fare. Everything is a reminder of our own mortality. We can witness the cycles, seasons, and lifespans of many things around us. They are all preparing for our return to our own place of death; our own return to the stars.

We are constantly reminded by these living/sentient beings that our time here ends. They remind us that, just as a frond pushes towards the sun to work in the symbiotic ancient growth of life and beauty, so will it return to the earth.

We see but do not accept. Even in our known mortality, we allow the people we love to fall away from us. We forget to nourish the very roots from which we have grown. We build fragile connections through various addictions or meaningless distractions. We find so many ways to keep from seeing the truth of our energies.

We can do the same towards those we love. We can “kill” them with our neglect. Assuming, as with life, they will always be there. Maybe we view those we love as possessions which drives a wedge deep into the love we’re born to be. We may also place undue expectations on our loved ones, demanding that they comply with our own ideal despite their own person. These acts tear us from love. Denying they are also mortal locks us into taking one another for granted. We ignore the facts laid out all around us as proof we will also die.

Love = Holiness

It is only when we understand that we are created, born, and exist to be divine love that we can embrace our innate holiness in service to one another. This is, in it’s pure state, a declaration of love of self. It affords us a view of our own energy bottled in a different package. By igniting our own holiness, we are taught that although we are unique, our own being becomes one with each encounter.

There are many reasons we may deny others the love we are destined to give. We may be teaching our divine self where we most need to heal. We may be rejecting the lesson we’re meant to learn. We may also reject others because the lesson has already been accomplished, has already been learned and processed.

Just as we may reject opportunities in accordance to how we feel we are, or more importantly, if we believe we are worthy of the gift presented. Even the poor of spirit wish, whether consciously or not, to be cherished, admired, even adored which lends heavily to the hypothesis that we are all divine; all forms of God of which we are, by the blessing of our birthright, born to Love.

Our Mother

Mother, our Mother, teach us

for we are ignorant of your wisdom.

Mother, our Mother, swaddle us

within your fleshy womb

Allow us to absorb your breath

for when we are reborn,

Nourishing from your ample breast,

We are destined your heart sworn.

We will worship you with deepest reverence.

We will adorn ourselves with your resplendence.

Mother, our Mother, sing to us

the songs of your ancient blood

So we may learn the rhythm of your sustaining love

Hearth Deep

A shelter of spirit built with time

offers sweet haven, peace of mind

with fears the earthen floor is drenched

Cleansing years of neglectful stench

Envelopes of secrets kept

Also fall to be up swept

Hours and eons, weeks and years

Diamond value on wasted tears

Heart to spirit, hand to hand

Walking through love’s promised land

Woven together with bountiful mirth

Bound by cord of love’s rebirth

An observation of fear

Clicking bones against the concrete door

while oozing o’er the apathetic floor

Walls built from anger, boredom, xenophobia, and greed

Remove the anchors of bad hombre seed

Shackle the voiceless, the mindless sheep

there are no secrets that they won’t keep.

The taunts and jeers of the third grade rhetoric

are below the belt deplore-

able or not the iron is hot to brand the law-

less the “L”, the ostrich ass with head under sand-

man’s spell only to awaken to the bloody call to war.

The one that robs the mothers of their children dressed for duty

camouflaged in patriotic glory, flying under half-mast flags

mourning the deaths of people at church,

children at school,

date night at the movies.

The bones don’t lie as often as people do, or he does

Counting crimes on a rosary made of tarnished silver spoons

False notions of emotional devotion, void of solution

Blessing the anointed red buttons

Cross forehead to chest, shoulder to shoulder

Allowing the inner circle to bleed the child bride

while singing praises of the endured horrors on thin skin

Dragging age spots over youth as if an elixir

for the bargain basement price of forty silver

while the Roamin’ fingers applaud politely

with tiny hands bejeweled with the blood of slaves

adorned in robes made from the entrails of the poor

And it is written in the book of ends, now is the time.

Summer’s End

The season of temperate waves crashing

The taste of sultry sandy winds lashing

Impermanent trails blaze bare feet

The son blaring summer hits ice cream sweet

Pier extending into the break

Every worry abandoned, cares to forsake

Blessing granted upon the shores

The tidal drift of a sirens lore

Return to life in waters deep

A haven given, a restful peace

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.

End War

​Will you take me to the river?

Will you take me there today?

Will you wash away the blood?

Will you join with me and pray?
Pray for peace among the suff’ring

Pray for tragedy to end

Pray for their sweet comforting

Pray for love till world’s end.
Will you join me at the river?

Will you meet me there today?

Will you help me cleanse the blood?

Will you meet with me to pray?