Liberty Stolen

My body, this I be (My country tis of thee)

Peace, Joy, Affinity, (Sweet land of liberty)

Youth’s fountain springs (Of thee I sing)

Blood on my mother’s thighs (Land where my father’s died)

Gifts of our sister’s sighs (Land of the Pilgrim’s pride)

At every hearth reside (From every mountainside)

“Hestia, we sing!” (Let freedom ring!)

MX (EM ex) Mare Martell

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:

Mx. Mare Martell

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!

Sometimes Maybe

Sometimes I want to be a kite

Ripped and tugged by wind’s whim

Rising above spectators

Admired for my brightly colored dips

That write nonsensical whispers

Of promises made to a forever not witnessed

Sometimes I wish I were a bear

Raw with raking power paws

With heavy duty claws that help me eat

People I don’t like or those who disturb me.

Sometimes I wish I were a siren

One that rests on rocks singing sweetly

Lulling sailors to their doom upon my rocks

Jutting breasts and flirty hair calling to boys

“Beware! Beware!”

Sometimes I’m glad to be me

A chubby tubby funny woman with dimple cheeks

Cracking open frozen hearts, not of ice

But stuck in places not so nice

Places that don’t remember their worth

Burying their beings without much mirth.

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.

These Are My People: Linda Looney

Linda and Mare

A relationship between a mother and daughter

is far more complicated than it oughter

be, with wrecks and disasters no happily ever after

as one struggles to hold on, the other to be free.

But if you ask them, one on one how they feel,

you’ll hear nothing but the true theist spiel

of love and emotion, undying devotion

between mother and child, where nothing is mild

when familial blood runs rivers through reconciled

years washed pure in the hopeful heart referred

“Glad to be of help.” the moniker tenured

Pearls=Wisdom

Unrefined wisdom

Unrefined wisdom

Oh, how I longed for a string of pearls

I wished and hoped since I was a little girl

I dreamed someday they’d be boon to me

Yoked around my neck as an adulthood key

Offered with adoration from generational knee

For as a foolish child, I believed wisdom to be free.

Self Sacrifice

Feathers

Feathers

When you came to me, you were more than a dozen.

Everything about you was something it wasn’t

I bent my fingers to shape your hands

I reconfigured my halo to destroy the badlands

I stripped the feathers from my wings that flew

I fashioned them to show you the skies of blue

I made horrifying textures smooth for you to build

I wrapped your intimidated heart against the freezing chill

I comforted primal screams from your terror filled nights

I kissed your cheeks lovingly while you fought the fight

I defended your body, your mind, and your spirit

I gave you safe haven, wouldn’t allow bandits near it.

I guarded you with a Battle Queen’s power

but (SNAP!)

like that

you snaked away in the witching hour

while the bells of winds change rang in the bower

to return to the dark from which you came

afraid of the light that I showed you again and again.

I release you back to your puzzled up mess

It is with deepest sorrow, I lay you to rest

I shutter my windows, lock up my doors

mourn who I knew you could be; but won’t be I’m sure

until you know your own value, nay, worth

my heart no longer yours, your memory dispersed.

No longer McBeezled

Once a thief, always a liar

Once a thief, always a liar

There is no door on my home

There is no “where” I roam

That permission is granted

For you to again request access.

The lights in my windows

The warmth of my hearth

Are obscured from your blows

You, with chosen corrupted self-worth

My over shoulder refrain to your

Strut of smoking guiltless shame

“Never again. Not ever again.

Once a thief, always a liar

You raped what you so

Deserved in your own destructive fire.”

Imagination gone dark

Those who want the world to stop burning must first realize that it's on fire.

Those who want the world to stop burning must first realize that it’s on fire.

Quit selling me your Jesus. Who is thick with thorns?
Don’t bleed your justification while the poor you scorn
Don’t tell me that my color is wrong, that a prison is a matter of fact
When you took away our baseball gloves and gave us baseball bats
Don’t tell me that I need to work, that I’m just a lazy bum
When you sent my job to the Philippines while calling me black scum
Don’t tell me to step up and be a father, when you took mine when I was seven
My mama couldn’t take care of me, she wept “He is watching me from heaven.”
But she believed in the Jesus you sold her that burns like a cross in my yard
She counted prayers and sang the hymns while my brothers lives are scarred
Quit telling me that I love my forty that dims the daily grind
Quit telling me I’m worthless so why should you educate my mind?
Don’t tell me that you value me just to get my vote you take away
You love me about as much as a crack baby born every day
You took away the healthcare to let my people suffer
While praising God and Jesus, filling up your coffers
You spend our money on bars and chains instead of buying books
You take away from teachers and schools, entertaining disdaining looks
Quit selling me your Jesus who is thick covered with your angry words thrown
While wearing the cross you put on your own back, you’re reaping what you’ve sewn.