Call to Arms

Gods of winds and sons of storms

Awaken to this call to arms

Boil your blood in righteous anger

Be hurricanes of powerful danger

Be your swords quick like zephyrs whirl

Seek out justice in your mother’s world

The holiness of your sacred birth

is denied her value, refused her worth

Defend against the denial of her choice

the objectified feminine merits a voice

Sons or father’s you needn’t speak

but you mustn’t allow those too weak

to erase half of you without a fight

Support the women! Support her rights!

Cycle turns

flowergarden

I am an untended garden, riddled with forget-me-nots and weeds

My earth has not been furrowed asunder; tilling life to the topsoil

I have grown fallow, un-supporting of life, but yet, there are some

perennials that cling to a hope of return, of vibrancy dallying

But I can only roll over in my floral nightgown, whimpering in my bed

allowing the blistering son to scorch my once glorious stance

I admit, I’ve become self-watering. I needn’t wait for the gardener

My groans of grief roil the soil, creating bitter roots exposed as lies

Everyone knows that when the earth laughs, people die.

She accepts their bodies back to her world, but I could still breathe

so I am not granted respite from the overabundant fertilizer spewed

over my once lush landscape. But, I will rise, for the weeds can’t hang on

when I forbid grasping of my rooted passion for life. Here she comes

the one that removes the rot with compassionate hands.

Here he comes, the one that scratches that spot in the very middle

She tends to me while singing lightly a childhood song forgotten

He digs deep with his grip, releasing the tainted, blighted plants

She opens the earth to expose me to the warmth of attention

He plants perennial seeds to grow through the coming seasons.

I inhale deeply, knowing that my rebirth will again grow fruitful.

My cycle continues in ample countenance to their loving attention.

I await my own fruition. I will grant only the very best of myself

to create the most beautiful garden I can create. This, is why I weep.

Wisdom Seeker

 

The ancient wilds have reached into her spirit

elevated her to endless horizon

Baltered in rhythm with the tides

shrieked, pranced, dashed, danced

Arms raised in worship to the Dark moon

Skyclad but for the whimpered light

of that which compeled and sent her breathless

willingly swathed in the darkness

re-birthed from the warrior to the Wisdom Seeker

the preparation transitions from mother to crone

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

Moon Mother

Of our spirit comes forth a light that cannot be denied

A token of our birthright, our power her wedded bride

Raise our hands up to the moon to draw her down to see

Sing in sky-clad voices, to the tune played three times three

Hark! Hail! We greet you with our bodies meet your night

Hark! Hail! We honor you with this our hearth-fire light.

Hark! Hail! We beckon you to join our ecstasy

Hark! Hail! We dance for you, dear Mother, Blessed Be!

Mother Moon

Mother Moon

Mother Moon

We feel the sway of the moon

To our mother’s bosom we cling

At the heaven’s feet we swoon

Full or dark we’re worshiping.

The pull of tides cradle hearts

At her breast we are mollified

In her arms we’re created art

Full or dark, we’re pacified

NaPoWriMo: This Poem Is a Fighter

SIDENOTE: It is my practice not to dwell too much on negativity. I get pissed off. I sometimes struggle to understand the actions of others, particularly when they’re harmful, but I fight myself to understand so that I can spend my time in peace. It’s not been easy for me. In fact, the only poem I skipped was the cycle of negativity in this whole series because it denied me comfort. This is a mock up conversation between a parental set and a child of faith.

Mother, Father, Child

“I watch my brothers and my sisters run

I see my brothers and my sisters sleep

But I fear for them, my father and mother

That we may have fallen in too deep.”

“You worry, my child, while there is no need

There is enough, but there’s too much greed

Turn the hearts of those who steal

So that everyone can enjoy the meals”

“But, my father and my mother, I say

That I watch this happen every day

Where a child goes without, an adult has too much

I’m afraid we’re all lost, that we’re too out of touch”

“My beautiful child, with eyes looking up

Remember, my dear one, to keep filling the cup

For the cup of love is always overflowing

For those who keep giving will cherish this knowing”

“My mother and father, dearest of my heart

I hate when I must face the world while we are apart

I feel despair and anguish from nearly everyone I see

It hurts my heart to know, that they don’t know you like me.”

“My beloved child, my precious one, you do not understand

We are always here to love you, each woman, creature, and man.

If they seek us, we will hold them, cherish them each day

Your fears, my tiny child, are not for you to say.”

“Blessed mother, loving Father, I am grateful for attune

I’m thankful for the many things you’ve given me, my boon

I will obey as you command and pray I meet your call

For you’re the ones I honor, in this time and for all.”

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