a poem about equality

I’m reading a book called Women’s Glib: A Collection of Women’s Humor. It’s full of comics, poems, short stories, and other storytelling adventures. It’s not a recent publication, but it’s still enjoyable. This short poem, in particular, gave me a chuckle.

Change in the Weather by Mary Hazzard

 

Good news from the meteorological front!

Now half our storms will be manly and blunt,

Objective, broad shouldered, and legally free

From female caprices and hyperbole.

 

Amelia and Bess must yield some of their hail

And their showers and tempests and squalls to the male.

Carlotta and Rosa will find that a breeze

Can whisper Vicente as well as Louise.

 

Who wouldn’t feel snug in the eye of a storm

Called Daniel or Sergio or Hector or Norm?

And, surely we’ll all sleep more easily nights

Since weather, at least, has achieved equal rights. 

warrior poetry

This poem is called “Stone Walls” and it especially speaks to me in this moment, as I have recently contemplated how well I have fortified myself. Oh, yes, I am well protected! You, too? Is it time for us to put more faith in the Good than the Evil? The focus of our minds is the focus of our souls.

She’s been through so much pain
It’s a wonder she’s still sane
Abandoned by all those who should
Have supported and understood
So now she’ll never trust people again

She slaps the mortar down
And builds the stones around
So high that no one can get through
“With me no one will ever screw!”
She shouts defiantly with a stern frown

They come and do their best
The wall is pushed and pressed
But it is solid on outside
Each visitor; quickly denied
With her high stone walls no one can contest

They keep everyone away
The selfish ones at bay
The egotists who would just use
And take advantage and abuse
All people who threaten to wreck her day

She lives inside her fort
No family for support
No friends with whom to share her dreams
These stone walls have a price, it seems
Demons and angels; both alike they thwart

All those who only take
The ones who are so fake
As well as those who only live
To serve, to help, to love, to give
Neither of them can through the stone walls break

And so they all move on
‘Cause no one has the brawn
To dismantle the walls that block
To tear down the defending rock
They all give up and soon they are all gone

She hears nothing out there
No longer do they care
She drove them off because her guard
Did broadcast, barrage and bombard
To all visitors that she will not share

That there is no connection
No kinship, just objection
“Keep out, no visitors welcome!”
And like the stone, she grows so numb
Thanks to her self-made exile of protection

She sits there all alone
Surrounded by her stone
And wonders just how much hurt these
Walls have spared her from to appease
Her selfish wish to no longer be prone

To any kind of threat
To things that make her sweat
And work and strive and grow more strong
To show grace towards what is wrong
She stares at the stone walls now with regret

They haven’t spared at all
They have just kept her small
And terrified of the unknown
Her fear enabled by the stone
Her ego nurtured by the aloof wall

She reaches up to press
A stone and with success
It pushes through and drops to ground
Light pours in and she hears a sound
“Hello,” outside a kind voice does address

She leans down to the gap
And sees a friendly chap
He smiles unassumingly
“Lovely day, don’t you agree?
Or is it hard to tell from your stone trap?”

a life worth living

Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better
To paint a picture, or write a letter,
Bake a cake, or plant a seed;
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there’s not much time,
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;
Music to hear, and books to read;
Friends to cherish, and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world’s out there
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go (and go you must)
You, yourself, will make more dust.

(unknown author)

colors of the wind

When I first read this poem by Abdul Wahab, I thought, Mm. Some words have the power to leave us in a space beyond their reach.

In between my decorative cover
I laid a lot of colourful words
In red, blue, green and white
In black, sorrow and pain
All the doubts in yellow
I wrote in pink
The nightmares
I went through
In upper case I kept
The fragrance of lofty thought
You taught me
In tight secrecy, the memories
In maroon, in turquoise
The joy I got
Side by side
Along with the moon
Still words are merely words
You can not see
The wounds of the wind
Oozing of the heart
Red blood of the dream
Still unmakes the image
Of the blank space
Left by you
With Big Dash I am only
Able to paint
The sound of
Of emptiness

 

a bit of Bill

This is William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 60, a reflection on magic.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
   O, none, unless this miracle have might,
   That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
 
 

words alight

This poem is called “These Hands, If Not Gods” and is written by Natalie Diaz.

Haven’t they moved like rivers–

like Glory, like light–

over the seven days of your body?

And wasn’t that good?

Them at your hips–

isn’t this what God felt when he pressed together

the first Beloved: Everything.

Fever. Vapor. Atman. Pulsus. Finally,

a sin worth hurting for. Finally, a sweet, a

You are mine.

It is hard not to have faith in this:

from the blue-brown clay of night

these two potters crushed and smoothed you

into being–grind, then curve–built your form up–

atlas of bone, fields of muscle,

one breast a fig tree, the other a nightingale,

both Morning and Evening.

O, the beautiful making they do–

of trigger and carve, suffering and stars–

Aren’t they, too, the dark carpenters

of your small church? Have they not burned

on the altar of your belly, eaten the bread

of your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor,

to nectareous feast?

Haven’t they riveted your wrists, haven’t they

had you at your knees?

And when these hands touched your throat,

showed you how to take the apple and the rib,

how to slip a thumb into your mouth and taste it all,

didn’t you sing out their ninety-nine names–

Zahir, Aleph, Hands-time-seven,

Sphinx, Leonids, locomotura,

Rubidium, August, and September–

And when you cried out, O, Prometheans,

didn’t they bring fire?

These hands, if not gods, then why

when you have come to me, and I have returned you

to that from which you came–bright mud, mineral-salt–

why then do you whisper O, my Hecatonchire. My Centimani.

My hundred-handed one?

 

mother to son

poem by Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor–

Bare.

 

But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light.

 

So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps

‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now–

For I’se still goin’, honey,

I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.