dream catchers

 

i.

how come i cannot find

a playbook for young girls

so they can be 

stormcatchers 

& cartographers of their lives

instead of walking with bounded

feet and wounded hands

ii.

child

draw your dream in a paper

and tuck them in your pocket

-fisher of stars

-wind catcher

-queen of seven seas

-king of lost forests

your pimp will not want them

your jail keeper will thow away the key

they belong to you

in heat of hunger and cold of despair

in the lonely hours of darkness

unfold their inconceivable wings & glorious eyes

unflinching and unvanquished

fixed on you

no, you will not forget them

they belong to you

they cannot be bought

they cannot be sold

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Stormy Weather, with guest host, Andrew Wilson.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your comments.

sisterhood

 

we were born on sawdust and torn tweed

scattered along plains of wheat and weeds

we suckled on old goat's milk and blue scars

etched on bodies of our mothers searching for stars

we grew up suffering through our & their pain

never knowing the joy of freedom & our names

how we fought and grinded with vigor

as we took blows to go through the rigor

we are stronger when our voices are melding 

to bring justice & peace, all with a good ending

we now stand humbled but proud women fighters

as we made this, our way, survivors

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub -  When "we" writes Poetry, hosted by Laura Bloomsbury.  Thanks for your visit.

The Unravelling

"(There are) many stories which are not on paper, they are written in the bodies and minds of women."

By Amrita Pritam

Unweave these threads across my face

They are bondages that muffles my voice

My word has weight, my name has grace

What you see with nary a shadow or trace 

Of question, interest or life, is a mirage

Unweave these threads across my face

You'll hear my sad songs welling from vase

Broken a long time ago, a bleak montage

My word has weight, my name has grace

I recall them, underneath this shame of lace 

Over my thin shoulders cowed low

Unweave these threads across my face

That you will see me truly, in a place

Worthy & joyful.  I'll let the words steep, stir-

My word has weight, my name has grace

Out of my belly & bosom, into your palms

To hold my face, bare, sun-warmed  

Unweave these threads across my face

My words have weight, my name has grace

Source

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub, Poetics:  Women are people: invoking Amrita Pritam with guest host, Punam Sharma.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

Women, be fierce!

My hands are a keeper of words that stays

green as spring.  Even when autumn sits
curled beyond my reach, I'm content to play
with spinning wheel.   I gather all my wits
to seed:   fire, mustard & apples. What fits
doesn't always happen as I tangle with dark comedy.
I am a weaver who stitches and flits
sad corners, cutting away the tragedy.
Underneath the labor of tiny leaves, I eye
waning hours to inhale solitude.  Though I smart   
from the toil and burdens, I don't cry.
We women are embroidered with an open heart.

Sun holds our faces as chalices.   Don't moan
our past nor fate.   We are not cast in stone.

Posted for OpenLinkNight - dVerse poets Pub - I reposted this poem (Bout Rimes poetry form)  in celebration of the International Women's Day today !    Cheers!!!!! 

#brava!

we walked on eggshells
around his supersized ego-
         chickens
giving him pass for his lewd-
ness and foxy behavior

it was our season of sickness,
         rut and rust
we were pawns
in his checkered games-

until 1 woman finds her 
footing
core
          earth and iron
speaks up
breaks the silence
of gated mountains,
finds a chorus of women

           #metoo

to build a bridge 
over the deep rivers- 

           checkmate!



Posted for dVerse Poets pub - Meeting the Bar:  Symbolism, hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   

A tribute to all the Silence Breakers, Person of the Year by Time 2017.

To the hands that labor

Your hands are stones
washing and rinsing clothes
flecking away grime and stains

Now your hands are cups
as you knead flour to fresh bread, 
pour water to thicken broth or steep tea

Then, your hands are sticks
digging deep in the earth
gardening seeds & rooting away weeds  

Though your skin has hardened
like thick maple sugar in old jar 
they are ivory feathers on cheeks
and tousled heads at night

The labor of everyday chores
crinkles a map of delicate veins
Here's your past, etched deep
as your mother
There's your future, held back by
list of family obligations

Sister, as you bend your head in yet another task:
sewing that wayward button to a shirt
My palms, waxed with poetry, murmur:

This rose is for you
for first day of spring & all the days
you bring spring

Picture credit:   Valerie Hammond

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics - Can you give me a Hand by guest blogger, Mish ~

Thanks for the visit and comments ~