the business of busyness

some of us see you as woman

in flowered hat

cool as a spring blossom

no one can guess that beneath

your walk with an air of elegance

that you are filled with piths of sadness

an emptiness that you cannot bottle

and put a label

so that your therapist can check

its shape

its hues and dunes

its composition 

her moon eyeglasses

could not decode where it

started nor prescribe the cure

so you carry a big purse of fullness 

and work your hands with busyness

your schedule is so booked

you blank out lunch

you forget to go outside 

and inhale the scent of lilacs & tulips-

real flowers, that is

if only your therapist knows

that the only thing that brings you a smile

are the birdsongs

Woman with Flowered Hat

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

Woman of the Tree

 

her ribs came from wood

of sufferings, swollen with moonlit tears

her eyes reflect solitude of woods

her arms softest of fiddlehead ferns

yet her fire from failures

carves her path now

into the next journey,

she is resolute, as her mother

& grandmother have been, welding 

her words to burn at every dawn 

Tree Sculpture at Mississuaga Park

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight, hosted by Mish. Join us when the pub doors open by 3pm EST.   Thanks for the visit and comments.   

To a daughter by the lighthouse

Dry your victim's tears
I walk with you in this journey
You are
more than what they say you are
more than what you think you are

Feel your heartbeat
You are
born with survivor's spirit
A lighthouse to all those lost boats

Know that your cross is also my cross
And your scars will be beautifully shaped
Like deep thick roots of an oak tree
Some seasons, you will overflow with flowers
Some seasons, you will be empty of fruits
But you will keep on walking 

Even when some words are stones
Lingering sharp long after 
everyone have cast their judgments
Some words will be seeds
blooming even when you are not aware of it
They will be fuel and fire
Wind and thunderstorms
For your other sisters and brothers 
Be strong with your voice

Your children need to hear it-
Your partner needs to hear it-
Follow that instinct
Like the creatures of the earth

Who knows when its time to go or stay
When its time to be fight or give up
Keep yourself hungry for sunsets 
Thirsty for adventures & road trips
Don't you realize by now

You are more than 5 letters
A rib-maker, formed by your own hands-

By Colossal

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg

My thoughts upon reading the rape victim's powerful letter here  when her accuser, an ex-Stanford university swimmer, was sentenced to only 6 months of prison.

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 ~

Women, be fierce!

My hands are a keeper of words that stays
green as spring.  Even when autumn sits
curled beyond my reach, 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 D'verse Poets Pub - Bout Rimes Revisited, hosted by Gayle Bodirose ~ We are to use the following words in the same end-rhyme pattern:  stays, sits, play, wits, fits, comedy, flits, tragedy, eye, smart, cry, heart, moan, stone. 

A belated tribute to International Women's Day (last March 8) ~

Thanks for the visit ~

Let it bleed

Let it bleed

Sculpture by Vally Nomidou

There's this woman
made of paper & cardboard

When it rains, she wrinkles
Under the sun, she is veins
pulsing of energy

She allows colors
to seep out of her 
words, skin, hair, mouth

She threads pain
with double knots
underneath her ribs

At night she sews her hands
with wires
By morning, she is fist & 
birthing

of things she
passionately believes
& endures
folding, refolding, unfolding, folding

She is content with 
distance of moon & stars,
changing sea tides, storms, thaw-
She knows what she can change
and what she can't

Her body is canvas, 
inked by earth, wind & sky.

One day I will unravel her  

light
fervor 
ardent words  

inside of me.  

And let it all bleed.

Posted for OpenLinkNight of D'verse Poets Pub - Thanks for the visit ~

Also please check out my lune poems as Personal Challenge from Michael (or grapeling) here ~  

m(a)ystery of the woman

the night labels you a man-eating monster,
supernatural creature who eats fetus 
with a long tongue, shapeshifter-
half-woman and half-animal,   
dismembered torso, wings black as a devil-
hunted and shunned-
a witch !

            chants, by white-collared friars with heavy rosaries-
            gossips, by greedy male traders with western swagger-  
            they all lie in wait to shackle you to a box, plain & mute-  
            until you feel ashamed of your virile nakedness - breasts,  
            face, legs, you cover everything in modesty, 
            veiled, hidden, tempered steel, 
            a diminished star.
             
but don't you remember - 
you were worshipped like the sun - a goddess:
fertile, propagating & naming children, like mother nature
you were the pact holder, mediator of the tribe,
the healer, believing in the power of cure in leaves & fruits-
you fought for your rights & freedom-
now, wake up & wear your skin, 
your words have magic,  you are 
a queen ! 

Gabriela Silang 

First woman general who fought against the Spanish invaders

in the 18th century.

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics - Myths 

I watched this interesting documentary by a Canadian on a popular Asian myth of vampire folklore in the Philippines.   I was struck with the idea that native women rebelled against the tight structure of Spanish Catholic religion and way of life.   In the early centuries, native women were powerful priestess, rulers and well respected guardians in the tribal community.                                                    

Manananggal

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ePhqoyLpXQ

I dream of the sky

under my burqa, world is small as my hand,    
        but with my pen, hidden under the folds, i dream of the sky.    

~0~0~

why can't i choose my love,
        i am not made of stone nor dry straw dusting the ground.

~0~0~

kill me with your hands,
        but my words will live, setting my henna-inked sisters free.

Written for Real Toads:   Landai poems are mostly voices of Afghan women.  They are two-line folk poems that can often be humorous, sexy, raging, tragic and  also deal with love, grief,  war, exile and Afghan independence. The success of the poetry form is attributed to it being easy to memorize, which is really important in a culture where women are poorly schooled and forbidden to write or read.

An interesting Article:  Why Afghan Women Risk Death to Write Poetry

Also shared with:  Flash Fiction Friday - 55 words for the G-man ~
Picture credit: Afghan Women's Writing Project