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 pomegranate garden

Unstitch my mouth of black threads & brine

Unbound my hands, I am in search of garden

I am marking with red seeds, this path, mine

Not on your ancient books or shrines

Not on your laws with heavy curtains

Unstitch my mouth of black threads & brine

Your morality police lacks spine

My voice, my face etched with burdens

I am marking with red seeds, this path, mine

Searching for my own power & shine

Your cruel blows kill - I can't pardon

Unstitch my mouth of black threads & brine

Do you fear that I will get out of line?

I am Eve and Anahita

I'm marking this body with red seeds, mine

With sacred twigs & water from the garden

I'll draw rockets, stairways, freedom

I unstitch my mouth of black threads & brine

I am marking with red seeds, this path, mine

The Pomegranate Garden,” acrylic on canvas mounted on shaped wood panels, 74 x 57 x 8 inches

Inspired by the Iranian artist, Arghavan Khosravi, Colossal.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.  Join us with your poem when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Have a good weekend!

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.

under February stars

the night is a silkworm
feasting on mulberry leaves
& starry constellations

the weaving is slow yet
deliberate, my hands are a 
cocoon

i have no name yet
but i hear my blood
strongly stirring

my eyes are glass
reflecting the starlight
faint above snow wrapped city

soon, i will wear
gown of iridescent beauty: deep purple
threaded of courage & tenacity

the air sharpens as
a vision comes to me:
woman standing alone

her body leans to the sky 
serene as moon 
the galaxy awaits for her
exhalation

& i will fulfill it like
prophecy of the one who
birthed me:   shaper of dreams

"I started my life with a single absolute:  that the world was mine to shape in the image of my highest values and never to be given up to a lesser standard, no matter how long or hard the struggle."
- Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage."
- Anais Ain

Photography by Noell Oszvald

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Sunday's challenge theme - Individualism
and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~

In the kitchen where it all started & ended

Coconut pumpkin soup

it is not his words solely

but the way he spits them to her face - 

hiss of the blade, sharp upper cut 

that makes her cringe like a

disemboweled rotting pumpkin - 

scalp torn open, carved bleak

candles all melted inside-




she slowly stirs the pot 

kitchen is messy of peelings, 

seeds & sweet golden pears 

& rich coconut cream-

she once was like this  - cream

puffed, silver-glass slippered girl,

riding a carriage made out of pumpkins-

now, she feels trapped under a lantern's

ghostly smile & empty 

   


of autumn's colors,

she scoops red chili paste

slowly staining the yellow puree    

hiding the tears crawling down her chin   

like ants, crimson as her hands

breaking into leaves,

soundless, the arc of a falling knife 



Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Talking about pumpkins and/or issues - Happy Saturday ~

She said, "Love your tree!"

So my 
feet grew 
roots deep & mighty 
ropes to anchor a ship 

And my belly heard earthquakes
& animal cries before fear could strike

And my fingers trembled like a leaf when
 when you rested under my shade of  blooms  

And my thighs became strong to wrap  around 
the man  & hold him here, and my breasts heavy

with milk  dripped  before my child  could utter a cry  
And my hands soft as feathers nurtured the fire of nests 

My  spine tingled  with distrust and healed with care 
and  my bones  heard  darkest of  storms coming

 Under every line, freckle & wrinkle, I relished:  
seeds, sap, cracks, decay & fruits 

Then, I echoed back 
mother's words :
   
I love my tree! 

Update:   This has been selected as Poem of the Week by Poets United


“The body knows things a long time before the mind catches up to them. I was wondering what my body knew that I didn't.” 

― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sunday's Challenge
Shared with Poets United

And I thought of sharing this lovely poster ~

Credit:   TreeSisters