I Am More Than Breath and Bone: I Am More – M.A. Morris

I am more than breath or bones.
I am the Melungeon veins
of my many great-grandmothers
as they run through the coal mines
of West Virginia into Kentucky and Tennessee.

I am more than breath or bones.
I am my mother’s and grandmother’s blood
flooding the snow melt rivers
of Appalachia.

I am more than breath or bones.
I am my mother’s iron ore,
her steel torn from the hollows
among the mountains of West Virginia
in the time of the Great Depression.

I am more than breath and bone,
I am the centrifuge
of history and heritage
of spirits and earth
of women who held
up mountains
for their children.

I am more than breath and bone.
We, my foremothers and I,
mother the culmination
of the next generations
to hold up the sky,
the sun, the stars, the moon
for their children.


 

I am a retired teacher, enjoying everything that retirement means. In addition, I have been active in the LGBTQ community since I was four years old and marched my Ken doll with all his little Ken accouterments to the big metal trash can in the yard. Yes, I dumped Ken, along with said accouterments, into the can and slammed the lid on. My two Barbie dolls lived happily ever after.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing

Predator by Melita White

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A smile that’s too large
A look in the eye
Too intense, unblinking
The predator spots his prey
You
A shifty glance sideways
Evasive, furtive
A question ignored
Or answered too late
That too-soon bonding
With sickly sweet compliments
So many superlatives
And nothing adds up
None of his story
Avoidance, so much
His responses don’t fit
You know it, you do
Now trust it, trust you
And if you’re not sure
Just wait, you’ll see
Something will happen
A sign, an event
This thing will make sense
Of all of your doubts
And heed it you must
For it’s the sign you were right all along
And this is the lesson
It is the great learning
The one that you weren’t taught when young
Leaving you open and prey to all
But especially open to those who profess
To like you the most, to like you the best
And offer the loveliest love of your life
You’re so hungry for love and esteem from without
That you’re open to strife
For you don’t know the feeling of love from within
Or even the sense of a self or desire
You’re lost and need good people to teach you
And bolster your spirit
And he’s not it
No
He’s not even close
And you know that he’s not
As does he, but by golly you look so tasty and he wants to gobble you up, doesn’t he?

But you’re safe now for you know it’s ok both to feel and to say:

No

Melita White is founder and writer of the blog Feminist Confessional, a space that features feminist poetry, essays and personal pieces in a confessional style, with a focus on the MeToo movement. She is a composer and musician and loves making all kinds of things. https://feministconfessional.wordpress.com

The Haunting of Hill House – Marilyn Rea Beyer

Hello, Shirley.
We’ve been expecting you
to look inside and see how
long these thoughts have taken to brew.

Some thirty years,
isn’t that what you’d say?
That’s a long, long time for guilt
to grip you with its teeth of clay.

Enter the house,
Shirley. Look all around.
Dig with your hands in the dark
corners where old devils abound.

They will bite you.
They will pinch your fingers
if you try to jerk them out
and poison you with tail stingers.

Under the hill
that still houses your pain
lives the bleak notion that you
should feel shame and shoulder the blame

for all that you
did though under duress
when hard he grabbed at your breasts
then forced himself under your dress.

End it, Shirley.
Now re-button your blouse.
Switch on the light and say “No.
No. No more.” Get out of the house.


Marilyn Rea Beyer has read poetry in public since the 1960s and began writing poems in 2005. She holds a Master’s in Oral Interpretation of Literature from Northwestern University. Now retired, her varied career includes teaching, high tech, folk radio and working as PR Director for Perkins School for the Blind. A native Chicagoan she and her husband, author and filmmaker Rick Beyer, raised their two children in Lexington, Mass.

Featured Post: Secrets Made for Truths – Ashley Jane

we slip into shelters
far away from prying eyes
a cosmic clash of beautiful madness

we evolve
we move between
we metamorphosis into something
m o r e
something born on the wind
and draped in the wings of nyx
h u s h

doll face darkling
you were never meant to be loved in silence
but there was a satisfaction
in keeping you a secret
my mystery
my melody
my sun kissed twilight
you blend moon into magic
and leave me mesmerized by the stars in your eyes
h u s h

i am adrift on the calm seas of your constellations
the ones drawn into the heavens
just for me to find
while the clouds hide the sun
i hide in you
floating through
the shadows that longer
beneath your skin
h u s h

we strip our souls down to nothing
and let them merge with the night
we build and undo
shatter and fall together again
we excel in the art of drowning,
never dreaming we’d need to come up for air
h u s h

but all secrets fear the light
especially the ones that should’ve never been hidden
i am gasping
found and flickering
consumed by a secret
that should’ve always been
a truth


Ashley Jane is an indie author from Alabama. She has been writing off and on since childhood, but she only started sharing her words a few years ago. She is the co-founder of FallsPoetry prompt, which runs on both Instagram and Twitter. She also co-hosts DarkLines and DrugVerse prompts on Twitter, and she is co-admin of Her Heart Poetry and Our Poetry Journey. She has two books of poetry out: Love, Lies and Lullabies and The Mums are Filled with Melancholy. She enjoys helps other authors pursue their dreams of publishing.

You can read more of Ashley’s writing on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and WordPress

Keeping You a Secret – by Rachael Ikins

She looked searchingly into my eyes as we hugged goodbye. That combination of fragrances that was uniquely “mom”, hair spray, Esteé Lauder and Scotch, though no more cigarette smoke, lingered.

We had been to dinner a last time before she and her husband went south for the winter. Her expression looked as if she expected me to say something or wanted to ask a question.
I disengaged from her bony arms and laughed. It had been a good time, a good meal. My partner Genevieve and I bundled up and dashed through the cold and snow. We had a long dark road ahead of us going home.

She said, “You ought to tell her. But it’s ok with me if you don’t.”

“It feels disrespectful to you, keeping you a secret,” I said.

“Not at all. You have that bad memory of the way she behaved after she was eavesdropping on you to contend with. Coming out is personal. I just think she is ok with it.”

Yes, I did. A college student living at home and working, I’d begun dating a woman I had a crush on. Late one night we had been talking on the phone with the kitchen door shut and my mother had burst in, yelling how disgusting I was, that she was going to go right upstairs and tell my father. The scar lingered, though I never did know if she told my dad. His behavior toward me did not change.

We crunched up our driveway. The dogs barked their exuberance making us smile. Soon they milled about our boots as we petted and told them to go pee.

We hung up snow-covered coats. Fed the cats. Banked the wood stove. Showered and before long were settled warm in our bed to read. It nagged at me, my mother’s inviting behavior at dinner. I stared into space, my book forgotten. Finally, Gen pushed her glasses down her nose and looked over the frames at me. She elbowed me gently in the side. “Go downstairs and call her.” She kissed my cheek.

I shrugged into bathrobe and slippers. Several dogs escorted me to the kitchen where a hopeful cat waited by an empty bowl. I postponed the phone call to pour Friskies.

My mom answered on the second ring.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

I said, “We had a fun time.”

“Yes, it was.” said Mom.

“Umm, well, look.”I said. I was 52 years old.

Silence.

“Genevieve and I are in love and we want to make a life together.” The words tumbled out in a rush. Everyone in the family liked her already so I wasn’t sure what this confession would do.

Silence.

My heart pounded in my neck.

“So,” said Mom. “Does this mean you’re gay?”

Of all the responses I’d imagined, that was not among them.

I said, “Well, uh, Love is Love no matter what equipment a person has in their underwear so why does it matter?”

“Well, you were married to a man you loved for many years.”

She laughed. “I asked your brother if she was gay the first time you brought her here. He wouldn’t tell.

I knew it!” she chuckled.

What the hell, I thought.

Suddenly serious, “Do you love her? Are you happy?” she asked.

“Yes. I love her a lot. I am.”

“Then, that is all I care about. That my child is happy.”

We giggled together a bit more. I was sweat-soaked with relief and also bemused at the conversation.

I set the phone in its charger and flicked the light switch.

Once I was back in bed, dogs and cats piled around us. Genevieve looked at my smiling face over her glasses again, setting her book down on one thigh, “So?”

A few nights later we pulled in the driveway after a long day of work. I headed for the mailbox while she locked the car in the barn and let dogs out. They boiled down the driveway around me as I grabbed junk mail and letters. Halfway up the yard, in the light from the back door, I saw an envelope addressed to Genevieve with my mom’s distinctive back-slanted, leftie script.

My heart leapt into my mouth. I couldn’t help it. Dread. Panting, I dashed into the house, barely remembering to hold the door for the last dog. Gen was putting leftovers from our supper on the road in the fridge. Its light shone on her freckles.

“What is it? Your face is white as a sheet.” She straightened up.

I held the mail out to her.

“My mother,” I breathed. “She sent you something.”

She took the proffered envelope and examined the addressee, only Genevieve, and return label. It said it was from Mom and husband.

“Open it.”

I watched her read, standing so close we were breathing on each other. She held the card so I could see, too.

“Dear Genevieve,

I understand that you and my daughter are in love and you want to make a life together. My husband and I would like to welcome you to our family. We wish the two of you all the best.

Love, Rosie.”

Our eyes met, brimming with tears. We gripped each other in a bone-crushing hug, paused for a long kiss, lips still chilled from winter outside, and then laughed. Hugged again and re-read her note. I brought it upstairs into our study and thumb-tacked it to the wall over the desk.

Life is filled with surprises. An 82 year old woman who was by then married three times had spent time over the years, a few of them when we did not speak at all, thinking.

Proof, I thought; a person can grow for her entire life.

Though the card was lost some moves ago and Genevieve and my mom are both gone, the gift of my mother’s words will stay with me as long as I live.


Rachael Ikins is a 2016/18 Pushcart, 2013/18 CNY Book Award, 2018 Independent Book Award winner, prize-winning author/artist with 9 books. Syracuse University grad, member CNY branch NLAPW, and Associate Editor of Clare Songbirds Publishing House, Auburn, NY. Her new memoir Eating the Sun a love story narrative punctuated by poetry and garden recipes available 4/2019 at Clare Songbirds Publishing House.

Crush – Carol Jewell

Right in front of me,
unseen.
What did I miss,
how didn’t I know?

Whether fictional
or real,
you were
all real
to me.
I loved you
but, was it just a crush?

Came out at thirty-nine,
surprised myself.
I fondly remember thanking
Aretha Franklin’s breasts
for bringing me to the light.

But if I had figured it out
when I was young and naïve
how different my life would be now.

Some things are better left
unknown,
until they have matured,
ripened,
in their own time.


Carol H. Jewell is a musician, teacher, librarian, and poet living in Upstate New York with her wife, Becky, and their seven cats. She reads constantly, being insatiably curious.