Transmogrify…

girlgrass

 

She lay back
into the plush green
of the meadow
with lids closed
she turned her face
to the warming embrace
of our radiant star
hands cupped under her belly
she pulled back against
the soft velvet of her skin
an embrace of singular passion
for herself
the birds in the conifers
around this arena
burbled and whistled
like the voices of so many
just outside her peripheral
always pontificating
always instructing
do this
say that
be humble
be a lady
be demure
be a pleasant decoration to the room
a china doll
wrapped in taffeta
on a shelf
not to touch, engage or hold
to be seen and admired
but not to be heard
she was to be expensive and fragile
and placed behind glass
to sit upon a mantle in the parlor
for the sport
of the rich
to be won as a prize
for expertise in misogyny

but today
she climbed down from her perch
key in hand
with tangled hair
and smudged cheek
she bounded across
the open ground
soaking her slip
in the dewy grasses of summer
to fall here
barefooted and brazen
with not so much
as a “by your leave”
to those who imagined they held
those leather thong straps
that secured her
to her post

And so it was
that she came to be
splayed across the grass
like her mother’s prize bearskin rug
arching her back
to raise her bosom to the heavens
and offer her heart
as a sacrifice
to the sun’s fire
that dripped down
from the robin’s egg blue sky

here
would she determine
her own worth
here
would she burn away the paint
they applied to her
here
would she make her stand
and never more
would she be considered
“a thing”

My Albatross

 

Albatross-Images

 

 

I hear it in the scream of the caged albatross,

Trapped within the caves that make up my heart:

The plea, the prayer, the demand.

An asking for open gates and swift

Air beneath the wings, a rising, up, high,

Unafraid, untamed, uncompromised,

The claim, inherent by blood and life,

To expand the wings and fly.

A right to dream, to hope, to dare.

To expect more out of every day,

Out of every rising sun, to wish –

No, to call for, so much more, than

The breadcrumbs I am supposed

To be satisfy with.

I was born to be free.

From the fears, from the threats,

From the monsters in my mind, the mean

Step-sisters living in the inside,

Burning me in the acid attack of their hate.

Now I know I was created for more.

I was born to dance all night,

To charter the stars,

Climb the mountains on my path,

Go down into the dark

Of the cave, mother of wisdom

And fright, holder of the mirror

Of who I am.

I was made for the laughter and the

the mirth, the lovingness and the caress.

To live life, deliciously.

In awe of all the potentiality

Within myself.

In greatness I was born,

To change with the moon,

To play with the sun…

Anything less than so is too

Small for me and the

Sovereignty of my life.

I have seen the truth.

I have left the fear behind.

I have stolen the key from my jailer

And crash open the cage wide.

The wings of my liberty, strong and big,

Unfold, unfurl, extend.

My albatross is set free.

And it soars to the edge of the universe.

She was a bird – Kristiana Reed

She was a bird

In a few years time

I hope we’ll see each other again.

We’ll be in different clothes

with difference faces and partners

who aren’t you or I.

I will smile because

I’ve always been gracious

and I’ve been waiting for this.

You’ll smile too

but it will be weaker, pained,

stretched like papier-mache.

And I hope when your new wife asks

what happened between us,

you’ll say:

 

‘She was a bird

and I was a cage

of black bars rattling

with rage,

never unlocked

yet with the power to pluck

each feather from her wings.

She had always deserved to fly,

you could see it in her eyes;

small, beady and watchful

but if she ever stepped too close

to the edge

I would give her a mouthful,

of steel, rust and dust.

I wasn’t good enough

so I forced her to believe

it was her;

her fire, her salt,

her brimstone, her faults

and her wings.

Those wings which refused to cease

and continued to beat

against the bars of my chest,

the crook of my arm

the back of my head.

She left me,

not because she outgrew me

but because she never belonged

in a cage in the first place.’

 

You won’t say anything more

because on cue

my shoulder blades will part

for my wings to unfurl.

They are fuller, they glimmer

more than when you saw them last.

They are iridescent;

bewitching in moonlight,

spellbinding in sunshine

and they are mine, all mine;

the bird who was finally freed

to fly.

 


Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar & Sudden Denouement, and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.

Introducing New Collective Member: Megha Sood- Lava

 

You are clipping

my wings

to suit your needs;

you are breaking

my bones

to fit me inside a

cookie cutter;

caulking and

smoothing my

rough opinions

just so you please;

tightening the strings

to make this puppet dance

to your tune wildly;

You are bending

my will

and twisting

my emotions to

suit your needs;

you are choking

my dreams

so you can save

some air for

your luxury;

my bones are brittle

but I have an iron will;

you can bend me

but can’t break me

from within;

like molten lava

I melt

but I have the strength

of mountains

hidden in me;

I give birth

to new lands

and can melt

your sorry

presence;

in a blink of an eye

you see.

 

Photo by Jack Ebnet on Unsplash


 

I’m an avid reader who loves to sing, an ardent lover of poetry and sometimes can scribble few lines too. Loves to dance in the rain, have an undying love for nature, can watch the beautiful sunset for hours. I have worked in the IT field for almost a decade as a manager, worked crazy hours and traveled around the world. In that busy schedule, I never got the time to creatively express my thoughts. Now every time I finish a poem, free verse anything it fills me with so much happiness and excitement and a feeling to have created something of my own.  I blog at Megha’s World – A potpourri of emotions.

carpet burn-Lois E. Linkens

carpet burn LL

she craved him like a carpet burn;

the seer of young flesh

on crimson’s rough exhaustion

leaves a glowing scar,

hot in healing

yet reminds her of times

when her legs could brush the rug

in freedom,

now confined

and shackled

to the upright seat of adulthood.


Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. You can read more of her work at her self-titled blog.