Featured Post: Her Name in the Sky – Marie Prichard

A collision of stars
Her name
Etched in the sky
Sending stardust
Across the universe
Waiting…

The light of the sun
Her name
Shone throughout the sky
Reflecting flashes of brilliance
Stretching between the heavens
Waiting…

Syllables vibrating
Her name
Traveled beyond the sky
Echoing sounds
Reverberating through distant galaxies
Waiting…

Her name
Just waiting
In the sky
For me to lift my gaze
And finally,
See.


Marie Prichard is a longtime writer and educator. She lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with her wife, their two wiener dogs, and a Munchkin cat. She loves reading, writing, walking the beach, and filling her wife’s pockets with heart rocks. You can read more of her writing on Medium

Featured Post: The Well of Loneliness – Marie Prichard

The well
As it was in the beginning
Overflowing with wonderment
Cascading toward the future
Turned bone-brittle dry
From a series of generational choices
Infiltrated with unanswered questions
And unspoken cries of despair
Echoes crashing against
The chipped stone walls
Reverberating to the beyond
Admonitions calling your name
The ‘once was’
A shadowless empty shell
Wandering amongst ruins
Decaying
Into nothingness
Ashes
Slowly settling
Adding layer upon layer
Of loneliness
Covering the relics
At the bottom
To where it all began
When the well was abundantly full
Giving sustenance to a life
Overflowing


 

 

Marie Prichard is a longtime writer and educator. She lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with her wife, their two wiener dogs, and a Munchkin cat. She loves reading, writing, walking the beach, and filling her wife’s pockets with heart rocks. You can read more of her writing on Medium

Featured Post: She Must Be Mad – Marie Prichard

She is a lady, a loving wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, and an educated, contributing member of society. And fuck is her favorite word.

Is she mad?

Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck you. Fuck it. A well-placed fuck used alone, as a noun or as a verb, makes all the difference in the world when she’s expressing herself.

When she’s in a good mood, she likes to say it with a smile on her face and a lilt in her voice: “Fuck yeah!”

When she’s sad, she can stretch it out for an impressive amount of time: “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck me.”

But when she’s enraged––and she finds herself enraged quite a bit these days––the words just bubble up and out they come: “Fuck! Fuck you! Fuck it! Fuck off! FUCK!”

I wonder if she’s mad?

To those who tell her that fuck is not a dainty or ladylike word, she says, “Who the fuck cares?”

If she needs to get someone’s attention, you can bet your sweet little dimpled ass she’s going to add a well-placed fuck. If she needs to express how angry she is at what’s happening in our country, fuck in all its variations is the word for her.

I suppose she could be mad.

When she listens to the news about white men in the government taking away abortion rights, she rages. She becomes incensed.

She screams, “Fuck you!” to those misogynistic pieces of shit who think they can control women through their bodies.

I bet she’s mad.

When she reads a Facebook post from a so-called Christian, preaching against gay marriage, preaching against her marriage, using their bible as a weapon, her blood boils until it explodes through her veins.

“Fuck off!” gets slammed across the keyboard and splashes across the screen.

I think she’s mad.

The word gets hurled against the walls when she sees the person in charge of our country and his supporters on television. Their unchecked, gleeful bigotry disgusts her.

The Make America Great chants, the “there are good guys on both sides” interviews, the narcissism, the gaslighting, the insidious use of power against the helpless festers until “FUCK!” is ripped from her throat.

I’m pretty sure she’s mad.

Build that wall … build that wall … the battle cry of racism that has caused children to be wrenched from their parents lost and forever damaged, locked in cages, left in facilities that “shouldn’t be compared to concentration camps because that would just be wrong” makes her chant, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

She must be mad.

So, to those who say that fuck is not a dainty or ladylike word, you may or may not agree with her. You might have already judged her to be a dreadful person, someone who is un-dainty and un-ladylike. Perhaps just reading this has insulted your oh-so-delicate sensibilities. Maybe you think she cares. But guess what? She doesn’t. Because she has zero dainty, ladylike fucks left to give.

She’s mad.


Marie Prichard is a longtime writer and educator. She lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with her wife, their two wiener dogs, and a Munchkin cat. She loves reading, writing, walking the beach, and filling her wife’s pockets with heart rocks. You can read more of her writing on Medium

Featured Post: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings – Marie Prichard

When her song catches your ear
And you hear it in the distance
Do you ask yourself why the caged bird sings?
Or do you say,
I know why the caged bird sings.

She sings when her world closes in
Locked in a gilded cage
Beautifully displayed
On her scrolled stand
Suspended high.

She sings in mourning
As she loses herself
Claimed and coveted
Kept apart away from admiring eyes
That are not yours.

She sings as you applaud
For capturing your little songbird
With expectations that her lilting song
Will reach only your ears
Making only you smile.
.
She sings for her freedom
Her song floating on wisps of wind
A call to her feathered sisters
Warning of gold-wrapped bars made of steel
And jailers who speak pretty words of devoted adoration.

She sings to remind herself
Of who she used to be
When there were no barricades
To keep her contained
When she could soar as high as she chose.

She sings when she is strong enough
The moment she decides to leave captivity
When her song becomes her own
And she flies far, far away
From where the caged bird once sang.


Marie Prichard is a longtime writer and educator. She lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with her wife, their two wiener dogs, and a Munchkin cat. She loves reading, writing, walking the beach, and filling her wife’s pockets with heart rocks. You can read more of her writing on Medium

Featured Post: Women Who Run With Wolves – Marie Prichard

We are the women who run with wolves.
Daughters of she-wolves
Children of the past.
Gracing our mothers’ footsteps
With those of our own.
Slipping through forests of quiet calmness
Together, we move as one.
Embodiments of lupine eloquence
Connected to ancient rituals.
Silhouetted against the night sky
We lift our heads
And fill the air with a harmony of voices
Carried across the winds.
Our cries intermingle
With the cries of those who came before us
As we follow the beckoning calls
And our daughters become
The women who run with wolves.


Marie Prichard is a longtime writer and educator. She lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with her wife, their two wiener dogs, and a Munchkin cat. She loves reading, writing, walking the beach, and filling her wife’s pockets with heart rocks. You can read more of her writing on Medium

Featured Post: My Body is Not an Apology – Marie Prichard

The body, this body, my body
Is not an apology.
It Is not an explanation
A long
Drawn-out
Pause for consideration.
It does not wait for approval
Does not desire
Golden-tipped accolades.
It Is not a justification
Of etched road maps
Across the expanse
Of stomach and thighs.
It is not a constant explanation of
Regret and remorse
For taking up space.
It Is not a concession
Of compromises
Creating waves of regret
Crashing against the mind.
It does not accept unwelcomed
Unsolicited
Undesired expressions.
It is not available
To be spoken at
Down to
Or about with shrapnel-coated
Waste-land edged words of war.
It is merciful
Years of learning to love
All the bits
The pieces
The sags
The wrinkles.
It is time spent alone
with early morning sunrises
Late-night sunsets
Colors blending against skin.
It is compassion
Occasions of grace
Acknowledging everyday moments
Leaving past hurts to fade
Into the misty distance
Until the sharp details
Are no more.
The body, this body, my body
Is not an apology.

My body is forgiveness.


Marie Prichard is a longtime writer and educator. She lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with her wife, their two wiener dogs, and a Munchkin cat. She loves reading, writing, walking the beach, and filling her wife’s pockets with heart rocks. You can read more of her writing on Medium