Featured Post: When God Was a Woman – Christine E. Ray

Sunday morning sermons
delivered from man-made pulpits
echo in our ears
his-story books
that line school shelves
providing the warp
the weft
that weave the elaborate
mythic tapestry
a master-piece of
collective amnesia
millenniums in the making
a palatable image
to hang on our walls
of an all-knowing, all-powerful
thunderous God
his pristine ivory robes
rustling gracefully
over his magnificent manhood
a white-washed God
for the masses to fear
to revere
to swallow whole
with their bitter
communion wine
we are the women
who remember
when God was a woman
when the earth gestated
and flourished
in her cosmic womb
supported by her strong brown hands
we are the women
who will not forget
who teach our daughters
the old ways in secret parlors
sandy beaches
fertile fields
who guide their arms lovingly
in gratitude to the full moon
stars shining brightly
on their tender brows
a crown
her truth burning brightly
in their hearts

© 2019 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved

Image Courtesy of The Atlantic (via Pinterest)

She has grown out of herself – Candice Louisa Daquin

 

The girl, the gash, the glory
she was once even referred to as happy whore
sinister slut, fake good girl
the girl of multifaces
is no longer a girl
she has grown out of herself
the sharp thorns of her virginity
long bled
she is now a woman of dubious age
standing on the hemmed periphery of other girls with elastic limbs
their body language leans away, saying; she is no longer their sister
(they whisper, they whisper)
an aging divide
four and five, divide by nine
long multiplication
she has been subtracted out
something about the lines in her eyes
she’s not one of us, they say in collective pollen count
coming together like a quilt
leaving her to wade out into flat water
only five years ago, only less than that
when she had a full head of bright hair and nimble back
she somersaulted in their field
picking irises
and they did not bat an eye
she was under the radar
nar, nar, nar!
old enough to be mother to some
those angry girls with tight biceps and lungful of words
but they did not detect
the softening of her cleavage
the jello in her thighs singing its spring bulb
they only saw her pretending
thought her good enough and one of them
til the sickness left its indelible mark
a red hand print covering her left eye
the one she could not see well from
(Premature macular degeneration, you may lose your sight, the optician gleefully sung)
turning her with its yellow dusted baptism
honest to her guilt of years lived
I am four and five not divided by nine
I smell different to you
this is what men sense when they sniff around us like
wolves come from rain storm
instinctively keening toward the coltish and fawn
as we who are older turn like wine
another vintage they have no taste for
she could fool them well but did not, after her visit to Hades
wish to pretend to be a girl anymore
only a woman could have survived
and it was stamped as surely as Ash Wednesday
a third eye
the slow drain of life began
she saw it first in her hands, then her mouth
it did not so easily tell stories
when Spring came, they knew her truth
without saying anything, left her out
of their Mayday circle
all the light-footed snow rabbits and their daisy chains
now when she tried to join in
they circumvented her, like
she was a parent, a teacher, an elder
with respect, but no thought given
of her pattered exclusion
maybe she did the same, when she
had such halo radiance
just as boys turn to men and wish
to scoop up girls and remain
ever held in youthfulness
she saw her own extinction
in their slow passing over her gaze
she was becoming invisible
first her hair, then her arms, then her feet
gone into deep water and not returned
she swam out to the lighthouse
where piercing rays caught
undulated water like a lovers stroke
and by fevered spray of waves against rock
stared at her future like chain and ball
why does a woman have?
first the pummeling of her elders
constraining her flight?
then reigned condemnation of those
wishing to corset and divide
and finally, as she ages
the talisman of wisdom enveloping her
an unspoken rejection by her own sisters
who think themselves invulnerable
far removed, not tainted yet by
her approaching wither
til the only one left to speak
is her own voice
and in unblemished muslin sky
she becomes a single long tail bird
seeing everything
from on high
that lonely place
of insight and exile
how she longs still
to be pulled into the sewn circle
embraced by her daughters and shimmering girls
given the crown of daisies
led whirling and laughing
around mosaic may pole
like a girl who has remembered
her life before she was born
again clasping the soft hands
of future
fearful of nothing
in the rawboned bosom of her sisterhood

crescent.- Ra’ahe Khayat

Crescent

The ageless stars fall,
and I fall right along with them.
How could I not?
When even they bow
to your majestic beauty;
that to gaze upon you once
they readily renounce,
of their angelic statures,
and fall..

How come one,
as luminescent as you-
came into my
light-less night?
Drowning me in your
candescent breath of life,
you finally made me see
the hidden beauty of ardor.

Your lunar essence,
awakens my soul,
just for it to drift away into
the astral presence
of your ever watching gaze,
so that when ever I feel lost,
or hopeless, and drown into the darkness,
you shine just a little bit brighter
and illuminate my core.

Your grandiose, even the seraphs envy,
because albeit your scars
and imperfections,
you are still
the most captivating being,
that I have ever cohered with.
For like a crescent moon at night
in midst of a million constellations,
you make me fall,
and I fall,
just like the stars..

 

Image courtesy of Pinterest


“I’m an autumn leaf, fluttering with loneliness on a naked branch.. where I observe the world, like a specter. It’s all fleeting moments, entwined with cold mornings fading into frosted evenings. Never still, yet never moving.”

I am Ra’ahe Khayat, and let me make you fall into the rabbit hole breathing in my mind at Fallen Alone

Edge of Mercy- 1 Wise-Woman and Kindra M. Austin

Edge of Mercy

(K.M.A.)

Cleanse me in stardust,

And I might apprehend love,

Cosmically;

For I’ve been shipwrecked,

Cataclysmically—

Marooned inside of mine

(1Wise-Woman)

Love screams behind

Clenched teeth

Just out of reach

Swallowed by time

Solitary supernova

Catastrophically

Unaccompanied

(K.M.A.)

Claustrophobic frenzied

Heart rattles my ribcage—

A prisoner imprisoned by

Distortions of love lost to

A realm intangible

Cerebral cruelty

(1Wise-Woman)

Calamitous heartbreak

Emaciated emotion

A last plea

Romancing the edge of mercy

Waves wash over me

Exhorting

Gracious galaxy

Essential escape

(K.M.A.)

Deserted, I lay in the sand and

Look up to the heavens

See the bright, desolate beauty—

Silver blue dots printed upon the black

My jailer knows no more bounds than my sorrow

(1Wise-Woman)

Saline azure sky

Corona Borealis and

Moons melancholy malice

Torments this love torn tabernacle

On the precipice of redemption

Before night is done

Echo gods call with

Shooting star shattering shackles

(K.M.A.)

Selene, Titan deity—

Mother Moon, usher of diamond dust

I am cleansed

(1Wise-Woman)

Love, a winged steed

Lighting the way

I am freed

 

(Image from Tumblr)

28- Nate Leland

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I watched the moon rise like she was forgetting
another lover every minute,
like tonight… she was finally
gonna make it,
gonna trampoline off clouds and find her way without
orbit.

Gravity been too heavy,
and the oceans are exactly as big as they seem.
Do you know what it’s like
when even water follows you everywhere you go,
but doesn’t have the time or inclination to touch you?

She was the opposite of meteorites,
bound for space where she would revolve around no one.

When your life is a reflection of another’s light,
how would you feel about the one who monthly blotted you out
and recarved your face every night in shades of his image?

Tonight she is untarnished.
Tonight her texture is only the shadows of her own character.
Tonight she is so beautiful and generous,
the man in the moon nothing but mirage,
a Rorschach of hope in her craters,
a simulacrum of daylight in her waterless eyes.
Tonight she convenes a survival school
to teach every trapped and frightened that running is only cowardice when you
don’t have the courage to do it.

And I sit,
pruning in bathwater,
wondering how much I have left to learn
about motion,
because orbit is just falling around something,
and tomorrow just another word feigning difference.

This is gravity.

What are wishes and words
to that?

15591719_10211523257225123_635461586_n

Nate Leland is a high school English teacher, a former university instructor, a youth poetry slam coach, a nationally competitive slam poet, a lover of ice cream cookie sandwiches and swing dancing (though not at the same time), a proud Mainer by birth, and a penguin-at-heart. He holds a bachelors degree in English Education from Ithaca College and a master’s degree from University of Maine. Nate has self-published one collection of poems, Lifeboat, and one CD, which he always has copies of at shows and open mics. He has run youth poetry workshops, as well as workshops for coaches/teachers/adult poets/other penguins-at-heart from Northern Maine to New York, and was chosen to perform at the 2007 Performance Poetry Extravaganza at SUNY Oneonta. Nate loves to work with anyone who is willing to give their time and their love to poetry, youth, or preferably both.

28-Introducing Nate Leland

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28 by Nate Leland

I watched the moon rise like she was forgetting
another lover every minute,
like tonight… she was finally
gonna make it,
gonna trampoline off clouds and find her way without
orbit.

Gravity been too heavy,
and the oceans are exactly as big as they seem.
Do you know what it’s like
when even water follows you everywhere you go,
but doesn’t have the time or inclination to touch you?

She was the opposite of meteorites,
bound for space where she would revolve around no one.

When your life is a reflection of another’s light,
how would you feel about the one who monthly blotted you out
and recarved your face every night in shades of his image?

Tonight she is untarnished.
Tonight her texture is only the shadows of her own character.
Tonight she is so beautiful and generous,
the man in the moon nothing but mirage,
a Rorschach of hope in her craters,
a simulacrum of daylight in her waterless eyes.
Tonight she convenes a survival school
to teach every trapped and frightened that running is only cowardice when you
don’t have the courage to do it.

And I sit,
pruning in bathwater,
wondering how much I have left to learn
about motion,
because orbit is just falling around something,
and tomorrow just another word feigning difference.

This is gravity.

What are wishes and words
to that?

15591719_10211523257225123_635461586_n

Nate Leland is a high school English teacher, a former university instructor, a youth poetry slam coach, a nationally competitive slam poet, a lover of ice cream cookie sandwiches and swing dancing (though not at the same time), a proud Mainer by birth, and a penguin-at-heart. He holds a bachelors degree in English Education from Ithaca College and a master’s degree from University of Maine. Nate has self-published one collection of poems, Lifeboat, and one CD, which he always has copies of at shows and open mics. He has run youth poetry workshops, as well as workshops for coaches/teachers/adult poets/other penguins-at-heart from Northern Maine to New York, and was chosen to perform at the 2007 Performance Poetry Extravaganza at SUNY Oneonta. Nate loves to work with anyone who is willing to give their time and their love to poetry, youth, or preferably both.