A Woman's Medal Of Honor

Medals sink into the dirt that birthed it

for our men that shed their skins

to fight fire with fire.

Yet the women at home

raped for being too womanly

being too childlike

jailed for surrealistically wrapping their womanhood

in the shawl of anger or aggression for not being recognized

for the military fighters they are forced to be

in the hopes that somehow that

skin would help them slip

through the crevices

of being caught between sand, soul and a hard place

In all this traumatic syndrome of

Oedipus Complexes run wild

men can be threatened by the female estrogen

that represents motherhood

fertility and genetic spring

as if to say what birthed them

now is in bed with them

and they are afraid to like it.

So tar her up,

wrap her in a string bikini

hold her to the standard of pretty

that is impractical for

a world that expects us to be

all things to all people

so that we may forget

she is the mother that birthed him.

The church bells might call your name.

You can line up at the pews

but who sees her in the same vain?

You can kneel to your peace

so that the devil doesn't storm

into your castle of disease.

Catch a turning flame that burns on a Sunday.

Hold it for the one that wants to grow.

See that shining star, it breaks for one way.

Yet love is waiting for us to know.

As you put the fire out

to feel a magic ember,

nothing stops you from turning to stone

once you see her in the cold.

I know that feeling.

It's the one that's reeling

one way now, one way

to the dawn of Eve's pride.

Sing a simple song, it fades when we say

Who are we, where do we go?

She isn't as complex as you make her out to be.

There is no where to meander or get lost in the maze of obscure morality.

Like you, she bleeds, she starves, she feels misery.

Sordid lights, they always play

when the dark is all she knows.

Something compels you to tell her creation falls for her,

entraps her into a fallopian's doom.

You bitterly ask her to dig a pony

for Tecumseh's Tomb.

In the "real"

of her tired eyes

sunken in the know of your pretty little elocutionist lies.

Proper ascension

into that thorny sphere

takes the cake for love that never came here.

Lost in the shuffle

of their trickle down bellows.

We see the grave sharpness

of a multi-colored mellow.

See Sally run,

into Plato's Cave.

She never got much

from his laborious save.

We will care

for the spirit's delving pit

of a brinking overflow

that was never lit.

Your human hands

You can raise her ground with a force,

with a mind of your own,

not as a righteous gift horse.