Free Verse
PATRICIA
My mother, she was strong. I didn’t think so when I was young. When I was young, my house was filled with the roaring of men. They inspired stubborn pride and a hunger for strength. It was easy, when I was young. Boys and girls were similar in strength. A girl could fight a boy and win, when we were young. And winning, I always did. Strength, to me, was a man’s. Six boys and three girls, what else could one expect? For a girl to be strong, she would need to be like a man. To stand without shedding tears. To dominate unwaveringly. Strength, to me, was my father. Not the woman who cried behind closed doors. Not she whose place was in the kitchen. Not she who sought compassion from those who could not walk a mile in her shoes. Strength, to me, was not my mother. It became tougher when I grew up. Boys and girls were no longer similar in strength. To win became harder and to grow called for tears. I hid, as I grew up. Ran from emotions that I felt were weak. Fought with my mother, who only wanted her girl to be near. What else would one expect, from a girl who now carried the roaring of men? I was a fool as I grew up. How could I not see, I now wonder. My mother, she was tall. As sturdy as a tree that weathered many storms. Her heart glowing big and wide like the sun, she loved me as we fought, as I hid and thought her weak. Love, was my mother. With love, she held me when I first cried, And carried me through womanhood. Caring, was my mother. With care, she explained what eluded me Intelligence, I then realized, was within me too. Wise, was my mother. She looked at me as I grew up. Saw what I admired in others, and taught me how to recognize my own. “Beauty,” she told me, “is something we have within us all.” Exceptional, was my mother. Her patience was an art form. And her dedication, worth praise. Dazzling, was my mother. When death crept in uninvited, She who I thought weak proved me wrong with a smile. My mother was an ocean. Majestic and serene, she became my ideal. Her head was held high as disease devoured her. Her tone had grown softer as she shared with me her heart.
By Shequinah Rayanh Nanshanapa5 years ago in Poets
Or so the Story Goes
Roses are red, violets are blue Or so the story goes Yet I’ve seen red in blood once shed By slamming fists dislodging teeth Just like the rain, they poured and they flowed Twisting flesh into a twilight hue When it rains, it pours Or so the story goes I’ve found violets to be of a blue that blooms Across battered skin and scars that stung still While eyes once white, turned a scarlet shade Inflamed by one hand and many a sleepless night Ignorance is bliss Or so the story goes Like when a dozen roses were gifted in regret As an omen for better days, Though soon healing wounds, turned a violet blue Live and learn Or so the story goes No longer the fool, I’ve pondered and waited Not for the rain to go away But for my feet, to carry me
By Shequinah Rayanh Nanshanapa5 years ago in Poets
Black is Not a Color
I. The bossy kid with the runny nose two seats in front of me in the third grade was the first to break the news. It can’t be your favorite color. That doesn’t make sense. You have to pick something else. I picked it anyway, taking my marker with childish rebellion and shading my paper darker than dark. If it’s not a color why is it part of the box? I asked, but he was already complaining to the teacher about me. II. At twelve, I began to notice I could not hear myself in the shapes of the words people used to describe me, could not recognize myself in family pictures; my childhood wish to master the superpower of invisibility was granted, in the cruel way faery princes trick human children. for years, I searched for myself in the spaces between the words I read, curled up in an unlit room. I grew to cover myself in black, erasing the deceitful curves and uneasy lines of my adult body III. Eighteen, I will never forget the cave in Ireland where the tour guide told us it was very important to keep the lights on, because true black made people insane. For a second, he let the lights go to exemplify this, and my eyes lost purchase, the world spun. I was afraid but I was also free, my mismatched parts absorbing back into the dark: head of a woman, heart of a man, soul of neither. IV. the curve of someone’s body has never made me stir, even when my neighbors’ gardens were shot through with little red buds of desire, for touching and sucking that made my stomach turn. I thought they were lying when they told me I had something missing; no matter how my fingers groped I could not find the hole. V. my heart has never sped at the thought of another person; I have never craved the presence of another body beside me upon waking. They say this means I must be lonely, that I just don’t know what love is. but sometimes when I stay up past dark on the roof with my sister, sometimes when I walk alone on the street and watch the lights go out one by one, when the rich dark slant of a chord of faraway music hits too close to the bone and fills me to the brim, I know that they are wrong. VI. Thirty-two, in June, I travel freshly tarred streets the same inky hue as my boots, walking through rainbow banners, the smell of air after rain, the sounds of celebration buzzing through me, filling me with something like kinship, like hope. If the people dotting the streets in one another’s arms can be accepted for who they are, maybe someday I can be forgiven for who I am not.
By Raistlin Allen5 years ago in Poets
Publish Your Poetry Collection on Amazon
Do you write poetry? Can you make money from writing poems? The answer is yes. I hadn't thought about it until I wrote a collection of poems. I started to write poetry more than I thought it could be possible. Writing a poem every day knowing I could publish a book motivated me. It can motivate you too.
By Denise Larkin6 years ago in Poets
