For my articles on my personal mindfulness journey, head to No Sidebar, where I regularly contribute:
You, as a little seed,
Who cries in the second grade class,
Hot tears streaming down your face with self-doubt
Showering the paper,
Where your cursive “u’s” angle more like “v’s.”
You, as a rising bloom,
When even slow running
Makes your cheeks fire and limbs numb,
Leaving hollow pain that crumbles you, and
Breaks bones you didn’t know you had.
You, as an unfurling blossom,
When your gridlocked, knee-socked
Conformist streak loosens, as you
Sip the forbidden water, against berating
As byzantine as the stone walls.
You, as a spiraling female essence,
When you let the gentle trees, swaying with green alive,
Fill your dark eyes
Tingeing them with love possibility, but
Draining them in reticent shame.
You, as the earthen iris opening,
When you share the thing that happened to you, and
The cracked soil soaks up the minerals it carries,
Burrowing them to your roots,
Magnifying the power, in you,
This poem first appeared in For Women Who Roar, Issue 2: Power.
The assorted flowers are coming out of her chest deep brown like the earth.
She’s them. Her hands just happen to be gripping the vase.
And the canvas bag draped across her shoulder like a flag reads
we change today for tomorrow and tomorrow changes for today,
which pops against the back drop of her turquoise dress that looks like it was picked to perfectly match her bright bouquet.
But no one notices that. She’s them.
They say please sit down but she refuses.
The whoosh begins. The God in her eyes doesn’t move.
Her beads of sweat are half-frozen raindrops,
carried along with the changing tide of time.
This poem first appeared in District Lines Volume IV, Winter 2017.