Was it my fault? My fault that the wolf was stalking me as prey, walking my way, behind me?
My fault so much that I was fined?
As if what I was wearing signed ME, for this pain, for this rage barely contained?
"What were you wearing?" They ask, but does that matter?
The wrapper doesn't matter to the predator as long as they get to capture the prey, the food, soothing their moods.
So was it really my fault for the crime that occurred?
or because you'd rather blame the prey for the monster's mistake?
for the crime scene on the streets?
for the people talking while the wolf hides behind trees, waiting for his next prey.
He got stuck washing the dishes in the kitchen again.
The dirty cups and slimy saucers stacked up to his chin.
The plates were crusty and filthy, they did not fit in the sink.
The dishwasher appliance was worthless, it had gone on the brink.
Why is it always me? He asked his family.
Girls don’t do dishes, said his baby Heidi.
It’s a man’s job, you know that, his oldest daughter said.
His wife wondered why he could not get this through his thick head.
TRUMP IS A SEXIST
WOMEN’S HOCKEY TEAM IS PISSED
DO YOU GET MY GIST
I identify as both
and neither.
I felt myself
With this self.
So why when I walk
Is it an invitation?
I do not exist for you,
Or you,
Or them,
Or anyone.
I exist for me.
As my age has enlarged,
So has the hubris
The stares
And expectations.
I do not walk for you
Or talk for you.
So why are my steps only safe
And my words valid
When accompanied?
Why is touching
Groping
Harrassing
Stalking
Acceptable, or brushed off.
I have my identity,
But the world will always expect
Me to come second,
And to smile while you yell.
When anthro-privileged consumers
of massive monotheistic miscommunications
replace faith in compassionate StatesMen
and bipartisan StatesWomen
with vainglorious hope
for straight white supremacist BusinessMen
Then what might have been a healthy
polycultural democracy
has now become just another nationalistic
monoculturing kleptocracy.
Sacred EarthMother
does not define
what matriarchal yin Beauty is,
and yet S/He seems to refine
what patriarchal yang Ugly is not.
We’re manufactured girls,
designed to be beautiful and pointless.
Everything we tell you has to be true,
we feel we can open up to you.
We’re decorated and prepared for sacrifice.
We can touch your tender isolation
and reinforce your inadequate truths.
We can mirror your internal struggles
and help you shape your damnation.
You’ve caressed our powerless distress
a thousand times, with sleep's dark hands.
Don’t feel your destroying something beautiful
You know, when privately accessible
in the darkness of your man cave
our soft, immediate shapes
excuse extraordinary behavior.
That’s all we want.
.
.
A song for this:
Genesis. by RAYE
My wife told me yesterday, that she believes that women today have achieved equality both politically and socially and that nothing further needs to be done on the issue of women's rights. I agreed with her that women today are in
a better situation than they were 50-60 years ago.
But when the topic of *********** came across my mind in the conversation, I told her that there are many women still who are involved in the **** industry, a dehumanizing force that sells women to the male population as an object and not someone to be taken seriously with a brain or with a soul or feelings.
The least racist person is a racist
The least fascist person is a fascist
The least criminal is a murderer
The least sinner is a big sinner.
The least lawbreaker is a criminal
The least murderer is an animal
The least bad guy is a con artist
The least racist guy is a big racist.
Hell is full of bad guys
Heaven has none
Ask the Priest or a Nun
We are tired of hearing lies.
Lies no longer fly
Words are painful
And indeed powerful
Brave soldiers never die.
Human dignity is not for sale
Pride and respect are not on sale
Love is beautiful and universal
And Peace is never controversial.
Politicians should be role models
Blow the horns and ring the bells
The least racist guy is a big racist
The least fascist dude is a big fascist.
Copyright © January 2018 Logerie Hébert, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Some people hate because they do not know how to love.
I feel sorry for them; I wonder if they were ever loved.
But can I help them? No.
They have to figure out love for themselves.
It is easy to recognize these non-lovers.
Their sentences begin this way
I hate ….
I hate ….
I hate …..
I am not talking just three sentences, I am talking about
a passel of sentences; they hate all’s too.
I hate all
I hate all
I hate all
My neighbor told me that she hates all liberals.
I asked her if she has ever met one.
She said, “I hope not”.
I am the most liberal liberal I know.
I did not bother her with this.
What would be the point?
Shirley is a professional generalizer of people.
Rapidly slinging out stereotypes.
All blacks….
All Kansans….
All men…
All Irish….
All Asians…
All city dwellers….
All children….
All whites….
All teachers….
All Ukrainians….
All firemen….
All thieves….
All women…
She blames everyone in Portland for bad weather.
She says all Danish bake muffins in the morning
Her generalizations have alienated most of her co-workers
Her bosses use her to shorten people’s lunch breaks
Vag inas are for men
and not that bad
Respect goes both ways
and meant to add
So how is your possession
gonna help you now
When women are forever
and men for wow
That all of your ambition
is shared both ways
And carrying your love
back to better days
When women said you're born
And not to sway
From loving them forever
and in both ways
Oh Julia, Julia Hartley-Brewer,
I touched her knee when I hardly knew her.
A punch was threatened in my face
And in due course I fell from grace.
On Question Time her face occurred,
I hung upon Julia’s every word,
Her eyes emit intentions amorous,
Her knees quite hidden from those cameras.
I dreamt of her in see-through blouses,
Sliding fingers down my trousers,
A voice so forceful yet hypnotic,
At once commanding and erotic.
I strove to erase her from my mind
But my confidence was undermined,
I was so ashamed that I shed a tear
And terminated my career.
Oh Julia, Julia Hartley-Brewer,
I touched her knee when I hardly knew her.
A punch was threatened in my face
And in due course I fell from grace.
(Cinderella is the protagonist of the 1697 fairytale by Charles Perrault. The whimsical tale is later told in 1812 by the Grimm brothers.)
“Why, if it isn’t my dear Cinderella,
That twinkle in your eyes, still bright as your ballroom days,
In your smile I still see the sweetness of Nutella,
And in your glow some golden summer rays.”
“How do you do, old friend?
My schedule has been quite busy,
The chores of a princess seem to have no end,
Should I say of a prince’s wife, who often returns tipsy.”
“I must ask, with all due respect,
Why let a man who but found a slipper
Behave in a manner so incorrect,
Out all night favoring a stripper?”
“Oh, dear, you must know,
The man’s delight is but for a show”
“Cinderella, holder of a sunrise’s beauty,
Tell me why you refuse to see,
Why you remain so carelessly happy,
Treated with no sense of dignity?”
“I have reached my happily ever after,
And I do still get my daily dose of laughter.”
“I hope that someday soon,
You will fulfill your own fate,
You will sing your own proud tune,
And leave this pitiful pig of a date.”
Disgusting spiders
What's worse? Homophobia!
Racism and hate
The invitations are already out
for our local community dialogue
without need to shout or pout
about another straight white male monologue.
In fact,
as fiction,
we have taken a nearly unprecedented step
of inviting straight white males
over the maturing age of thirty
to show up in droves
to listen,
and not to speak.
Yes,
you have heard this invitation clearly
discriminating not against Business As Usual
but for Busyness as Listening.
Once we have our multicultural plan in place
for this local health racing space,
we may invite our silent witnesses
to share with us what they
and we, perhaps,
have learned
about wisdom voices of non-elites
fully empowered
while elite over-voiced macro/microphones
remain reverently on mute.
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