Menopause
Why am I always hot?
My emotions jump
like a TV remote,
changing channels
without rhyme or reason.
She stops—
asks the question:
Who is that woman
staring back at me?
Unknown, yet still familiar.
Her weary eyes
return my gaze.
She wears a silver crown,
resting proudly
upon her head.
Her changing waist
gradually appears,
as a few more pounds
begin to grace her middle,
almost unnoticed.
Wrinkles crease my face,
mapping the journey
of a life well-lived,
and adventures yet to come.
If my body is a temple,
Then my temple is a forest.
A place of worship built by God himself
With arches of thick tree canopies.
And steps to the throne, roots and brush and earth and dirt.
The choirs are the birds, the wind and patterings of prey.
Why isn’t the forest as good a temple as any?
Is my temple less to you
Because the machines have torn down my trees,
Or the blood in my soil upon which life is built
Disgusts you?
But these rampant canyons of trees and sweet smelling wildflowers
Are the offerings I can bring to the one who loves my soul.
And as He brings the sunset
I stretch my limbs to trickle light through the halls of this sanctuary.
It is not as formal
As you would have it.
But it pleases Him the same.
And though I have been torn down time and time,
He constantly grows new life, again and again.
This broken body, He raises up over and over.
Evergreen and eternal.
What could make a better temple than a forest?
I am not the lustful nymph, the easy girl, the simple mind.
I am pure, I am kind, I am innocent and soft.
I am a dove, a swan and a white bunny.
I am no fox, lioness or panther.
I am clean of the dirty gaze.
Wiped blank of the staining blood.
But I still stink.
The smell of their lust.
The memory of their dirty hands.
IT ALL STAYS.
And I am unclean. Dirty forever.
Blessed by bloodied earth and born with connection
Our mothers are our shadow in every reflection
Scorned by the lumberjacks of the tree of life
They cut from us our sense of worth and our taste for life
Our Pride!
Is a memory long forgotten
Replaced with fairytales
to blind us from the smell
Rotten!
They are to the core
Violence, oh violence!
Gore and gore
Repression by Oppression
Submission by Omission
The truth and our birthright
Can never come to light
Back!
Go back to how things were
Love us and treat us as kings
Forget! That's what we prefer
Blind!
They want us blind to natural order
Religion and laws are absolute
for them they are keys, for us they are torture
No More!
We shall have it no more!
We once were sleep but now we wake
to the light of a new day
Our freedom is a seed
Our kingdom is in need
of water and sunlight
Replenish so we can grow with all our might!
When I was a girl, I watched the 1982 movie "The Last Unicorn" with my sister in the early 2000s. My sister and I sat on the beige living room carpet. Growing up, beige carpets and white walls were expected in apartments. On the TV, soft rock flows beneath the animated picture. An ethereal unicorn stood poised before the blue sky and hills. The fairy tale painted the white and beige real world. I loved that movie despite preferring pegasuses over unicorns, and wished to craft my own fairy tales. Fairy tales where the beautiful heroine possesses brown skin, brown eyes, and coiled ebony hair. A childish wish, a thoughtful adult could make true. As an adult, I've thought fairy tales through, and it's not just enough for the beautiful heroine to inspire brown and black girls like I was. I've read The Last Unicorn novel a decade past adolescence. The film is a dream swaying to soft rock on the black sea of memory. The Last Unicorn was aware of its fairy tale nature, like an adult reopening the fairy tale book with a cracked spine. Familiar but new to wiser eyes. The unicorn leads the way for me to write a fairy tale not for the girl I was, but for the woman I've become.
dyes my tongue
blood red.
like when i was 13
and i was getting a little moody
a little pessimistic
if you know what i mean.
and i walked into the bathroom
only to walk out “a woman”.
but what really makes a woman?
is it
what’s in her pants
or what bleeds through.
is it
her willingness to eat the apple
or her fear of the snake.
i’ve never stopped bleeding since i was 13.
every day.
i’m bleeding
and bleeding
bleeding
bleeding
bleeding
heart beating
but bleeding.
scoop up the blood
and drink it,
let it stain your tongue
like red flavored candy.
Cruelty wears a crown in a cloaked place,
cold-blooded grins behind mirrored faces.
Remorse walks the halls bartering tattle while I fracture.
They crowned me in shame, but
within a queen still rises.
They buried me in a fire of hell,
But like ash-gray smoke, I rise and swell.
I am the silence of the crown,
gone through ups and downs
stumbled in the dark multiple times
but my spirit still my heart and mind.
I am a teacher, a child, a guardian and a shadow behind my past.
But a strong woman who will still rise from the stillness of darkness.
Inside of me multiply like smoke and breathe:
into silence of forgiveness and hope.
Yes, still I rise, a whisper stitched in storm-
a sovereign spirit-fearless and warm.
The tortured self becomes the flame
not burned but lit beyond their shame
like the shimmering star, shining bright afar!
This is me, a version of being a woman in time and forever be!
I know a woman
who had lost her love
but had a small version
to cherish and enjoy...
Her life was never easy,
and her heart had never felt safe,
yet she cared,
gave herself to the job
and the only tiny person
she loved and lived for...
Her son grew and
from the nest, he flew,
and she continued
to love and live
for him, despite--
until she was not able to, one day.
Knowing her
gives me strength,
wisdom and
courage, that
despite loss, rejection,
and heartache,
she persevered.
Despite her struggles
and probably, loneliness,
she inspired, created,
lived and gave back.
Knowing her is like
her hug
I never received.
WOMB WORDS
Womb ! Mother of All, what sayeth you
knowing activation before birth
births through girths, a Q ?
~ ‘I see rainmakers smoking pipes
drink from ostrich eggs fresh
then hike wearing silver Nikes
embryo cells magically multiply
hearing guinea fowl cackle on high
kicking sensations, baby legs sigh
atoms alight travel from mom to babe
life witnesses itself languidly lacing
almost due, a beautiful hue
womanhood elastic expands happy rosy
she is cow peace or yappy puppy cosy
who will give sweet milk, play with baby gay
while father on maroon
patterned mat prays every day’ ~
I birth in agony and ecstasy entwined
welcoming a caramel soul
divine !
Thought by thought
Word by word
Piece by piece
I will put myself together
Because I am reborn
Loud and fiery
Colorful and sane, this time
I will reshape myself
No, I don't need your help
Swaying I will succeed
Laughing I will speak
I will adore myself
Free as a bird
Spirit of the wind
I will adopt
And I will become myself.
_ Ridah Tariq
Drip drip drip
There she is, curl up like a ball,
Hands pressing hard, raw is the pain,
For a moment the heated pad works.
Thud thud thud
Powerless she's against the shedding,
High and low, her hormones play tennis,
Giggles of laughter turn into tears.
Drip drip drip
With every drop of Vermillion,
A raging pain rise in her low back,
The room is spinning, her head is pounding.
Thud thud thud
“Those are the scarlet drops,
That could make her a Mother,” she thought
As the light faded from her pain-filled eyes.
MANHOOD V WOMANHOOD
I use my favourite chat-up line as I join her at the bar,
”What’s a girl like you doing without a man like me?”
She raises her eyes disdainfully, “That’s the worst I’ve heard by far.”
And when I think about it, I really have to agree.
Next, she questions my manhood. I tell her, “My eyes are up here.”
“I see your eyes,” she counters. But where do you keep your brain?”
By now the alarm bells are ringing; She’s outwitting me I fear.
So I’ll think of another chat-up line and come back in again
This 30th of November,
I can be dragged down by
men
that I loved. And they feel no guilty
I’m caged in maturity.
A little girl tugs my fuchsia leg-split
“Tear it or tear down”.
Fear
of getting lost
Neverland
with a waggish Peter Pan
makes promises and never brings
or the world’s much like flame
in sin where men are hell king.
To be a woman:
Is to search your father's missing love in stranger's beds
To live life scrambling for love
Yet hating every moment of it
To crave gentleness, yet run at the sight of it
Such is womanhood,
in its adequate inadequacy.
- The parallel life of a woman
i will write haiku
so that my big feelings don’t
take up too much room
i know well enough
silence wields no rejection
so i stay silent.
the feminine urge
to scream like a wounded beast
but i just say no.
i am seventeen
my mere age is poetic
just like a haiku
to be six again
is what the sky hears when i
wish upon the stars
i sleep and i dream
so many things left unsaid.
in sleep, we made peace
solitude my friend,
would you tell me if I was
meant to be in love?
love me tenderly
i asked, instead you left me
tender like a bruise
you were the wrong one
to give all my love to but
maybe you need it.
oh give me guidance
what do i do with this heart
that just falls apart.
god, when did i start
writing poetry like this
about you again?
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