Details |
Cheryl Macminn Poem
Survive or submit. It hits
differently than it once did.
When to submit simply meant to yield now
but life to fight again.
When to survive was waking up. That's it.
No need for titles and ownership.
No deeds to the bits and pieces
chipped from the spoils of everyone else's grit.
Such a sweet-seeking world has left holes in our teeth.
I wander. And wonder at that meaning:
sub'mit. Below, I put
myself.
Where would you have me go?
It isn't space beneath a sheltering wing
that you offer. I need no king.
I wander.
Be lost with me.
Change comes from conviction and conviction from rage.
Peace carries a cost I'm too broke to pay.
I wander. And I would sooner stay adrift
than be grounded
in garbage.
Copyright © Cheryl MacMinn | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Cheryl Macminn Poem
I love the grey hairs at my temples
and stretching down to touch
the wrinkle in my brow.
I love these soft hairs on my arms, my legs,
the little ones on my knuckles
and the tops of my toes.
I love, these last few years,
the tin rogue that grows
under my chin.
I love my grey hair. Of course I do!
This hair is my family's gift to me.
This brown hair is from Ireland and England.
This blonde part is from Norway, Germany too.
A bit of red from Scotland if you look closely
and every 64th strand or so,
a black Choctaw lock.
But this grey, I made.
This one is from working every day to build a life.
That one from trading sleep for singing lullabies.
I love my grey hair.
The colors, I was given, but this grey
is a washing away of my chromosomal text,
a step to the next stage.
It's the me that I freely show, proudly displayed. I love my grey hair.
What power within me! To color, to erase.
Stronger than the words I speak or the expressions on my face.
I love my grey hair.
Copyright © Cheryl MacMinn | Year Posted 2025
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