Love or Life?

Do I choose love,

or do I choose life,

down in here in this pit of society

where I can chose 1, be a woman

or 2, be someone, something else

I don’t know what that something is,

exactly, but I do know

it is something of a warrior,

everything of a human being

when love becomes “the next step” in life,

when it becomes a final goal

it ruins the songs for me, it ruins the longing in my heart

for love and life and more,

a world that can make sense again,

a space where I can start learning how the puzzle fits together

rather than about each individual piece,

peace does not, will not, never comes from love alone

these good-vibes-only signs make me want to be bad

I want to speak a language everyone will understand,

that will encompass sympathy and empathy and compassion

and purpose and results. I want to act.

 

I do want love.

But I want to live, too.

I want to live the life I choose,

not just that of the mother or the wife or the nurturer.

 

I want to give this Earth a voice.

That would do just fine.

 

a rambling in the wake International Women’s Day…

a day we shouldn’t need to celebrate…a day that should be every. day.

March 10, 2017

Home

The journey

inside a man

will always

begin and end

with a woman.

 

She taught us

to peer up at the sky in contentment rather than glee,

to leave the grass un-trampled, to look for food

where you’d least expect to find it.

 

She is

every shade

of blue and green

and brown and grey

and when night falls

she continues to rise,

moving every current,

every tide.

 

When you awake to the sun

remember

that it is the same sun

that existed 3 billion years ago–

my mother, your mother,

was there, too.

 

In her younger years

she raised her first child,

told them they’d never need to walk alone

that if they fell, to trust her

that if they lived, to thank her

and if they died, to thank her, too.

 

She is never prideful,

ever present, ever strong.

 

She surrounds me

and fills my bones.

 

Earth:

our first mother,

our only home.

 

November 12, 2016

Acceptance

When acceptance

becomes the word I must cling to

like a newborn to a mother

why couldn’t mine

have taught me sooner?

 

Waters flow

like nothing has changed

yet Sun and Moon promise

a new dawn will emerge

if I let it–

they let me feel

because they have never felt

themselves.

 

It is luck, I suppose,

for the hearts I wear like armor

to be more protective

than my own

pale Hispanic skin,

the body fighting

itself

it’s been years

and only now

did I bump into the word

acceptance

it is to feel

it

the four corners of a table,

each chair,

each pile of rays and souls

floating from an inner window

can see for themselves.

 

My mother has, too.

 

I suppose I can accept that.

 

November 26, 2014