Archive for courage

Dignity

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 9, 2009 by 1writegirl

In a square cracked mirror
Of a motel bathroom
Mere yards from the highway
And speeding 18 wheelers

Where whores and drug addicts
Pay by the hour
And homeless indigents hang by corners
Holding signs of ragged cardboard

Where desperation lives
Despair thrives
And jesus is something you say under your breath
Or the lack of a reason to wake up tomorrow

While god is alive in the static of airwaves
And billboards that stare you down
He died for your sins
They tell you

And you wonder what you got
For his effort

And how many sins will be

Enough

Where death the Great Equalizer of us all
Hovers in wait,
Ready to pounce
And your days are numbered

You just don’t know how high

Blood red lipstick
Streaked across silver
Scrawled in a shaky hand
Bleeding at an angle

Denouncing, declaring, decoding, defiant

The only thing that is yours alone,
The only thing that’s yours to keep
The one thing no one can take from you
Without your explicit or implied consent

D
I
G
N
I
T
Y

Haiku #12: Brew

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on March 13, 2009 by 1writegirl

Love that’s pale, lukewarm
Is for those afraid  of heat
I’ll take dark and hot

Bemoaning the ends

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2008 by 1writegirl

 

She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,

everything a means to an end,

comprised of acts against nature involving

 

hot wax

razors

foul smelling creams

food deprivation

scissors

tweezers

bar-bells

treadmills

abortions

a high priced psychoanalyst

eye liner

carrot juice

and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes

  as football, tv, and Nascar

… to name a few.

 

Please him, please him, please him,

she has been taught since infancy.

Never did anyone suggest please yourself.

She spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

In the end, it always ends.

 

She wanders from place to place,

repeating the cycle,

through the good years,

the years of her youth,

the years she can never get back.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

Till one day, something snaps, something changes,

and now she chooses which acts of nature

she will violate and why,

and there is no him to please anymore;

they have stopped lining up at her door

 or she has told them all to leave,

she doesn’t know which.

 

It is quieter now,

she is more focused,

and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,

though she still spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

It is not that she has given up on love.

It is that she has a different understanding

of what the word means than she used to.

 

Then one day she meets someone she thinks

maybe she could love someday,

the right way,

the way love was intended.

 

She admires this man,

she respects the way he faces his demons,

and in his presence,

she feels lighthearted and joyous

in a way she has not for years.

 

He says he wants to be her friend,

and he cries when he confesses

he cannot give her more.

 

She looks in the mirror and weeps.

Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.

Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?

Not even from habit.

 

She weeps because his hesitations are her own,

his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,

His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.

 

She realizes he may find it easier

to walk away than to walk toward,

and she will end up, once more,

 

Bemoaning the ends.