I
They blame the headaches on hair pulled too tight
They blame the heartaches on the six hour flight
But me-
with scraped knees
I know the truth
Of being a woman, running from her youth.
A woman said to me "I've been there before..."
I guess that's why she walked by every open door.
But she-
with degrees
and letters behind her name
She is still a woman of very little fame.
They blame obscurity on the town where they die
They never blame themselves for reaching too high
But me-
in the trees
I'm still learning to climb
I think, "Finally, I'm a woman, who is now in her prime."
II
The best thing about being a woman is no longer being a little girl.
That's the short and shorter of it.
No more tiny fingers dallying a too-heavy, golden wine glass.
But ringed fingers tapping and wrapped around a bottle of beer.
No more asking everyone around me what to do with my life,
but a knowing smile and an acknowledgment of how things really are.
Baking a pie and making a cute couple--are not my only half-parted strengths.
Now, looking good and sounding smart and sassing back without punishment, apology
--or permission.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu...
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like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
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motionless sap. ogling your shadow, you have much thinking to do. has the potassium kicked you in the arse yet-and got you going? you a...
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Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. and...
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nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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and now that the anger is gone there may be a few more glimpses like looking out of the window through a thin veil of silk. a look in...
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
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sex object. not afraid of the words. I've used many objects for the sake of sex. in fact my body has been pretty disposable- I don't...
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it's not possible. I think the problem must be- too much love and hate.
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