Between the Veils

her head

popped up

amidst tall grass

gentleness incarnate

 

large ears antennae

searching for

danger

cause for alarm

 

eyes like marbles

deep, brown

eyelashes of a starlet

her whole body taut

 

 I think

how dangerous

the world

for gentle souls

 

how harsh the landscape

for passionate artists

always on alert

forever aching

 

for understanding

 

Rocky Mountain Highs

not easy to ascend

proven to be that lost horizon

for the courageous pilgrim

 

those gentle souls

walking a labyrinth of violence

open wounds in rivers

of antiseptic

 

run, my heart says

to the creature

in alliance

run, protect yourself

 

it is sometimes hell

for dreamers

a battlefield for those

who don't want to fight

 

this world burns up

the passionate

those who stand

between the veils

 

but they sing

their songs

and leave us

their poetry

 

their burnt offering

their firstborn

on the altar

as they go down

 

in the flames

still hoping to rise again

from the ashes

to the world of their dreams.

 

 



test

 

 

sitting in my car

waiting

they want to

"take another look"

 

"density"

"shadow"

on the picture

'probably nothing'

 

meanwhile

i work on the border

between life

and death

 

i walk people

to the line

over which

they can only go

 

alone

 

and i always

wonder

what do they see?

what do they feel?

 

i see people walking

toward

the big white cross

over the door

 

welcoming them

to the Place

of Life and Death

of No Denial

 

some bring flowers

some bring overnight bags

some young

some old

 

eyes down

in a hurry

flags fly at full mast now

some distance from

 

the Most Recent Horror

 

the helicopter

perches on the roof

ready for action

awaiting emergency

 

a dark spot

on a film

and i am thrust

from observer to participant

 

reminded

again

that life, if anything

is personal

 

mortality

the great equalizer

 

some stranger

will push, mold

cram my breasts

 

between two

metal plates

 

as if

they are just flesh

to be screened

and not

 

the most intimate

source of memory

that forever bonds

my child and i

 

as if they are not

miraculous

sources of nourishment

and raw need

 

sacred

 

an old man

waddles forth

burdened by

aging bones

 

a pregnant woman

moves forward in the

direction of her belly

equilibrium challenged

 

birth and death

arthritic joints

and new pliable bones

being formed

 

in the dark

 

shadows in pictures

revealing only mystery

contemplation

uncertainty of forever

 

we are all

 

Here

Walk A Mile

     One of my favorite Elvis Presley songs is "Walk a Mile In My Shoes":  "Before you accuse, criticize or abuse, Walk a Mile In My Shoes...."  Fitting for him, but fitting for every time and place. 

     Most of you know about my daughter Sarah's class project for her "Intro to Ethic Studies" class in which she dressed up as a Muslim for a few days, did the prayers and rituals, ate only what a Muslim would be allowed to eat, etc.  She did this on a college campus that prides itself in diversity, as they have a large international population.  I was of course concerned for her safety, warning her to not walk anywhere alone at night, stick with crowds during the day, etc., but I thought I was being overly worried.  Then on the third day, she was pushed into the salad bar, yelled at to "get the hell out of our country!" and three boys dumped a large bowl of cottage cheese on her head.  No one came to her aide.  No one admonished the boys or stopped them.  Sarah wiped off the excess cottage cheese from her head and walked out.  You can read her reflection at:  www.thisisall19.blogspot.com

     I grew up in New Jersey, which today is extremely diverse.  Growing up in a pastor's house, though, I was very protected and sheltered.  I trusted the world to be safe and ok.  I felt safe.  My friends and I fixed up a clubhouse for ourselves in the backyard of our house in Red Bank, NJ, decorating  it with carpet samples, wallpaper samples and furniture from the attic or someone's curb.  It was a cozy little place to hang out for a 9-year old.  But one day, when I went to the clubhouse, I discovered that it had been vandalized.  There was red spray paint all over the walls and carpet, spelling out what I could do to myself but which is anatomically impossible.  The wallpaper was shredded, my posters were ripped into pieces, my notebooks and books were torn apart and strewn throughout the room.  I remember feeling terror, of course.  The world had attacked my own backyard.  I was suddenly aware that the world wasn't necessarily a friendly place, that people could hurt you without even knowing who you were, for no reason.  I was innocent.  I didn't understand.  I suddenly didn't feel safe in my own backyard. 

     I still don't understand.  Why do people hurt people at all, much less people they don't even know?  Why, when someone is hurting inside, do they decide that it's a good idea to hurt someone else?  To share the pain?  I waver between being cynical and deciding that it's safer to just not expect anything better from people, and being optimistic and hopeful.  I want to believe we can do better.  I want to believe the best about people, despite so much evidence. 

    When I gave birth to my daughter, I felt like my heart was now thrown out into the world, vulnerable and exposed.  It's still a hard world for women.  We've come a long, long way, but we have a long, long way to go.  Extremists always attack women and women's freedoms when they want to win votes.  Women don't always support but undermine other women.  Women are still blamed for all the sin and problems in the world.  The other day, after I'd heard about my daughter's assault in the dining hall,  I pulled over and just had a good cry.  As I was sitting there,  a man came up to my window and knocked on it.  He'd read my bumper sticker that says,  "Eve Was Framed."  He pointed to the back of my car.  "I don't believe she was framed at all,"  he said.  Then he walked away.  He apparently needed to defend man-kind for some reason, but it was very bad timing.  I still ache that my daughter will continue to face sexism and ridiculous, hateful attitudes in this world.  I want to throw my body in front of her and protect her from all that.  However, she proved to me this week that she can handle it.  Not only can she handle it, she has the passion, nerve and confidence to speak out against it and try to make a difference.   She is not afraid like I was when these realities started occuring to me in my young adult years.   She'll be ok. 

      I pray for all our daughters and sons in this world that can be so hurtful.  I have seen Muslim women in WalMart, in the library and grocery store.  I am more inclined now to greet them, look them in the eye, and maybe get up the nerve to ask them what it's like for them to be here in Central Nebraska, or the United States.  I know Sarah will go out of her way now to talk to the female Muslim students on campus.  Her world has expanded, grown, deepened.  Her story is spreading around the community; friends are passing it on to their friends.  I pray that we can all take the energy and time to at least imagine what it's like to walk a mile in someone else's shoes, whoever they are, and refrain from hate. 

     And so it is.

Cup of Tickets

(From the Sunday Scribblings writing prompt:  Ticket)

 

"She's got a ticket to ride..."  The Beatles

 

in a coffee cup

on my dresser

i finger through

the small scrapbook of my life

 

tickets saved

through the years

that tell a story

of sorts

 

The Places That Shape Me

 

Events That Gave Me Joy

 

there's a bus ticket

from New Jersey

to New York

my first long bus ride

 

alone

 

16

travelling alone

to see you

you who received me

 

with open arms

 

we went to the Fair

and rode the Viking Ship

you laughed at my horrified face

from the ground below

 

on our way out

we linked arms

as if a family

and sang a silly song

 

the ink on the bus ticket

is faded

but I can still see

the destination

 

those moments

imprinted forever

on my heart

and soul

 

there's the ticket

to Dan Fogelberg's concert

my brother and his girlfriend

treated me that night

 

my brother not too crazy

about the acoustic

whispery-voiced music

but he went for me

 

or the Kenny Rogers concert

he took me to

when I was 12

and I embarrassed him

 

by running down to the stage

and asking Kenny 

for a kiss

it was my birthday

 

I didn't get a kiss

but I never forgot

that night

just him and me and Kenny

 

and there's Springsteen

and Garth Brooks

and Mary-Chapin

when I was older

 

Sesame Street Live

when my little girl

swooned when Big Bird

came out onstage

 

tickets to Graceland

and the Tupelo Tour

images of my girl

kneeling at the King's grave

 

in the rain

 

Broadway shows

The Color Purple

The Lion King

or Les Miserables

 

getting lost in music

stories of hope

of overcoming

of being able to fly above it all

 

a cup full of tickets

that tell a story

My story

a story of a life

 

filled with music

wonder

adventures

and joy without boundaries

 

little pieces of paper

that draw a map

of where I've been

and where I hope to go

 

I keep it on my dresser

by my mirror

to remember

 

and give thanks

for the journey.

Night Visitor

(From the Sunday Scribblings' writing prompt:  comfort)

 

 

she arrived again

so quietly

without fanfare

or drama

 

right there in my dreams

 

she came to visit

as if it was not extraordinary

as if I don't live in time

and she in eternity

 

as if it hasn't been

nearly 3 decades

since my heart was shattered

at her departure

 

suddenly

quietly

she's there

smiling

 

where have you been?

I ask again

she evades the question

just smiles

 

we are encircled

in peace

intimacy

comfort

 

no pretenses

no roles to play

no fears of loss

or being misunderstood

 

safety

a moment stolen

out of time

emptiness becomes fullness

 

I see every detail

as if illuminated

every laugh line

around her eyes

 

every color

her eyes

her hair

her face

 

vivid

alive

illuminated

with joy

 

she smiles

and it expresses

what a thousand words

cannot

 

there is no age

no defect of body

no difference in years

no distance in time

 

she comes

when I am in need

when I am a little lost

when I am weary in spirit

 

to envelop me

in Presence

remind me of Love

that knows no boundaries

 

of time or space

life or death

body or spirit

young or old

 

and I wake

live through the day

aware suddenly of the Now

the Spirit beyond all things visible

 

I walk

embraced

by eternity

healed

 

by

 

Love.



healing

laying on the couch
he jumps onto my middle
pushing, nesting
turning around to get settled

his tail brushes my face
making me sneeze
his butt near my nose
while deciding how to lay

thump
he drops suddenly
on my chest
deciding my breasts
make good pillows

after looking straight
into my eyes
as if to declare himself
and his presence

he licks my shirt
just over my collarbone
his rough tongue
making swishing noises on fabric

and he purrs

his breath
the same as always
assaults me
with images

a little girl
on her bed
in her refuge
a room with clouds and sky blue

sitting
alone
still in her nightgown
sunlight coming in the window

a kitten
nestles in her lap
purring, nestling, snuggling
licking a spot of fabric

a moment
in memory
one cat of many
along the way

her heart aches
in the stillness
the cherished silence
and peace

other cats she remembers
high in skyscraper-tall trees
howling, moaning
trapped for days
nothing she could do

helpless

the howl that night
that pierced the darkness
outside her window
"it's nothing," her mama said

the next day
her cat, dead
the custodian next door
wanted to toss the body

cats
black and white
gray
and carmel-colored

caught in the crossfire
of teenage rage
picked up and
punted across the room

boys longing for freedom
to be, just be
to run, to defy, to shake their fists
to break these chains

cats absorbing the violence
growing wild
fighting outside
coming back with terrible wounds

little girl lonely
music filling her bedroom
carrying her to a neverland
of peace and safety

cat nuzzling, licking
hiding in the safety
outside the child's womb
a moment

my daughter says
the cat's breath stinks
but nestled against my neck
I smell him

soft, groomed, purring
safe from the outside
safe from horrors unspoken
safe to live a long life

a reminder now
that I am safe
I am loved
and no longer

alone

Woman

I am a Woman

I bear the weight of history
in my bones
the Curse of Eden

As a child
I sat in church
in white leotards
and black patent-leather shoes
and learned of my biblical choices

to be a saint, pure and faultless
virginal
or to be a whore, the Jezebel
Delilah who brings good men down
a Daughter of Eve

I was forever to blame
for all that was wrong
with the world

if I had sex
the boy became a man
and I became a slut
if I had sex without consent
I was doubted, my scruples shredded
I must have "wanted it"
or my skirt was too short,
my blouse too low
my dancing too provocative

I learned I needed a man
to make all the important decisions
as I was not trustworthy
too emotional, hormonal
irrational
needing control

my breasts were the brunt
of jokes
told at the water cooler
or over a beer
used to sell hot wings and lust

I was reduced to a body
from which to take pleasure
take
take
take

I feel the shame
in my blood
declared unclean
in all my woman-ness

shame of centuries
bearing the brunt of violence
blame for a man's impotence
horror at the thought that Jesus
would be physically associated
with the filthiness

of a woman
a wife

my sisters compete against me
shame me
divide us into good and bad
instead of banding together
so many clinging tenaciously
to the Lie
that We Have It Good

if I assert myself
show initiative
use my brain and my power
I am a Bitch or a Man-Eater

I am praised for acting Lady-like
deferring to men less competant
eating my rage
smiling against the bile
in the back of my throat

preachers shake their bibles
at me
demanding that I be satisfied
with living in man's shadow
accepting his god-given privilege
superiority

I Am A Woman
I have moved mountains
won battles that should have killed me
given birth to Beauty
wept tears that watered gardens
brought Color, Depth and
Astonishing Vistas

I have comforted, given hope
built homes and healed wounds
taught, shaped, and empowered
daughters and sons
confidant of their foundation

I have seen the Face of God
in deepest sorrow
in highest Overcoming

I have blessed and given
holy bread
had my hand torn open
by righteous dmanation
at the altar
accused of apostasy
and witchcraft
as I blessed the children
prayed for the dying

but

I am a Woman
a Daughter of Eve
The Mother of All Living
Keeper of the Garden
Seeker of Knowledge
Fighter
Nurturer
Overcomer

Daughter of God
Incarnation of Life
Mirror of Divinity

Beater of Odds

I am a Woman
a Survivor
Life Giver

I am a Woman
God's Creation
and

I am

Good.