North Carolina's Generations

                                                                                                2-22-2002

                                                                                                9:40 AM

What does this say about our nation, our state?

North Carolina …

When I was a little girl

- I remember the smell of a spring morning – rich with the scent of freshly turned earth.

- I remember walking barefoot through dew-covered moss & feeling the warm sun on my cheek (even as a brisk wind tried to chill my soft skin).

So maybe, in 5 years or so, another generation is so visibly altered from my own & created too quickly.

            Shouldn’t there be 10-15 years between generations (didn’t it used to be 20)?

            Shouldn’t there be some sort of collective consciousness that we can all claim a piece of?

... my grammatical sense fades as I become more enraged …

            How is it that a person 3-4 years my junior has never picked an apple from an apple tree?

-          Are they not from my state, the figment of an old man’s presumption?

-          Or – do things really change that rapidly?

God help us / Goddess save us from this constant state of flux & departure from beauty & innocence.

            Give us strength to remember …

           

           

Girl Products

I can't tell all about it

Just yet I've discovered my place

Far behind in the woods

An echo restless calls

               

                I can't stand when

I'm weary

                Can't hunger when

I don't care about substance

Lingering visions of more important tears

Not for me               but her

                The one that can't speak

She's locked in a little place

                Never been given water

                                can't grow

Mindless AND conniving

                But really just a child

Interior blues don't fade

                like my eyes with my moods

                The stones aren't set

The time passes

                                BUT SLOWLY

                daughter of misery

Do you want to play?

                                GO AWAY

                                                come back

I can't help but misunderstand

                When that's all that anyone's ever done.

                don't know how to be "just right"

Just my mama's excuse

                &

everyone else's "not quite good enough."

Mdawn (01/27/1995)

Diary of My Days

Little blue book

Opening to my touch

                need you so much

Shh ... it's a secret

                but my head must crack

for a minute or two

I turn to you

                You understand

                                don't say a word

Writing with a fever

                and I don't know

WHY?  You won't tell

                I understand myself

My private little hell inside

                a book

it dwells day by day

                my thoughts collapse on a pen

Jumbled and careless

                THEY FALL

But then my book sweeps them up with her worn fingers

                And reminds me of

A Grandparent I never knew

A father I never had

                A mother that left

A brother's death

                A sister - CAME CLOSE

A love - will it last? 

My DIARY knows.

Mdawn (circa 1996)

Give Me Your Sleeve

You think I'm too dreary

            Wanting things to be just right?

Trees sigh as I walk by

            The leaves waving in reply

My eyes are full of insight

            The starlight shines so very bright

Moonrise over poppy fields

            The sun flowers in the dawn - flowers in her hair

Get so high on ideas and emotions

I think I can fly off your roof

            Will you catch me if I fall and love me when I cry?

I need you       join my soul

            Teardrops in the rain

                        in a purple sky

And grey enfolds me              Then I wonder why

            Rainy days intrigue me

Maybe the tears burn my eyes

            Mingle with the night

Blue-black river of hope

            Indecisive at the turns

and then

            rushing up the bank

Wanders aimlessly

                                    ANSWER ME

Need an answer

            for forever

Occurrences of the past

            startle my creativity

Blanket of Fear

                Please                      go away

But I got to wipe my eyes

           

       ON WHAT?

                                give me your sleeve.

Mdawn (circa 1995)

Beyond Limits

As for me, I cannot do much …

                I used to feel like No One, then I realized that

                                I am not just Some One …

                                                I am Every One.

I am the Consciousness that will not consolidate on its own;

                I am the sea that cannot be formed because all the rivers

                                Persist,

                                And Resist,

                                And Meander …

I am the Voice of the Abused Child,

                The Cry of Women who endure;

                The Mother who Plays Father, and

The One Who Envisions how much better it could be.

And all I can do is write:

                It is the least expensive,

                Most passionate thing of

                Which I am capable.

And, through all our recent hardships, I have realized

                That I am more than capable of this,

So, all I ask is that YOU LISTEN.

                Listen, and then see what you can do, what WE can do, as a People, to fix our World. 

Please.

The Phoenix (Still a work in progress ...)

The damaged still arises from the ash

            as a Phoenix, invincible and fiery

To reap vengeance upon those who caused her most recent demise?

            Surely, not – the Phoenix needs renewal, not revenge!

When she rises, chameleon shimmering wings outstretched,

High above the trampled ground,

                        Blinding those – who would dare to stare –

at her presence, now reborn of method profound.

When they whispered behind her back as she was burning,

            She felt, for a moment the searing of her flesh, and

Harmony with the clamor of voices and thoughts, even Earth’s turning.

            Could these people ever really see or understand?

As she pondered the prior death knells,

            She soared high into the upper atmosphere –

                        and she saw much more than the celestial sphere.

            She encountered the vastness of the mind

                       Which, never shaken, was inclined

                                                To search and find

                                                            Her own kind …

Then, she continued to follow the breeze and rise above

            The stifling din of the noisy, motley crowd

                                                                        On the ground

                                                                        Messy and loud

                                                                        Far too round

                                                                        To ignorance, avowed

                                                                        By frailty, bound

                                                                        Fortunate, yet not proud

                                                                        Saved, but not found

                                                Would they ever see their potential allowed?

                                                How many more times must this cycle go ‘round?

As these questions plagued her mind,

            The Phoenix remembered another time,

a time before this one, or even the last

a period unwritten, unlike the last dozen or so pasts,

when humanity did not separate from nature so fast,

Before the invention of computers, cars, or masts,

At the time when the environment was different and human species, vast.

            What of these prehistoric people and their time?

            Was there a missing link that would clarify the rhyme?

As she probed deeper into that collective mind,

            To discover the secrets so long enshrined

                        In the pit of men’s souls, she thought she sensed an answer.

The Phoenix considered the plight

            Of man, so trapped in his little flight

                        Journeying through in human form

                                    On impressive though caging sphere

                                    Soul fumbling to make sense of mortal fear

                                    With mistakes & regrets always bringing up the rear

                                    Never quite sure of the similarity between far and near

                                    And confused as to the difference between foreign and “dear”

Man must have care in this journey, should his aims be sublime.

The Finale

You played me

            Like a fiddle.

Like a spider plays a drum … or its last meal.

You took an optimism as yet unmatched

            And gave it cause to doubt.

The remnants of happiness,

            No longer found in the scrap bin,

                        Have been thrown out with the trash.

You’ve placed me, far from the smilies of my past,

            Into a daily desire to simply post, “FML.”

Normalcy has left the building,

            Triggers past elicit no outbreak of expression on this face.

Smiles are fleeting, and infrequent.

            Mainly due to the absence of trust or hope,

But, also because of the slipping familiarity.

           

You’ve taken the assurances of my past and laid them bare;

My days are empty.

My nights feel numbered,

            And dreams elude my memory when I wake.

And what to do now that all hope is lost?

            Feel nothing.  Be no one.  Reside nowhere.

Your platitudes belie themselves, your attempts fail, and you stagger.

            What would you have me do for you?

Are you now on the same path you created for me?

But, TRUTH …

            My future was always so marred

                        You are not the first,

                                    Though I sincerely hope, the last …

To torture my existence, yet again, with your games.

            Games that are selfish, and hurtful,

                        Contests already cheated and corruptly won …

                                    Games have no place in the atmosphere of ONE.

The One of Salvation, Christians may call Him thus,

            One God to save all of us.

The One of Nature, when male And female meet;

            She is much more harsh and Her challenges not so sweet.

The One of Love – if such exists …

The one duality we all pretend at, but miss …

If all the world is a stage,

            And we merely play in the acts

At what point do the backdrops matter,

            Or the painstakingly designed costumes and set?

I cannot live in a world so colored

            That people are merely 2D characters with scripts prewritten.

The Death of Perpetual Optimism

You realize that you are at your lowest point

     When there is no need to consult anyone for advice or comfort

Because either no one can or will help you.

You figure out that empathy does you no good, 

      If people allow you to fall flat on your face

AND

      Expressed regret is useless as well,

If people will continue to make the same mistakes.

Truth belies Platitudes.

Nine Dark Stanzas

I am that dark, slowly moving mass that follows you in the sky,
     Guaranteed to cover your celebrations as I pass by ...

With me, I carry bucketfuls of pain and tears,
     Sure to douse your hopes and flood your mind with fears.

As I pass, the lightning crashes into your happiest of places;
     It falls primarily on the unTrue, but illuminates all dark spaces.

This dark cloud, does it have purpose beyond devastation?
     Are there really aspects wherein so many place admiration?

Who wants the ominous intruder that makes most shudder?
     What friends or lovers find any solace under its cover?

And then, a realization creeps along, just as the dark cloud wanders in ...
     The shadows offer comfort on hot days - when the bright Sun is mercilessly shining.

For as wet with sorrow as those tears may be,
     They are necessary for all the life that we are privileged to see.

And as scary as the lightning that illuminates our devious deeds,
     Without it, we would never know of the greatness that could be.

So, dark clouds, even as the Sun, have their place:
     In Truth, rather than Wonder ... that is the mark of their eternal grace.