Tuesday, April 23, 2013

North Carolina's Generations

                                                                                                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 …


Monday, April 22, 2013

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)

Sunday, January 27, 2013

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
                                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. 

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

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.