We Wanted for Nothing
We lived like Goddesses
bathing
naked in the lakes, swimming
with
the turtles and singing with
the loons.
We ate succulent berries,
the juice
staining our lips a luscious
red.
Stories were shared by the
fire under
the shooting stars where we
gathered
and braided each other's hair.
Our slumbers carried us to
the chamber
of dreams where we dared to
believe
all we wished for would be
ours.
We rose with the rising
light of the sun
and we retired when we
called down
the protection of the moon.
The mists parted as we
wandered the
woodland paths without fear.
Our hearts and our bellies
were full.
We were wild women, a
sisterhood
and we wanted for nothing.
Born of Many Mothers
I am the daughter of many
mothers,
some village midwives whose
husbands mined for diamonds
and
stardust in Africa.
I was birthed by many
mothers
who cured warts with soft
whispers
and conjured healing sprung
from
superstitions.
I come from many mothers of
royal bloodlines who wrote
poetry
and know what it means to
worship
the moon.
Sing the Stars Home
The moon will rise and she
will enter the woods to
forage
for the mushrooms that glow
only at night.
Unbraiding her hair she will
stand at the edge of the
river
and listen to the marsh
realm
breathe.
In the still hours between
the
screech of the owl and the
howl
of the wolf she will offer
acorns
and twigs to the fire and
watch
the shadows dance.
Before the break of dawn she
will cast her nets wide
searching
for the poems just beginning
to
rise on the mists and she
will
sing the stars home.
Running For Too Long
As she leaned against the
window frame of metal
she felt the vibration of
thundering hooves.
Without a safe harbour or
an anchor to ground her,
she accepted she had been
running for too long.
Her thoughts tilted towards
steaming and disorderly.
It was hard to believe she
would find answers in
silence.
Of Wool & Waves
Tis spring and the sheep are
heavy
in their woollen coats, ready
to be shorn.
The fleece holds the scent
of the hills
where the sheep have grazed
and now
the delicate strands are
dipped into
vats of indigo dye as deep
blue as the
ocean.
Like the mariners called to
sea, we
women are called to gather
and knit
the sweaters, their stories
becoming
mythical with the passing of
time.
We take our needles, our
fingers dancing
with a cohesive rhythm of
knit and purl,
a steady movement like oars
across the
blue water or hands united
in prayer.
We tighten the cables as if
ropes on the
ships or the lines on the
fishermen's
faces, our hands moving
together like
the wind and the waves.
Instilling whispers of love
and protection
into every stitch we set our
own course
across the sea of blue as
the ancestors
have done before us.
As the grey clouds part for
the weakened
sun, the sailors cast off
and the maidens,
mothers and crones stand together
on shore
and shout their love and
goodbyes.
We hold hands and form a
circle, singing
lullabies to the mermaids to
calm their
desires.
As one we bow to the beacon
shining from
the lighthouse to carry the
mariners safely
home, our blue stained fingers
touched by
the mists of salt and yarns
spinning thru
the threads of time.
(This poem is dedicated to
the sea captains
and their kin in my maternal
ancestry.)
wonderful work, Karen! keep writing!!
ReplyDeleteThank you!
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