Wild Poetry

I am wild poetry,

living and breathing,

swinging on branches,

—dancing with the wind.

I am a free spirit who can be

captured, possessed, enraptured

in human bodies,

then disappear like magic

into thin air.

I have the capacity to hold you,

let you go,

entangle my tango upon your lips,

and then leave without saying

goodbye.

I am both angel and devil,

adversary and advocate,

an innocent kiss

and the twist of a knife.

I am an enigma of extremes,

holding balance and surrender.

I am heaven and hell, war and peace.

I can be that tickle, a smile,

the soft flutter of butterflies, the

hard of desire

—metamorphosized.

I am wild poetry.

46

This one does not come with song

but with rose and thorns.

You want it to feel like triumph

and renewal.

You want a birthday with missing

candles—

you want it, and whoever owns it to

wait for you.

You want me to write you a poem

and make you feel "43" again.

You want shelves to hold all your

growth,

to showcase the trophies of

three years.

Because you spoke about wings—

the wings of a woman.

But it feels like your feet are

unmoving,

stuck in soil—

You said you were flower,

you declared you were storm.

You thought you could have circled

the earth,

painting rainbows—

that you would grow out of the soil

and become part of the sky.

Here you are.

Forty-six years, grown,

and still—

a flower in bloom,

tender in triumph,

holding both glory and thorns,

with as many questions as answers.

It feels like you're stuck somewhere

between stillness

and the speed of lightning.

And it's a little too quiet.

The silence is too loud.

You realize your strength,

but the outside still scares you.

And it hurts to stay still,

yet it aches to move.

You still hold your old self

close to your chest,

because no matter how many times

she feels like she's failed you,

it is you you are holding.

And it is love you choose

to hold her with.

And sometimes, all you feel is

pain—

that you are soiled in grief.

Grief—a thief that steals,

taking hope and joy.

But, darling, is it not grief,

the lover that never leaves you,

always taking you back somewhere—

safe and sacred?

If you feel grief on the ground,

it is not that you are stuck,

it is not that you have not flown,

that you have not flowered,

not rainbowed,

not showered the earth

with warm rain.

It is the garden to which you return.

It is that you are home.

You are grounded by love—

a place where flowers can grow,

a garden of rose and thorns.

The United State of America

We are in the state, united

by the narcotics and novocaine

of America.

We, the people,

are created to endure the lobotomy

of our humanity, our rights, our

bodily autonomy.

But something God-like is telling

me:

I can't unsee the seen.

I can't unknow what is known.

There is a transfer of

consciousness,

moved by the muscles of the

human spirit,

It is connected to the optic nerves,

transmitted to the tip of the tongue—

a memory,

an existence of humanity,

a trace of a past life

that belonged to me at birth,

before subconsciousness was

injected

by modern medicine,

manufactured by man;

Before the Constitution pierced

the skin of innocence.

I have been struck by the glimmer of God,

and given the peaceful permission

to rage against the machine,

against the chains of institution

that thought they had me.

I have poetry that can't be

automated

by the intelligence of artificial minds,

a heart untamed by human control,

ideas unowned by society,

undecided by popular vote.

I hold a God-given choice,

and I won't return

to sell a sex that can't be sold,

just to fill the pocketbooks

of the U.S. economy.

I have myself to thank for.

An ecosystem orbiting beyond

the surface of politics.

I will commune with the wild,

and build community out of

the agency of heart.

I'm raising the children of a future

who will know who their mother is.

I cannot go back—

I have the present to make a future.

The future is in me to be made; to be.

I am love to be made in America.

there's more where this came from.

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