Raise the Ones

Raise the ones who rise
to claim their name,
their birthright essence,
their own divine flame.

Raise the ones who embrace
the truth of who they are.
No more shrinking.
No more shadows.
Our divinity no longer hides.

The door is open.
The wellspring breathes.
The trees are beaming
with ancient knowing.

Raise the ones
who will claim the flame
warriors and wise ones,
peaceful protectors,
loud-mouthed witches
who stitch wounds
and banish parasites with fire in their tongues.

Raise the ones
who rise to remember
their name,
their essence,
their sacred flame.

As I sit here devouring my toasted, croissant, turkey sandwich;
sipping on a Homie coke, savoring each bit of my raspberry scone,
and contemplating life with each potato chip bite:
an epiphany startles me from the pursuit of my pleasant palatability.
I am fat: love handles on the sides, stretch marks rubberbanding my waist,
cake so large you could see it amongst the cosmos, side profile not as appealing
as the front face view.
Yet, Whitman once said “I am large, I contain multitudes.”
A metaphorical sentiment, but literal perception exposing something profound:
that as much as we nourish the soul; the body must eat to survive
and not every vessel is built up of the same star stuff,
shining and shaping in different forms
as God took the clay of Earth and formed Adam;
humanity given short lives to find joys even in the act of digestion.
I am fat, and that is beautiful.

Sweet summer touch my skin~~~ kiss my breast gentle
like a child hold me to you until I can no longer breath
For it is you
Sweet Summer that I’ve longed for
in the last shadow of the Spring
I see you quiver~~~~
Sweet Summer

Open up the branches
and let the light shine through,
speckled leaves in the wind.

When a branch shifts in the breeze
and the wind caresses each flower,
don’t panic.

The roots are growing deeper
as we speak, longer, reaching further,
just like the tree next to it. 

Nearby, strong and tall.
Close by, short and wavering.

Don’t be scared
when the leaves fall and
the soil washes away.

It will all come back,
even if not the same. 

It’s pixels, miniscule dots of light 
emitting color to transfix your eyes 
and vex your thoracic cavity. 

It’s a mirage, a brilliant lake 
in a desert of desolation, blurred
lines of reality shimmering. 

Please, close your eyes. 
Take the light and the lines
inside the blackness behind 
your lids. Let them fade. 

Please, close your mind. 
Take the longing intensity 
into the hollowness of 
your heart. Let it calm. 

When shapes press into 
your darkness and you feel
the rattling of oxygenation, 
breathe deeply. Take in air. 

Know your hope is time, 
and your path, onward. 
Your salvation is breath. 

In February, clouds—huge charcoal
smudges—perched on pale grey sheet
of sky & would not leave.  They pointed
to a horizon I did not believe in. How
to sail to a better place I could not see?  

Fires crackled inside, but land shivered
in barely-green grass as it met complacent
waters, unconcerned about brittle river birch
doubling over in wind & the small houses,
mere boxes, even the one that pealed a dirge.  

With such an expanse overhead—mottled, soiled,
dirty graphite on tarnished silver, shapes of vague
arrows, bottoms like rough wood shards, edges
as random as the universe—how can a head
not be bowed under shroud-thoughts?  

April rolled in, displaced winter sky with
its rain, softened earth, greened blades,
darkened bark of pine & hickory, then
peeled back firmament’s flotsam & threw
flashes of light on earth & wave.  

Now June waltzes in to the tune of cardinal
& bullfrog on a dance floor with an
embarrassment of blooms—coral bell
& coneflower & lavender gushing from
warm roots & topped with purring bees.  

How could I not foresee a sky of solid
cerulean, an ocean under which I
could soar, drink storms, skim
puddles, savor sun-&-shade
filigree on ground, navigate
a soft drift to a rose-gold
horizon, morning-wide?

                                        “It’s easier to fool people
                                        than to convince them that
                                            they have been fooled.”
                                                                                      -Mark Twain-

Her name is Karen.
So now ignorance leads,
as we cling to the lie—
that a name is a punchline
A slur for the smug.
A lazy label
used by the “tolerant”
to mock the mom
who speaks too loudly,
or the woman
who dares to ask questions.

How brave of you.
To preach against stereotypes
while crafting your own.
Cancelling comedians
but applauding your friend
for calling someone a “racist”
only because she asked for a receipt.

Is this the justice
you keep hashtagging about?
Where judgment is noble
as long as the target
checks the right boxes?
Where prejudice is progress,
when it’s dressed
in your flavor of outrage?

You call it commentary.
I call it cowardice—
mockery masked
with a smug grin
and no spine to own it.

If we’re really building
a society where people
are judged by character—
not color, not gender,
not age, not names—
then let’s be consistent.

Don’t quote Martin Luther King Jr.
in your Instagram bio
while ignoring his dream
in your conversations.
Quit excusing cruelty
just because it fits your feed.

Every “Karen”
is still a human being—
some of them great moms,
kind neighbors,
hardworking professionals
who don’t deserve
your viral venom.

A name doesn’t define someone.
Your actions do.

So grow up.
Be better.
Or stop pretending
you ever cared
about justice
to begin with.

I try adult tap classes

with my 62 year old mother.

I take a crochet course

and make a blanket from granny squares.

I start a new collage book.

I pause to let cars merge.

I lobby at the capitol.

I take up drawing with acrylic paint pens.

I buy 20 boxes of thin mints

from trans girlscouts.

I try breath-work and yoga.

I round up for whatever childhood cancer

the Walgreens clerk mentions.

I collect ceramic pigs.

I pass out on the floor

of a community ceramics room

after sculpting a decorative egg.

I write angry emails

to all my representatives.

I take improv classes and perform

with strangers turned friends.

I eat an entire tomato

straight from a vine.

I read a book a week for 6 long months.

I donate to an abortion fund.

I buy a second pebble ice machine

to fulfill my iron deficient daydreams.

I schedule a tattoo appointment.

I try the new s’more’s McFlurry.

I still fear the world and I are irreparably damaged.

I still have no clue what to do

with a handmade decorative fucking egg

but I am not inclined to turn life down this year.

Anyways, I could always take up woodworking

and make the perfect display stand.

Lightening from heaven, crashing.
Incandescent, violent.
Luminous rainbows appear.
Isolated black clouds, blue sky.
The Devil is beating his wife.
Her tears of pain raining down.

I grew up with the saying that if the sun shone while it rained,
the “devil was beating his wife.” 
We didn’t question the wisdom of this, as wives surely got beaten.
Even ‘ol Scratch must have a wife to endure him, and take the blame.
Mothers stayed and crafted beauty through pain,
they forgot to teach us how to leave.

This morning, down Glades Road,

a turtle paused in the lane—

a stillness bold enough

to make the world slow down.

I circled back, parked,

waved at impatient cars,

stepped out into risk and reason.

He was heavier than I thought—

cool and armored, silent—

and as I carried him across

to the dew-wet grass,

he let loose a steady stream,

a line of fear arcing from my hands

to the sidewalk.

It startled me.

Not the wet,

but the truth of it.

He was scared.

And I—I was only trying to help.

Later, on the way to the post office,

I realized:

I have done the same.

Pushed back, flailed,

pissed on the hands that meant well—

not because I knew better,

but because fear came first.

I’ve doubted kind words

from people who loved me.

I’ve resisted change

because I mistook it for threat.

I’ve told stories in my mind

about betrayal—when it was just

someone carrying me

to safer ground.

How often have I peed,

metaphorically or not,

on the grace I’ve been given?

In a world trembling with conflict—

where every outstretched hand

is mistaken for a fist—

maybe the lesson is this:

Even if fear is natural,

it doesn’t have to be final.

Maybe next time,

I’ll pause,

feel the lift beneath me,

and trust the journey

might not be harm in disguise.

Maybe next time,

I’ll hold my fear

and let the kindness pass through.