Living the Dream

For what am I being forgiven this morning
that the moon would appear fed-faced on the horizon?
Was my dream too desperate during the night,
too dear, too full of deep dark deeds
that she should see evidence of it
and blood seep to her cheeks, even
to her hairline?

Perhaps it is a hot flash that has flushed her,
crept up on her the moment she is ready to retire,
and she is showing me that every woman is she and Me
and that the hormones run rampant upon earth and sky
to remind us that we are Women; less fertile, perhaps,
but still creative courses through our bodies
so that we might be stirred to make more of ourselves.

What has she seen of the night that scalds her?
I should know. I should be aware of what we’ve done,
or thought, or dreamt upon the cold sheets of sweated cotton.
Has she shared her deepest secret to me and I did not listen
and now have missed the opportunity for intimacy?

Come, mother, I have need to know, not just that you forgive,
but for what reason so I do not repeat that which makes you
hide your face from me in pink preparation for repose.

Tags: Poems, Truthsayers: Luc and I by Shewolf
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This is the truth of it.  We return to our nests
like a necessary nest-builder, making way
to give birth to that new generation
of those who will sit on high cliffs
and tell all who choose to hear
how very angry we are at this arrival.
This is the truth of me: I can no more abandon
this likely nest, than I could continue to fly
when the weather bends me too roost
and rest.  It is not my choice.  It is Destiny.
It is a guiding hand that leads me to this place
that will cup my dearest desires and promises
I make while meditating and giving birth
to new ways to conquer what needs conquering:
Myself.  It is the whisper of His voice
in the wind over my aerie, that tells
what part of flight is left up to me.
As I am drawn to find the place closest
to Him, so does he find a closest place to me.
He guides me where to build
and I build where He is most likely to notice.

Tags: Poems, Truthsayers: Luc and I by Shewolf
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Mother, I have been lost from you,
like a child wandering through histories
to be taken captive and held hostage.
Your lap is empty.
Your breasts no longer succor me,
no arms hold me to you in embrace
as I suckle your stories from you
in order to know great truths
to live and love by, in the wicked world.
No longer can I hide in your skirts
to find shade and solace.

My bed is not your bed. This is strange,
this empty home I rise to. The echoes
from far away are hopeless for me
for I am frozen aground,
in this orphanage where sins of omission
are only those that would keep me
from rising, in spite of it all.

Sing to me, through the roots of it,
let this marker make music
only a child of yours can hear.

How lonely you look. I shall rise
and shelter your leavings.

Tags: Poems, Truthsayers: Luc and I by Shewolf
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If this is how it is to end, let us not go splintered,
but let us die, pointing our fingers
to a lonely world that’s wildly wintered
so our history freezes and evidence lingers

that others may know, it was not our choice,
or fate, or luck, or lengthy lack of blessed be
but necessary this ghoulish voice
forever remembered by man and tree

that once we were, and still we are,
all of us, fine and forested fitful races
that did arise from soiled events and sanded bar
to take our rightful and honored places.

Tags: Poems, Truthsayers: Luc and I by Shewolf
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So many little deaths,
such macabre monuments
pointing their fingers upwards
from frozen ground.
We can not let the frozen fury
of their last clench of our air
go unnoticed.

Iceman,
clothed in desire,
carrying the medicine bag,
an ax, a net,
did your fingers clutch the snow
and trap it with its promise
to hold you until time to return;
A message to us, that we are old
and 5000 years is nothing but time
until finding you was evidence
that we must cling to those old ways
of remembering.

Chief Joseph, I know your story
of defeat and peaceful surrender
to the fate of future.
Your words are reaching up,
from that frozen battlefield,
where festers a mighty return
of those cut down.

My sister, found in Alaska’s frozen tundra,
your lung-traced evidence
of a hand-delivered virus
speaks of the end to much of us;
Your story will tell of those that came to conquer,
to own, even if it meant
grinding the bones of our ancestors,
to become a part
of their sick ownership
they have no imaginings of.

We own this; this area of land
decimated by a conscious decision
to simply scrape all evidence
of what was important, level it,
as if a few bare branches had nothing to tell.

Oh, tell! Tell the ongoing story
of our endings. Write it with the tips of branches
with toes, with arched and stiff torment;
the stopped-breath silence
of a forest and a people cleared.

Tags: Poems, Truthsayers: Luc and I by Shewolf
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