the "less than men"

Catcallin, whistles and stares…
Raucious statements made as she draws near
This is no way to talk or treat a woman
All it stirs in her is anger and fear

They notch their belts with conquests had
And miss entirely the point where lies true admiration and respect
Of a woman’s worth they are unaware
Their calling to be real men suffers a disconnect

These I term the “less than men”,
Males who believe they are defined by their penis
Yet, that which swings between their legs
Has nothing to do with their manly status

See, a real man may have desires to express himself like a dog
But, he has the strength of character to choose another way
A dog is held back by his master’s leash
While a real man can keep his own inner animal at bay

The man who raises his hand to a woman
Suffers an inferiority he’d rather not face
So instead this ‘less than’ uses her as a distraction
Feelin like he’s putting her in her place

When all he’s really doing
Is digging a deeper and deeper trench
The bullshit he refuses to face
Hits him full on with its foul stench

These fools run rampant the world over
They are contained within all the races
More often than not you can tell who they are
Look them in the eye, watch how fast they turn away their faces

Oh my sisters, one and all
Choose not these falsehoods with whom to live out your lives
Self love first and foremost is priority
Real men seek women who look them square in the eyes

It’s time we demanded better of ourselves,
Our Spirits ache for more than this
We must not only raise our sights to a higher calling
But then turn and help each other from the abyss

The time is now to stop this madness
treat our men and women with respect
teach our children to rise above
and forever banish our Soul's neglect

voices

i hear voices…
sometimes they drown out my own thoughts…
mean and degrading, full of blame and hate…
these voices battle for my attention
trying to lay claim to my Spirit
all the while distracting me,
from the moment…the here and now…
they pull me back to a time when ‘he’ would beat me down…
sometimes verbally, sometimes physically,
always Spiritually and emotionally...
the voices sound like anger from men who personified rage…
my father when i as a child erred in some way,
the men i chose to enter into relationships with…
all men who saw no value in me and made sure i knew it…
took me a long time to forgive my father
and even longer to accept responsibility for allowing
inferior men to become fixtures in my world...
you see, with responsibility comes power
and today, i am indeed a powerful woman with a voice of my own…
so, why do i hear these damn voices?
they seem to want to draw me back,
they question my confidence and sometimes…
sometimes...have me also questioning…
they are insistent…
insisting that i somehow deserved the abuse i suffered…
that i pushed ‘him’ to do what ‘he’ did…
that i caused his anger and brought his rage upon me…
i know this to be a lie…i do…
and yet, sometimes…i believe the voices and i dream of those days...
in my dreams i am a little girl and my tears fall silently…
i reach out to him, as his hand strikes my face…
i want to prove my worth to him…somehow earn his love…
i fail miserably and this breaks my heart…
i wake from my dreams to those voices yet again
spouting ‘i told you so’…
and for a moment, i agree…
for a moment…
and then, the warrior that is me speaks up…
her voice soft but strong...
she speaks to the little girl sitting lonely inside me,
her words wipe away the tears,
her love holds my heart, mends the brokenness
and leads me away from the noise that threatens
the peace i work so hard every day to build...
she points out that by my own example will
i lead my daughters to view themselves with esteem and love…
this thought alone is enough to dispel those wretched voices…
i am a work in progress and every day is a choice presented…
everyday the battle begins anew…
one day, i will know peace
and my daughters will walk proud knowing their mother
healed herself…
from inside the darkness…she found the light…
and faced down the voices…

she is a warrior

precious and pure she was,
you took your anger out
on her vulnerability
you bullied her fragile spirit,
and shattered her esteem
while it was still fledgling,
before she had a chance to
process for herself what was her's to blame,
which was nothing...
but she didn't know this truth
she didn't know why all this
ugliness was hers to bear
it shouldn't have been
and i as mother failed to see
failed to recognize the profound depth
of her pain
pain you were causing her
everything comes full circle
you bastard lie of a man
everything
and i am no longer blind
i see and i am angry
the lioness has awakened
and will not rest
until you pay for what you have done
and my daughter?
she is a warrior
a temple divine
and this mother will never let her forget it

acknowledge it's presence...

if we allow it, nothing is wasted,
all that is said, heard, experienced,
inflicted upon the soul...
can be considered as a stepping stone to the next level of being...
a chance to learn and maybe,
one day...
teach...
this life is dynamic, everchanging,
as hard times phase into good times,
one thing is certain...
those good times will again,
phase into bad...
and so on...
such is the way of things,
the only guarantee amongst all that is not guaranteed is...
life stands still for no one...
to set one's heart on some illusion
that joy can be had and held tightly
is a fool's game...
a game that will render the player heartbroken and singin blues that frankly...
no one wants to hear because they're singin their own rendition...
peace is hard won and privy it seems only to those wise enough to pay mind...
to signs and voices so small they almost fade into the background of the mind's chatter,
almost...
all that is...all that ever was and will be can be viewed
from a place of acceptance...
why the need to fight and create baggage for life's experiences?
baggage that we then, on some idiot's tangent, actually choose to carry forward?
when, if we paid mind to the still, small voice within all of us,
we would understand that what was said and done is over...
and what will be, will be...
and our need to battle in some inner war is devoid of meaning...
if all we choose is anger and strife...
there are lessons to be gleaned from all that is...
and levels to be reached within...
this life is so much more than the ugliness we wallow in...
we only need look around that most obvious of corners to see...
the peace we seek has been there all along and simply...
patiently...
waiting for us to acknowledge it's presence...

Hell

Hell is personal. To each their own abject sense of misery and pain. It is not a place one goes after living a life of sin. It is a present tense dwelling and it is real, a place that isn’t reserved for the evil, rather, it is open to any and all and not by choice.

Hell is a tree in Darfur, under which a village must take shelter from the sun’s severity, keeping constant vigilance against soldiers who seek to destroy their very culture. For these villagers, it is in a choice made whether to send a woman for the water or a man, whereupon the woman is chosen because the worst that will happen is she will find rape on the other side of that fence. To send a man means certain death, although, his soul dies a bit more every time he watches his woman go forth to that well. She holds her head high, better her body sacrificed to this violation than the death of her man, one of so few that continue living thru this genocide wreaked upon Darfur’s people.

Hell is a parent’s infinite vigilance even after the police have told him that chances are his child is dead. Not knowing is worse than any hell religion could muster; fire and brimstone a welcome respite to the absence of a child from his/her family.

Hell is a drug taken once only to find the need for it so overpowering it destroys not only the user in his insatiable search but, everyone who loves the addict, yet hates him for his weakness. His scars opened again and again as he inflicts upon himself punishment even as he dwells in a pleasure too short-lived for this high to mean anything long-term. Yet, it has this man by the throat, a monkey on his back that will not soon, if ever relinquish his hold.

Hell is a life wasted and a soul discarded, pain inflicted not by gods but, by man himself. No god could ever come up with as much creativity as we humans have. We are our own worst enemies, the tortures we come up with so varied and monstrous, who needs Satan to render any sort of torment? Man seems to have quite the tenacious handle on self persecution and self destruction.

Heaven and hell are not privy to only those who would claim they are sacred and holy, rather, they are the playgrounds upon which mankind frolics. Both are and will always be subject to our own designs and both are at odds with each other, whether within or without. I choose to create heaven and, if presented with the option, I will always battle hell. My soul is not waiting for the priest to dictate to me where I will go after I’ve chosen the direction of my path. Heaven and hell are choices made while living and by my own soul’s directive, I will not succumb to hell’s wrath. Neither should you….

the real me...

Sitting at the park, feet in the sand…
This grown woman visiting with the little girl that is me…
Trying to understand what happened-
when did it become so easy to let a man hurt me?
Voices in my head at odds with each other.
The shrill voice that places blame on all my actions, “you keep making him mad! If you didn’t challenge his authority, he wouldn’t hit you, insult you, tear you down!” Blah, blah, blah…

Then there’s that other voice…she’s been there all along, always quiet, her words like a breeze thru tall grasses, soft and gentle, they hold my heart and speak to me from places deep and wild…from that place where the warrior that is me rests, where the magic that is me resides. She quietly speaks a truth profound, “You are not the fault of his anger, but, you are the fault of your suffering because you stay.” My breath catches as these soft gentle proddings prod me to gaze into my own mirror, and oh, this hurts, to see my own folly, to know I handed my power over to this shell of a man-and for what? For him to freely abuse me?

Fuck! “Shut up,” I quietly whisper to the shrill voice that chooses to blame me for his inferiority-while at the same time I pack the mother fucker’s shit and put him out, the rain that falls transcending from drizzle to downpour…karma is indeed a bitch and I embody that bitch oh so well tonight…tonight when I take my power back.

The warrior that is me is done resting and the magic I wield seeks an outlet, finally. I am free and this life…this life has been waiting too long to meet me, finally…the real me….

There was a Time...

There was a time when our elders were the holy vessels by which tribes survived through the ages. Traditions were taught to the youth through story and the old ones were considered sacred and venerated, they were respected. Cherished were the stories told for they were the backbone of the tribe, the history that determined the worth of each individual member, hence, the value of the tribe itself. Bibles and holy books didn’t exist for the story of the People was carried by the People. I long for these days gone by. I ache for a time when we lived by the rules of the world we were borne into, rather than by rules created by man…fallible and wretched, rules that serve to break us down rather than allow us to be all we can be. There was a time when Nature’s rules were all that mattered, survival of the fittest was a truth we all lived by, but it was survival of the fittest in its most authentic form. We took care of each other, looked out and knew each other for all our strengths and weaknesses. We made up where the other left off and we as a tribe survived, earning a place in the world that today, I’m afraid we don’t earn…we merely take. I don’t want to take my place. I want to know that I am part of the ebb and flow of all that is. Let me breathe deep the air that seeks to nourish these mortal lungs while at the same time, caressing my skin to cool me on hot nights in this desert. Let me gaze fully at a moon that lights my way while I walk paths of old, paths so ancient that I am inspired to speak nothing, just listen as the old ones walk with me and whisper their stories in my ear. Oh, I beg of thee…whatever Power that be, oh Story Teller of old…take me back to a time when our elders were the holy vessels by which tribes survived through the ages. Take me there and leave me…for my soul is battered and I am tired of this life, this lie of a life I find myself living.