Home Educated

Home Educated

If my mother taught me anything

it was how the weak inherit the dirt

buried beneath the weight

of putting husbands first

and living through your children.

If my mother taught me anything

it was the chains of festering silence

tied to family secrets

the way you and my father screamed after dark

the way you feigned happiness in the morning.

If my mother taught me anything

it was to criticise my body

hate my own bones

till starving showed them through my skin

how you would be proud of me then.

If my mother taught me anything

it was the vicious birth

you called us sacrificial blood

threw money at the graves of those you slaughtered

expecting forgiveness and calling it love.

Red Shoes and Life Signs

Red Shoes and Life Signs

The famine started long before this soul could read,

letters giving way to patterns,

stolen colours mixed with second hand scraps

and fashioned as freedom.

A skin that falls away from the bones

to expose the starved sinews, weak from sneaking sensations

in all the wrong places.

Months spent as an empty shell

longing for the sea,

weighed down with sand and plastic wrappers;

cheap treasure, shallow digger.

All that tickles and thunders was buried deeper underground

but detecting only shadow signals

instinct gave way to injured impulse

and lay dying in final defence of the once courageous heart

who lost its rage to a captive life

in a weather-beaten cage and severed from the body,

power seeping out the cells into a muddy puddle on the floor.

But home is where the heart is,

even when it fights back at a crawl

this body will regrow limbs, applying medicines

to clot the blood back into these veins

and the whispers of the wild woman

will echo through each chamber of the heart,

breathing gulps of handmade air

just to howl at the moon.

Man Up

Man Up

I have worked with women

who love their men

even

as his hands grip her throat

and he gloats,

whilst watching her choke,

over how she takes him back

by the time he counts to ten.

I have seen the courage of women

who leave their men

alone

with pregnant belly and two children

in a land of words foreign,

she prays I answer my phone

and find her a safe home

where he’ll never touch them again.

I have felt the pain of women

caused by a system

that didn’t lock up their men;

he only raped her yesterday

and she tells me she’s okay

but the tears spilling down her cheeks

give her fear away

as a lack of evidence gave him his freedom.

Here I stand as a woman

standing with women

who are stood on by men.

All convinced that they knew them,

so now don’t all go thinking

that it could never happen

or you’d never let yourself

be in that situation

because we’re all in motion

on a spectrum

of tolerance and bystander inaction,

and to think

that those who get bruised

are any different

than you is fiction.

Being a victim

is not an addiction,

but a symptom

of the macho masculinity affliction

that sees violence

as an ever acceptable reaction,

or that too much testosterone

is the real problem

whilst breeding the notion

that this is the natural order of things

instead of asking the questions,

why do some men hurt women?

and why is violence such a deeply gendered phenomenon?

and why are these instead not defined

as gender crimes?

Worded as ‘women’s issues’ and ‘violence against women’

whilst men’s part in the process

is the invisible omission,

like there could be another explanation

to gender relations

and we just aren’t keeping up with the times.

So here I stand as a woman

standing with women

who are stood on by men,

and if you think

that you’re a good one of them,

then what are you doing

to be part of the solution?

Genesis

Genesis

On the first day

God created the ocean

so vast

she covered the whole earth

in a lullaby

of whispered waves

quenching the thirst

of Adam’s throat,

she was thanked

for the elegance

with which her soft heart

flowed through his hands,

how her eyes danced

to the timing of the sun’s rays,

how she held up the weight

of gravity.

Her innocence and beauty

striking

the creativity

of the artist’s brushstroke

and the writer’s myths of the sea,

how Neptune

claimed rule

over her currents

like something so wild and magical

could ever be harnessed

or the depths

of her labyrinth

known even to the Divine,

her full Being a shrine

to the thousands of species

she had blessed with life,

before Man dumped his waste

and expected her grace.

Threaten her children

and she’ll invade the land

till the transgressors

sink through her quicksand

and fishing boats drown

and even the saintly go down,

their prayers bloated

and turned upside-down,

where is their ‘god’,

to save them now?

Bow

as the tsunami she sends

destroys everything

Man so painstakingly built

as they wish

their gods of old

instead of marking the waters

as their own

had revised their views

and trained the nations

to respect her too

for every act

against that

which they do not understand

stands no chance

against a woman restrained,

whose powers

have been falsely named

from day one

as for Man made.

Herland

Herland

Once upon a time

in a faraway land

there lived a group of females

who, together, would stand

in collective strength and solidarity

no sister an enemy

no need for competition or jealousy

for there existed no man.

They all dressed for comfort

hats without silly feathers

for their appearance was their own

not to please any others.

Owned by none, kept their names

treated all creatures the same

leaving all animals unchained

one with all Nature, as Mothers.

Through the guidance

of the elders

all cared

for their younger

no role in the home

as a female full grown

had a life of her own

and she was slave to no master.

Known for their brains

and not for their bodies

neither waited upon

nor offers to carry

the gifts bought to impress

to maintain ultra-femaleness

in return for sex under duress

or an expectation to marry.

Life was more simple

when the only duty they had

was to love themselves most

and each other as much as they can

and at close of day

to God they would pray

in trust and good faith

as their God was a Woman.

Trigger TV

Trigger TV

When even broken bones

burns

bite marks

internal injury

Her story

Her reality

is not considered worthy

neither for a charge

nor being found guilty,

when even without

Her words should be

Enough.

Maybe

if being an amputee

wasn’t internal

then you could see

as clearly

She wasn’t privy

to the memo

from the CPS and jury

about what constitutes believable,

since giving a reliable account

takes a PHD,

and to what degree

She just takes up your precious time

being angry.

Tell me,

is it as much

as he took Her body?