Drought (A Poem)

Wriggling toes on parched earth,
I look to Heaven.

Pollen flies loose
Go ahead. Blow, hot wind!

Your useless reprieve.

Seeking bees,
Beneath the surface I scratch at table tops
Yielding fruitless harvests.

Lick cracked lips.

Balance calls...

Bow!

Accept!
Own!
This is life's path!

But in the face of shining stone,
The human solution is death.

The End (A Poem)

There are so many thoughts running through my head. At first I thought I would just journal, but then I thought maybe there are some other people who are experiencing these things.

So, as a writer tends to do, I will share. This piece reflects on issues within the last few chapters of THRIVE: HOW I BECAME A SUPERHERO and serves as a reminder that even when we've gotten through part of the journey, there's always more time to be in the crucible.
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How can a parent consciously choose something that would be bad for their child? How can a parent willfully choose the interest of a friend, stranger, or the altar of an all-mighty idea over the best interest of their child? Their grandchildren?

How can a person not see what is in their best interest? How can a person not see what will be the best for their family? Community? City? State? Country? World?

I thought these things were obvious. I feel like they are obvious. They are so GOD DAMN OBVIOUS HOW COME YOU CAN'T FIGURE THIS OUT?!?!

It must be a lack of empathy.
It must be some an attachment to a mental self unrelated to reality. So they vote for their pretend best interest, instead of reality. This is torture.

Did you know there are black churches burning in the south? In a week. Less than every 2 days...one lights.

The mustard dried up.
And the brush burns.
What a sickly gas!

I cough and sputter when smoke blows on the wind. The sun grows dark and I close the windows hoping it passes - thankful for people trained, given full benefits, and protected by unions who brave the flames.

And it's one thing when it's a dusty canyon. It's another when it's a wooden church. A church - a place of prayer, of love, hope, and peace. A sanctuary - where people seek shelter from the storms of life, of which there are so many....crossing the mid-west it feels like pinball.

Bouncing us all around, pick a season, pick a weather - you will find it here!

And here we are. And I keep watching people on their journeys, sharing their excitement - sharing their successes and while I smile I can't help feeling I should be further along.

I was supposed to be further along.

I'm supposed to be more than I am.

I was supposed to have a house, a newer car, a career, a savings account. I was supposed to have a name for myself. I was supposed to be established. I was supposed to feel secure.

I was, I was. I was!

But I am. I still am. It is hard to read another peer bought another house. It is hard to see another peer beginning their family in safety and comfort. They don't have my worries. They don't feel my squeeze.

I remind myself this is transition. I remind myself this is not forever. I refuse to let this be much longer. I refuse to withstand this longer. I can't watch my husband sacrificing so much - so much, for so little. He deserves so much more. We deserve so much more. Our son deserves so. much. more.

I will find it. I will get it. I will have this. I have this. I got this. Just a little more. Just a little longer. By this time next year, the world will look differently.

I feel this. I know this. It sits in my gut, a burning coal.
I could choke on the smoke, but I don't.
I'm Ms. Fusion in a lake of flame.
Nothing touches my heat.

And you know, the world doesn't end with water.

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For more about my story, read THRIVE: HOW I BECAME A SUPERHERO in digital, and paperback.

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Birth of A Siren

Every day I ache, a wretched invisible ache. My wounds are hidden from view unless I choose to share them. Unless I reveal them, no one ever knows. No one ever sees. And they have no idea how painful it is to hear, to read their opinions – thoughts that deny my experience. Ideas that mock my life. That mock my ache.

How many ways can a woman suffer at the hands of men? Sometimes it feels like my life is an attempt to answer this question. Pick a chapter of my life, and I will show you. I spin around, eyes closed, and throw a dart. Find another way. Find another wound.

The beginning was so early. A toddler. A hidden memory. A dream? And it left its marks all over me. I never trusted adults, especially men. I didn't trust my own family members. I didn't trust boys. Any volatility was a sign to steer clear. Every action, from avoiding the toilets outside of teachers' sight at school, to walking home a block away from a group of boys, it was all calculated defense.

Stay invisible. Stay safe. Stay outside of reach. I won't get hurt – again.

But the stage was set. Another boy, another time, bent on abusing his power. And I gave mine away. I gave it away because I didn't know I had it. I didn't know who I was yet. So I took his scathing tongue. I took his sharp hand. I let him tear me down, as if it was okay, as others watched, doing nothing. Doing nothing because they didn't know better? Doing nothing because they agreed? Why doesn't matter.

Followed walking home. Anonymous letters. Laced drinks at a party. Betrayed by someone once trusted. Telling and no one believes me. No one knows what to do. No one knows how to act. No one knows what to say.

It must be my fault, right? I must have done something. I must have deserved all this. Because I wasn't dressed in Kevlar. Because I wasn't carrying a taser. Because I didn't kick him in the balls when he was sitting with me and my friends at lunch, smiling, and joking like we're all good here. Because I should have known that everyone close to me is a potential attacker. I should have hid my body even more...somehow suppressed the intense curves I was born to have. I should have… I should have… I should have…

And I am alone.

I call into the chaos, speaking truth and a thousand poisonous daggers point back.

I'm too mean. I'm a bitch. I'm too sexy. I'm a whore. I'm too pretty. I'm a slut. I'm too vocal. I'm annoying. I'm too smart. I'm wrong. I'm too much.

I'm a woman.

I'm monstrous feminine.

Despite the hidden scars I carry, the pain I feel when reading denials of my experience, I stand here. I stand, with natural armor, acquired through my battles. My skin is beautiful, perfect for withstanding any siege. I smile, baring teeth, my threat plain. I stand, proclaiming truth, defying the chaos. And my power whips about me, a hurricane beating against blind shores. I walk, back straight, head high. I wield my ache like a battle cry, a siren's call into the void.

Hear me!

Hear me sisters!

Our time is now.

Claim your power.

Claim your right.

Speak.

Stand.

Fight.

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If you want to learn more about my story and how I gained my perfect armor, reserve a copy of my book THRIVE: HOW I BECAME A SUPERHERO. To follow a crash course of my process, reserve a copy of TRANSFORM TO THRIVE: 32 DAYS FROM VICTIM TO SUPERHERO. 

Creation and Destruction

The soul yearns to create. This is the mode of artists, engineers, writers, and developers. This is the language in which we speak - we solvers of problems - the structure of our universe. This is the root from which all beauty comes.

But what of destruction?

Destruction is so quick - so easy. It takes seconds for fire or water or weapon to render creation to dust. It doesn't matter how many hours or days, years or decades were spent in its formation. Destruction comes in seconds.

In pantheons the god of creation is always close with that of destruction, for as all people know, throughout time and space, they are two sides of the same coin.

Death is not an end, but transition into new life. The old is cleared away in preparation for the new. Entire cities are built upon cities, upon cities. Coral grows upon the skeletons of dead coral. Plants feast on the remains of everything, broken down by the tiniest of creatures...broken down to dust - to dirt.

It is only when we forget to embrace this cycle, the second and more frightening half, that we come to problems. Everything must be broken down at some point. Everything must be picked apart. Everything must be destroyed, or it will limp along, sick, twisted, and pained - a kind of perpetual Hell.

That is not what existence wants. It wants destruction, just like it wants creation. Each of us has a part to play in this beautiful balance. Each of us is called to be creator and destroyer in the same breath...

We struggle, we question, we tear down and then, always, we build a better up.

Poetry Collection Published!

 

This summer was rough. It was so rough that for a period of time the only thing I could do creatively was to write poetry. It's been a little while since I've written poetry exclusively (for years it was the only type of writing I did). 

Even though it had been some time since I'd written so much poetry, I found it was a bit like riding a bicycle. You never really forget.So for about a month I was writing only poetry. It was a cathartic process that helped me deal with the massive amount of hormones surging through my system while Christian and I went through a difficult situation that I wouldn't wish on any one. 

The result was this chapbook size collection of poems - UNCERTAIN TRANSFORMATION. The poems are about pregnancy, financial uncertainty, determination, and hope for opportunity.

Be sure to visit Smashwords to download a free sample as well as purchase the full collection today!