Weary of the screams that filled her ears,
Tired of cleaning the blood from her fingernails,
Her acorns turning to ash in her pointed beak,
Macha turns away from the battle
And her sisters
In search for the normal life of home and family.
Loving his children was easy.
Tending the farm a joy.
Laying with him in the night,
She almost felt safe.
Macha dreams of roiling clouds
And jeering crowds
To be betrayed by carelessness.
It’s just a legend but it is her history,
And she curses her part.
written November 30, 2003
I wrote poetry in high school. Bad teen-aged angst-filled poetry. But still it was mine. I read it today 15 years later and I can still remember the feelings that caused me to write. Not all of what I wrote was bad—trite and overly sentimental. Perhaps.
In my 20s I had no time for poetry. I wrote in support of my paycheck and a cause that was not my own. After a decade of writing for money and others, I found I had no soul—or at least a very sick and lonely one.
I started writing rituals—fitting my poetry and power into a framework of worship. Sometimes it worked but only in my mind and coming from my mouth. No one else felt the rhythm or tasted the cadence quite right for my ear.
Words have a power beyond themselves. If something is written down and preserved, then it is almost too easy to believe it as truth. Who am I to write things down? Who am I to think I have any truth?
I read my adolescent poetry and know that I still feel pain and I still feel love. I still yearn and desire. I still burn. I am still afraid. I still reach out. Time has not made me cold and bitter yet. Experience has made me wary, even as I knowingly step into the trap.
And yes, I’m beginning to write poetry again.
Blessings from a full heart.