We dance in flames lit by the rebellion mother. We dance in flames crying each of the fallen names. At life's breast, united, smother Fear - In support of each other we dance in flames
Mother Rebellion
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Tag Archives: strength
Breccia
A beautifully imperfect creation, Mottled in angst and frustration, Capturing stray drops of sunlight To warm you on the colder nights. The open evening air calls you To gain that moment of solitude Between the sediments of thought Lined and calmed in melodies. You don't absorb or reflect When bathing in the day's light, But refract polychromatic splendour Through your fused shrapnel. Each playing piece considered and Placed within the web of fragments Builds a mosaic of endurance: A tenacious testament of truth, Boldly embraced through fractures And acknowledged reality splinters. The weathered debris of survival Formed you a formidable warrior Encased in your own clast armour: Sharply witted within awareness, Yet dynamically poised, prepared For metamorphic elevation.
The Woman Wore Purple
I had spent many hours with her, Both young and grown. I had grown beside her kin, With a mother who shared her blood. She was reckless in my mother’s eyes, Wild as the wind that she flew on. A woman who lived by no law, But by principle of her own heart. She near always smiled at me, And she laughed at my cynicisms. We drank several nights away, At the bar, or on the step of a shop door. Like many young, I fled the nest, Spread my wings for lands afar, Leaving them all behind me, But visiting with growing infrequency. On my return there would be happy reunion, Drinks, songs, smokes, smiles, laughs. Gatherings of the now grown and their young, Besides our elders now older once more. But time did fly by quicker, And 15 months seems to blink fast. And soon I am beckoned back, Returning to see her again. My mother, as always, Holding the hands of my family, As a means to hold their souls, their bodies, And their strength, in an upwards fashion. Me, smiling through, as taught, Showing that the living are not afraid. I hold her hair 'twix my fingers, And braid in flowers as we laugh. I roll her smokes, before my own, The legality of them questionable, As she waves between here and there, Jittery with fear of being wedded. I paint over the hollowing skin, Lighten her sunken eyes, With a mixture of tones, pigments, Creams and powders, brushes and sponges. The clocks strikes and the camera clicks, She grins as she is wheeled along, I press the button as she makes vows, Promises to be short lived and kept. We drank, we smoked, we laughed, I sang, for she couldn’t any longer, I walked for her, towing the chair, And navigated with care and fear. Family gathered, united, strong again, Smiling at the simple pictures I captured, Wondering at the beauty of her, Of her soul, of her love. The woman wore purple, As a bride, draped in purple and white, As a mother, through waking night, As my aunt, when hugging me tight. The woman wore purple, And when I saw her last, she wore it still. Though I’ll never see her again, I know the woman wears purple.
Definition Lost
The scissors final snip liberates me of the locks over grown, And creates a new silhouette around my face, One that sat similar to a past one, but as a newer rendition. The colour a combination of fading hues, out grown bleach, and dark roots, The sides shaven short, and the top left long and loose. I felt like a renewed me, a different individual, No longer defined by the frugality of an overgrown home cut, But shaped by the hands of a professional. Living as though a person pampered, showered in shallow luxuries. Looking at my reflection and regaining the power I felt for too long was lost. But the power was not the item lost to me most, No, for I have lost my definition. I am at the whims of the family I hold together, As my equal seems to drown in the life we have found ourselves in, I hold afloat our raft, and provide for the three of us a sanctuary. The safety net is spread wide enough to catch them and their baggage, As my baggage is dragging through the murky waters behind us. Each case holding a different aspect of me, A portion hidden away indefinitely, until time allows me to unpack. My heart cradles a child spawned from a careless woman. A mother who desired a babe, but couldn’t protect the child, Whose selfishness took over her instincts in favour of a demon. The child loves me unconditionally, and I love more in return, Handing over the remaining half of each breath I take, Giving her each second heartbeat, and most every thought. I ferry her across the unwelcoming seas, bearing the waves myself, As she dances blissfully unaware of the storms we pass through. But motherhood is not my definition, only an inherited title, One I clench my hands tightly around to keep, but one I fear also. I am spread thinly across each bag that floats along with us, The literate, the musical, the angry, the calm, the loud, the quiet, Among some of the guises interchangeably worn, but put back, Restrained back into their hides, as I try to establish the singular face to wear, Unknowingly losing any further identity in my search for one. Writing under a name not given, but chosen, picked like cherries, And not wanting liberation from anything other than myself. Realizing maybe this is the meaning of grown, or maybe this is the meaning of trapped.
The Poet Armistead 