does not feaR men or guns.
time will have its perFect results of heaven.
our God will not abIde craven idolatry:
murderous sacrifice oF our innocent children,
worship of weapons insTead of His power on high,
a complete abadonmeNt of morals or wisdom.
keep your thoughtS and prayers alive
with actionS of this body
stalk and storm Halls of justice
with your powerful autOmatic voices of reason
attack vaUlts of law
where this Love of guns
is stored and protecteD by evil money and favor
oust and roust, Bust virtue out
kill the silencE of idling hands
demand safer lives wIth cautious liberty.
turn over the tables of destiny by eLecting those who should die for you
rather than kiLl in your names.
in thE name
should never be down the dark barreL of a privately-purchased democracy.
AR-FIFTEENS SHOULD BE ILLEGAL.
This is an acrostic poem, aligned in the center.
The center column has an equal number of letters on either side in each line.
The power in this country rests in the hands of those with guns and money.
It should rest on the peaceful people.
If you need a gun to protect what you have?
You don’t have what you need.
AR-15s should not be made legally available to murder 15 yos.
Every gun ever made was forged to kill a being.
Every gun ever made has or will kill a living thing. Or multiple living things.
Guns were made for no other purpose.
Only man could make killing so easy.
Karma will call and collect her damages.
Cities on fire,
Sliding into the sea.
From Killing spree.
Forests catch flame.
Humans to blame.
Cars take aim.
Hate makes claim.
To every place your attention settles,
The world will so finely, kindly remind–
No matter where you travel,
Your searching eyes will Chaos find.
Fraught, taut, distraught.
Homes blown apart.
Bombed-out, cut-up heart.
Crumpled on the ground,
Freedom is downed.
With absolute certainty,
One thing I know,
Resilience from tragedy
Is something you grow.
Plant your feet.
Shout from the street.
Pull down the sheet.
Bring love where hate and evil meet.
If your crops are burnt?
If your shores are black?
If your bodies are dying?
We can’t go back.
We can only move forward with knowledge and the rejection of evil. We can no longer passively ignore the bullies of the world. To stay silent is to participate.
This is not the surface of Mars. But I wish it was. A sci-fi Bradbury story and not my life.
Scared and Scarred
I am 6. Tender. Overly sensitive. Idealistic. In the living room watching TV (listening to my parents scream).
My father is chasing my mother from the bedroom to the living room. She sits on the sofa by the window. He grabs her leg and drags her from the cushion. Her pants rip and she awkwardly falls to the floor, pinned between the sofa and coffee table.
My brother jumps up and tangles himself with my father. My brother is 17 and a full-grown male. He might be one inch taller than my father. He weighs less, but not by much and has anger and youth on his side. They wrestle and fall into a window. The glass breaks and the fighting continues. They push each other away and stand panting and snarling, waiting for each other to make a move.
My brother walks out of the house into the yard and my father follows. They exchange violent words and my father threatens to stab my brother. He holds his hand in his pocket, standing at a distance from my brother, claiming to have a knife.
I will cut your gizzards out.
One of the many delusional things my father utters. It makes little sense. He is embarrassingly profane and foaming at the mouth. He taunts my brother to attack again. I can’t remember how it’s resolved.
Sometime later, I crawl up on the sofa to look at the broken window and wonder why our afternoon was disturbed. I cut my knee with a shard of broken glass hidden in the cushion. I still have the scar today. It looks like a soggy piece of puffed rice
cereal landed on my knee and stuck.
The cut was deep. Huge beads of blood. The emotional hurt was even deeper.
Complex PTSD is real. This memory was written in present tense to show how real memories can seem. You can relive some trauma at the slightest trigger: smell (cigarette smoke), action (washing hands), word (gizzards), threat (humiliation), similar circumstance (injustice). Reliving some nightmare from the past isn’t easy. In fact, it’s soul crushing. Mind melting. Scariest thing a person ever has to do–walk into the past like a darkened, grimy hallway of a forgotten house of pain. With no skills, lights or way to defend yourself. Anyone with C-PTSD does not want to be permanently haunted with ghosts. But the mind can’t erase severe hurt. It tries, but those imprints have power. Evict those ghosts with the Holy Spirit and this link: Self-Help Strategies for PTSD Visit this site as well: AnxietyBC
And get help. Talk to someone. Anyone.
This weekend I realized–I am serving my past, not my professed master Jesus. I am serving horrible memories and failing as a wife. I don’t want this. My past is not something to cling to in the storm. Jesus is.
I spent my youth
Away from Home.
Wishing my friends
Were sisters of my own.
I didn’t like family.
Beat up and tortured,
Push comes to shove.
We lived in the country,
Away from town.
If there are no neighbors,
Does abuse make a sound?
My heart goes back
To that scary place.
And my throat gets tight
At memories I chase.
It wasn’t all bad.
I remember some good.
Days spent hiding,
Deep in the woods.
Green creek banks
And rich, black dirt.
Flowers and water
To wash away the hurt.
But no amount
Of River or Plain
Can wash away
That mountain of Pain.
So many nights
Unable to dream.
And tears begin to stream.
Scars that shine
In the cracked moonlight.
Open them again
Without a fight.
In my mind, I walk
With shoe-less feet
To my childhood house,
Down that lonely street.
I reach the drive.
Kick the stones.
Look at the mess.
Hate my bones.
Turn around, get out.
Don’t look back.
This is your chance
To bury the black.
Run! Run down
To the end of the road.
Stop. Take a breath.
There’s time to go slow.
I walk through the night
Away from the past.
I can see the dawn
Coming up at last.
This isn’t a race.
There’s no finish line.
Each step is important.
This path is mine.
Work-Around (Chapter 1)
This is the house of my first through fourth Christmases, shark-jumping Fonzie, corn-eating contests, black vinyl swivel chair spinning, lipstick wall drawings, measles and melee. This is the house where I ironed my fingers, melting the baby flesh from my tiny knuckles, forever scarring my left hand. This is the house that leaves many wounds and scars. This is the house where I came into being, came to my conscious mind, came to the realization that I was in danger from the people who loved me.
I like to hide. I hide in an accordion trunk. I hide in the dryer. I hide in a closet. I hide in a hole in the yard by the basement window, dug by my mother. Because it’s there. I hide inside a plate of food and I eat all my peas because it makes their voices stop.
If I eat enough, deep down inside, I can’t hear their voices anymore. I feel peaceful. It’s quiet. I’m happy. The pathway to perceived happiness gets laid by the chemicals in my brain and I am helpless to stop it. I’m not even aware of the biological processes that are creating a life-long addiction. It has formed and that path will be worn over and over and over again. Food equals love. To survive this chaos, I have found my work-around. I will survive this. But just barely.
Read the rest of the book here. If you’re a member of Kindle Unlimited it’s free! It is free for everyone from time to time, I’ll let you know when it is. Or if you’re an impoverished author like me, email me at email@example.com for your free copy. But you have to share your story with me as payment. 😉
Men will never know
The painful joy of giving birth.
Thank God for that providence
Or we would have an empty Earth!
Men will always know
The advantage of being male.
They can’t understand
The privilege of that tale.
Men will never know
What it’s like to be preyed.
Simply take my “No.”
We live constantly afraid.
Men will never know
What it’s like to FEEL free.
I feel sorry for them.
They can’t be a woman like me.
A day without a woman
Is a lifetime without:
Reason married to wit.
A day without women
Is a world without:
Lawful, peaceful resistance and protest.
We gather to make a difference.
We don’t loot. Or grab. Or lie.
Like Elizabeth and Maya,
We persist and rise!
Battered and shattered
Beat up—written off
I wander this world
Rebuked and refused
Men make advances
Fathers take advantage
The world crushes the weak
On the wheels of progress.
Women take control
Mother, don’t lose hope
The world can’t exist without us.
Never raped; never robbed.
Never threatened, molested, accosted or mobbed.
Never needed a gun.
The only man to ever abuse me
Was my dad who always accused me
He owned 2 guns.
So if you ask me, “Do you want a gun?”
I would say, “No. Why would I need one?”
I’m beginning to wonder though.
If everyone who needs a gun
Buys a pistol. Rifle. AR-15. Grenade-lobbing launcher…
How will I protect my body? My daughter’s body?! My rights?
My right to exist.
How will I defend myself against those who have an entire arsenal at their disposal?
Do I want to live in a country
where I am required to arm myself
against those who would hunt me?
(Because they are paranoid
that the world is coming for:
and most importantly,
No more alabaster cities that gleam,
We’d be no better than 3rd-world regime.
The kind that grabs power by force.
The kind that keeps boots on the necks of the poor.
The kind that muzzles our boisterous press.
The kind that punishes peaceful protest.
The kind that installs corrupt institution.
The kind that criminalizes sacrosanct Constitution.
I don’t want to live with that.
I don’t want to die with that either.
I will never need a gun.
Never needed a passport either…
Smooth those ruffled feathers.