No singularity defines her and she is bound by no laws.

She dances to the wind with the grasses and trees.

She is starlight and nothing physical or meta will bind her. She is not a chocolate to be unwrapped, a body to be undressed. She is sunshine and unspoken words. Nameless as a breath, but just as vital.

She is stormy, a fierce water wide and strong. She calls tempest or she calls calm.

She is purpose and purposeful.

She resides beside a hateful void of pitch and ire. She holds the key to Pandora’s box which was originally broke ope by Adam. She has condemned Adam.

She is judge, jury and life giver. Life bringer. She wields only arrows of Truth.

She plays and toys and laughs a tune. She takes it in stride. She calls Death to play the serious role and she chooses Life.

She is unearthly though of this earth. She is not the rose of June.

She is yearning. She is desire. She is in spite of man’s folly. She is in spite of disaster.

She is timeless and truth. Truth beauty.


words like daggers

You can put me on a pedestal,
brush my hair back from my face.

You can count the dewdrops on the flowers
instead of all my disgrace

You can bathe me in the moonlight,
so my flaws can’t ever show

You can sing sweet soothing lullabies,
and still I’ll hate you so.

You can tear me down and bully me,
a slap across my face

You can point out each and every flaw,
call attention to this disgrace

You can take a mark away here or there,
you can’t reward the good I know

You’ll punish me for things I’ve done not
to make me hate you so.

Yet, I’m not the devil nor an angel
I’m not a sinner nor am I pure

I hate and then I love again,
Tis passion’s curse not cure

Although I touch at each extreme,
don’t insult me to my face

I’m neither good nor bad nor anything,
that you could ever place.

short skirts and low cut tops

This abysmal dismissal of relevant info
a picture taken out of context
a portrait of a young woman
standing alone, skirt hiked up
and breasts pushed out,

“more cleavage”
someone shouts from off set.
“they’ll take care of that in editing”
someone replies

she shuts her ears, hears not the noise
but attempts to only feel the power
in being a role model to young girls,
because I’m happy with my body,
she thinks

but destroys the twelve year old girl
who can’t match that chest or that posture,
hunched over in shame as she is,
never mind that flat stomach – guess
she’s not doing enough crunches

time to get a gym membership at fourteen,
maybe an eating disorder in a couple years
has to plan for the future
has to make her role model proud

strap by strap, a teen laces up the gladiator heels
she saw in vogue – saved a year for them, didn’t you know –
matched that magazine outfit bit for bit
birthdays and holidays combined
got just the right skirt for just the right sweater
just like in that seventeen

a little awkward, those new clothes on the first day,
making minor readjustments
overkill on the confidence
to hide the lack thereof
a few compliments from friends
and a smile ensues

then the whispers from the teachers
and someone coughs ‘slut’ as she walks by
and that magazine model and that
carefully planned outfit – straight from page 22 –
gets kicked to the curb in a cloud of
whorish dust

you should be ashamed
her mom said
and all the magazine said was
on sale for 4.99
buy me and your dreams will come true

but that’s how the promise is packaged

false advertising isn’t always easy to spot

and no one tells you it comes with the label “slut”
no extra charge

If the water is never silent

If  the water is never silent, why should I be?

I, the woman who is wild and savage and ever changing.

I, the mother of Nature, the mother of children, of the world.

I, who cannot be tamed at the hands of man.

You can try to forecast, to predict what will happen, but I change in an instant.

My storms are incomprehensible, wreaking havoc on villages, cities, countries.

You will never put a chain around my neck or calm my winds – unless I allow you to.

If the wind may screech and howl at the doors and windows, so might I! And who are you to call the words I speak “hysterical”?

If I mourn for loss and if I become joyous in health and growth, who are you to call me over-emotional?

If your sirens, engines, your pollution, your garbage overpower my peace and quiet, my fragile silence, who are you to condemn my anger?

If you push on my  land, my body, who are you to stop my retaliation?

If you pull my weeds and pierce my garden with your shovel, uninvited, I do not want what grows there!

Who are you to say I cannot pluck the flowers I nurture?

For it is from my body that all life flows. I birth nations, forests, clouds.  I quench the fires you start – in order to save you.

And yet you ebb my tides and curse the life I breathe.

You dig up my dirt then pour concrete on it and walk over me regardless of my indignation.

Who are you to call this my “pride” when it could only be hurt.

Who are you to say I’ve thrived too long since you’ve built your concrete jungle and then locked me at home?

Who are you to ask I remain silent…

When the wind is ever-rustling, and the water ever-flowing, and my pen ever-writing.

Who are you to call yourself greater and call me less than?

Was it not I that first welcomed you into my arms and sheltered you?  You pretended to help me up after the fall, little did I know you’d tell everyone it was my own fault.

Who are you to say you are my master when I already have One?

It is not man.  Man will never control this wildness, this wilderness which is my breast, rational when everything is not, steady when it needs to be:

Mother of Nature and of men.

Who are you to say, I am female?

When I say, I am Woman.



She let her dress slip so it hung off of her shoulder,

turned around, but then glanced back at me.

Her laugh danced like bells on the air.

I knew because I heard it earlier at the restaurant,

but I could not hear it now.

There was an ear-splitting, glass-shattering shaking and drilling which instilled tremors

in the ground we were standing on,

and tremors in my heart.

All I saw and felt and heard, however, was her, and her laugh, and

I mistook those tremors for a feeling called loved

which is a mistake I believe

so many people make and have made throughout time and history.

And I believe that this mistake can be held accountable

for many tragic events – take it from the Greeks.

I’m sure it wasn’t only them, it just took their obvious error to embarrass

politicians and presidents to better hide their own.

Walking behind her,

I slid both my hands down the back of her neck,

sweeping them over her shoulders and, carrying the dress with them,

down her arms.

Her skin was not too pale.  There were few freckles, but not enough to say she was freckled.

She was simply imperfect, and average, and in that moment,

she was mine.

My own shirt came tumbling off and in that second,

she pushed me.

I fell,

What some may say as falling hard –

and fell deep, into the water.

And this I also mistook for love.

Because in the presence of desire, everything seems like love:

the air you breathe,

and what you fall into,

and the tremors you feel in your breast.

And the nervousness and fear of looking like a fool

you mistake for butterflies,

and the fear of being rejected

you feel as fear of losing your beloved.

And none of it is real and none can be trusted

because if it all disappeared in that moment, you would live on,

your heart whole, even if cracked by disappointment of expectation.

She dived into the water beside me.   Her hand

gently tugging my pants off in the water

before she came up for air.

I had no fear of drowning as she swam into my arms and our combined weight and my

lack of swimming ability and strength caused us to sink further down.

It felt like I was falling further in love.

Some one, or two, people walking by shouted at us judgingly (and jealously it seemed to me), “Get a room!” and a little boy asked his mother, “Why are those people not trying to get out of the water?”

But we couldn’t hear them over the tremor in the sky,

like it was tearing apart and the world was ending, and

staring into each other’s eyes and lusting after each other’s bodies,

there was only us in the moment.

And her hand running over my body mixed with the watery sensation

and my legs kicking, struggling to stay afloat, caused me to cry out her name,

which I was really whispering,

but I swallowed some water and began to choke,

and I thought my coughing was actually cries of passion

because when you are in love, everything feels like something good. And as I

sank a little deeper, I fell for her a little harder, and my heart grew in size

to accommodate the amount of love I felt in my bosom.

Twenty minutes later, it was only she who emerged from the water.

Her dress was draped elegantly over the railing where she left it.

It fell over her shoulders like silk and didn’t hang or cling to one inch of her completely and suddenly dry body.

And she flung her lengthy locks over one shoulder, and they fell long and perfectly down her back.

And if her shoulder blades could feel love, they would have fallen for and with the hair

— as I had.

And where was I? I had sunk so deeply into the wondrous passion,

and felt so much amour for my dear

that I knew the water in my lungs, filling up the space made for oxygen,

was only her taking my breath away with her beauty and radiance.

And I knew the light disappearing from my eyes

was only so that I could experience her body and all passion

with my other senses so fully.

And I knew the rocky sand beneath my feet was our bed

and that panicky feeling – like drowning – I knew it was butterflies,

it was love.

I gave it all up for love,

and it was worth it.

If anyone tells you their feelings were a mistake, they were not in love.

They did not feel it all.

And how can I not believe that she did not feel the same? I know she did.


She walked home alone that night,

with a curious smile on her lips, one that said

she had another successful seduction,

one that asked,

Who’s next?


And the earth shook, and the stars fell out of the sky,

and she seduced the moon from its place in orbit.

The tide turned, my body washed on the shore, and I died

of heart break as I watched her traitorous arms wrap around the man in the moon.

The city streets flooded and the ocean’s emptied,

and somehow everyone stayed asleep.

And I was dead,

my heart in pieces.