You go on and grow
Pay no mind to trails of tears
You created here
We are silvering
We are not tinsel, flat
Nor tinny, shallow sound whose echoes won’t be known a year from now
We are, “Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you.”
We are precious shine
Mined from the deep
Ribbons of pricelessness chiseled from someplace dark we’d entered into
Unknowingly, perhaps, but prepared nonetheless
Thence emerged, the metal of us hard-earned
We cannot be traded, bartered, or sold
We are made of this
We are made from this
Will they see us in next century’s sky?
Yes! And, ’til the 12th of Never
Canyons, ancient, will carry our collective voice
We are silvering, and are not second-place
Keep the hope, you must
Kind-hearted people told me
Now thus, I bid you
It is only truth
Such uncomfortable truth
Which comforts me now
Our finest hour
And, Goddamn it, lift your voice
Shriek to me from out of the grey
It has been six years and six months to the day
Set aside your pen
Unpoison your wellspring
Harmonize with me
End the endless justification of silence
Of the dark
Lived lives trump safe lives
Remember?
It’s called crazy, see?
Longing for someone’s someone
As they walk away
A going has to come, I know
An acquiescence to the shortened days
A refusing to refuse the night
I’ll clothe myself in skin-tone colors
I will stop hearing creation’s groan silenced
I’ll start feeling good, acting great, again
Original Thought Credit: Nina Simone, “Feeling Good”
I give props to the parts of me that suffered through some things
I can still bring my game, despite all transition brings
For, both void and abundance create a most-sacred space
I’m a beauty to behold as I move with mid-life grace
Fault me — I henceforth forego jitterbugging feet
Assert some bias in my blood which rejects dancehall beat
As time tiktoks, I cling instead to swaying with the strings
Tango, Pan-Hellenic sway, and all such passion brings
Step danced exclamations void of pop-cultural fray
Barefoot, solo, or with friends — come…blur night into day
I tend to the green
I look for the prisms
To escape the prison inside
Grey-brown and desolate
Static-creating status symbols
Causing interferences
I’m a leprechaun lass
With treasure to spare
To share, is my true “why”
I daily trek to tend
Intentionally
To the green
