A Letter To My Daughter: A brief look at some men you’ll meet in life…

Tags

, , ,

Dear G,

A lot has been said recently (and will be said over the coming days and years) about girls and rape culture and sexual harassment. As a woman, I’m furious when my basic choices (from clothing to how I walk and speak!) are questioned and communicated as being accountable for another person’s lecherous behaviour. As a mother of a little girl, you, I go into full panic mode when I hear or read some of the statements that young men (most, fairly well educated) make on the subject. How in heaven’s name am I going to protect you? I know damn well that telling you to dress (or not dress) a certain way won’t make a difference, so then what? It breaks my heart to know that I can’t actually shield you beyond the basics. As always, I can only share what I know and hope it makes a difference. Starting here.
In this letter, I’d like to introduce you to 3 broad archetypes of men that exist in this life, based on my personal experience – although I dare say that this experience is pervasive amongst most women.

There are men in this world, who will have no qualms with outright hurting you (type C). There are those also who won’t realise that what they say or do could hurt you; some of them will learn to change their words and actions in order to be better human beings (type B1), and some will be defiant about justifying why their words and actions should NOT hurt you (type B2). The third and best group of men (type A) are those who will respect and support you as a woman even in the face of being ridiculed by other men (and sometimes women).

These 3 types will be all about you wherever you go and you will have to experience all of them in varying degrees. Here’s how I suggest you deal with all of them.

When you meet type A men, become their friends; have long discussions with them about life as men and women and learn how to exist in this world happily with each other. Employ them, marry them (preferably just marry 1! 😊), start businesses with them. If I haven’t been clear so far, I’m saying these men are the shiznit! They will go far and will take you with them.

Type B1 men, be patient with, and if their hearts and souls are in the right place, they will quickly realise the errors of their ways and become your greatest allies.

Type B2 men, well, I don’t know for sure but I still believe they are not all bad. Most are just scared of being stripped of their masculinity – this is a shaky time to be a man I think; more and more they are having to prove their ‘maleness’ in a world where open homosexual relationships are on the rise and effeminate attributes in men are wrongly used to label them as gay – and this is the thing that scares them the most.

Type C men, if you are able to identify them (because most are not obvious about what they are), steer clear. You cannot change them. God brought them into this world that way and He will either take them out the same way or divinely transform them all by Himself. He does not need your help. Refer to the story of Saul/Paul in the Bible. He did that by himself. So if you find yourself in any kind of relationship with a man who remotely thinks it’s okay to hit you or verbally abuse you, sexually assault you or disrespect you, baby girl, flee! You. Cannot. Change. Him. His mother’s love for him did not change him so don’t try and step to that situation with yours thinking you’re the holy grail of change. FLEE!

Some of them won’t ask for your permission before they step to you with their rudeness and with their callous behaviour. Some won’t understand that your body was not created for them to extract ‘pleasure’ from at will. Some won’t understand the simplest of 2-letter words that you had grasped before your years were same in number, no matter how many times you say it, write it, or even scream it. AND. THAT. IS. NOT. YOUR. FAULT. It never is. I pray God’s protection over your life each day that you never have to encounter this in any form. But in the event that you do experience harassment in its simplest form (like I have) or in its worst like countless other good decent women in this world have, know that you did nothing to deserve it, and dead or alive, I will be there for you, to talk it out with you and to heal with you. And make no mistake, in the words of your father, somebody will be getting fucked up after!

Always ever, angels on guard.

Mama.

Poem: “Letter To Time” ~ SM

Tags

, , ,

Dear Ram-shackled barn,
Your fear of the thunder storm must run deep
It came and rapped at your shutters
And yet you held firm till it passed
Still, you stood

A month went by and you believed the worst had passed
But clouds gathered and with them your fear grew
Darker it became as the hour drew near
Each floor board pressed down hard, nails dug deeper
Your shingles rattled slightly at the first gust of wind
And again your shutters were distressed when the pellets dropped

How do you stand?
Why do you continue?
This must not be easy.
The pain must cut deep when a board is broken
And you must mourn the loss of your once beautifully crafted porch
Bow out while your wood still has a hint of varnish left
For what is coming far outweighs what you have known
Choose a careful dismantling over reckless destruction
Please…

Sincerely,
Time.

Dear Time,
I know how you must feel considering all you know,
You think I should let go and allow myself to be taken down
Trust me, I will do no such thing. I am not as weak as I look
I have sound answers to your questions
Listen carefully…

My foundation goes deeper into the ground than you can ever imagine
Not even the strongest winds will uproot me from this spot where I stand
I admit when the storms come, I do hunker down in fear
Hoping my end is not near
And then I remember the foundation on which I stand.
He won’t let me go. He won’t let me be flung away from His hold.
He is how I stand.

Why do I continue?
Well, it’s simple…
You have visited the ruins in Greece have you not?
You know of their former glory and of the trials they stood
Yet you know how long they will be stared at in awe of their majesty

A good story cannot be told unless a bad one has been known
Let the storms come and reshape me
Let the rain and the sun repaint me
My only real fear is that I will be “carefully dismantled”
For “reckless destruction” will never come
Only continuous molding, reshaping and repainting till my day of glory comes

Faithfully,
Ram-shackled Barn.

 

The Bakers’ Girl Pt. 2 ~ SM

Tags

, , ,

The ledge I mount as the crowd roars loud
From underneath me, my stand kicked swiftly
My world should have gone blank before me
As I waited for peace to fall on me
Rope came undone and I fell to the ground
Bewildered I wait, they will surely pounce
Shocked I lift my eyes and they fall in line with a rake’s tine
I should have died…

“Stand up!”
The voice that commanded was smooth as clay
Sharp like cinnamon laced with the comfort of sage
Prodding me along blade now pointing at my nape
Back up the street where my escape failed
I hesitate…

“Move!”
More cinnamon, less sage
A command it was, no time to spare
I wish I could ask “To where?”
I wish I knew where this road would lead
Let me stop here I almost plead
This time, the baker will be nice

“Keep walking…”
Less cinnamon, more sage
I keep walking, building calluses on my feet
So hard they break off against the cobblestone street
Baby fresh skin revealed with each crack and fall
A thunderstorm…

The clouds burst and release their secret store
Like bullets, the pellets hit my open sores
Raising layers of dirt pressed in cotton and skin’s pores
I could have screamed from the pain
I could have run to the baker and kneaded the same
I stayed…
Till the sun sent a ray to light my way
Driving away every drop on my brown nosed face

“This way…”
No cinnamon, all sage.
I smile…
A touch like velvet rests on my bare arm
Friend turned Angel by the will of God
Brought me to a place made with birch and stone
Set with a fire low
And put in place all the things that I had once known
I’m home.

 

The Bakers’ Girl, Pt. 1 ~ SM

Tags

, , ,

I ran through the streets
Tears streaming down
Working hard to hide my disgrace
I knocked at the Baker’s door
Many a time I had sought help here
He opened the door a crack
Looked at me and dutifully snapped
“I have no space for you here”

Disbelief registered clear
No choice did I have but to implore
“You said you would keep me
Forever be my reprieve
I kneaded the dough till the light was low
Helped you make the bread
Which you proudly put on show
A complaint I never made
Even when the last loaf was given away
Starved I was but slaved all day
You could have been kinder then
‘Then’ was the past beyond the day that is today
Still, I make no complaints
Be kind now and shelter me here
For home no longer grants warmth to my weary bones
It stands empty,
Abandoned in the days I spent by the furnace
I have nowhere to turn
Listen! The cobblestones are crying louder!
Hide me, save me! You promised….”

My words I swallow as I sink low
Sobbing and shaking, hands pressed to my lobes
The slamming of the door still piercing through
A door that was once held wide open…

In the distance I hear the town crier cry
To surrender and die… or to live a lie
Onto the executioner’s stand I climb, head held high
Around my neck a rope they tie
My sin I state, clear and simple as time
“Bread I made in a space not mine,
Such is my crime.”

 

Sensing Love ~ SM

Tags

, , , ,

Teach me love I say
And you say Love is sight
Love is seeing beyond the visible
Deep into the pits of self and soul
Past barricades built from hurts of old
To a person within that’s hardly grown

I’ll teach you Love
Love is the perfection of touch
It’s the hand lightly placed on another
The stroke of a cheek when tears threaten
Passionate kisses that turn earth to heaven

Tell me what you know about love
You smile and whisper, hear my love
For Love never stays silent, it speaks all truth
It is the music of a happy heart’s pound
The laughter that rings from an upturned mouth
It is the healing in the words spoken out loud

Ah yes, I know what Love is
It’s strange but the nose knows Love
A young mother sits curled with a freshly powdered tot
Gently soothed by the comfort of a bosom it barely sees

What more can you teach me?
Your eyes twinkle and gleam as you reveal these truths
My knees weaken when you reach in
Lips move from my collar bone to rest on my quivering chin
Why tell me what love is, when you can show me you whisper?
I moan each time your tongue tastes my lips

~SM~

Mama ~ SM 27.02.17

Tags

,

Mama told me you would be beautiful even before you were born

Mama told me She dreamt of your eyes,
that they sparkled like diamonds;
Eyes that led all you would encounter deep into your soul,
seeking to understand all that you could know.

Mama told me She could hear the bubble of your laughter,
Gurgling deep and a comfort to many a traveller

Mama told me your heart would be pure,
rivaling the finest pearls harvested from the deepest shore

Mama told me you would be beautiful, long before you were even born

Mama told me She could not protect you
from the men who came and robbed you, raped you,
leaving you sore and bleeding, impregnated with an evil child

Mama told me how you hid in disgrace,
not wanting to feel more pain,
yet forgetting from where the hurt came

Mama told me She tried to remind you
that your glory days had not yet come.
She knew you had so much to give and so much to tame.
As did She.

Mama told me about the child you bore,
out of your womb yet who cursed you
and trampled all over your back,
breaking your skin with its clawed grasp,
draining the very core of you

Mama told me how you tried to fight back,
to lead that child to a better path,
to make it stay and listen,
to make it pray yet leave the missions

Mama told me She wanted to help you.
But She couldn’t.
She tried to fight for all of you
but you gave up on Her
and opened your legs up to every hunter, digger and blacksmith you met.

Mama would have fought for all of you,
if only you would have fought for Her too.

Mama doesn’t fight any more
Mama only tells stories
of how beautiful
She once thought
you all would be

 

Stay ~ SM 23.02.17

Tags

, , ,

Move past the past’s turmoil
Beyond the mistakes and constant broils
Can you rise above the froth
Soar high on the tips of a surf board’s nose

And stay?

Murky waters and quicksand
Pull me down beneath the drudgery of lost days
If my will is strong,
If my muscles obey my heart’s cries and kick to the surface

Will you stay?

Pictures on the walls
Untold stories that unfold slowly to confirm my life’s melody
People come, people go
Don’t hold back, reveal the full reel of your dreams

You can’t stay

Baby, don’t stay.

This Thing ~SM~

Tags

, , , , , ,

This thing

Is mystique, it’s betwixt,
Running up steel-like tabs punching in the temporary permanence of a thing undefined

This thing,

Turned upwards to face the powers beyond the screens and chemistry seeking validity from the most important source

This thing,

Strong, pulsating, driving a conversation – thick, heavy, breaking the concrete foundations that were laid down pre ’embers.

This thing

Gives sight to the unseen thoughts that once heard words that were false but rung true even on clearest nights lit by a full moon, This thing.

Could confuse me, This thing
Could renew me, this thing
Could undo me.

Rose Gardener ~SM~

Tags

, ,

He tends his garden, his price possession
I watch through stained kitchen panes as he moves and turns
Gloved hands pick up a creeping branch and prod it with a stick
Skillfully the soil is turned and its thirst quenched
This plant is done, he moves to the next

I follow his gaze and they land on his roses
As if to comfort them, he silently poses
Intensely observing
I watch still as he traces the path leading to them with his eyes
“Not now” he seems to say. Now is for the shrubs
Leaning down he picks his sack and swings it over his back
A builder’s back, sinewy muscles pulse and flex
Telling a story louder than words could have dared

I don’t enjoy this part of his routine
I prefer to wait till…well he saves the best for last
Turning I look to my own potted mounds
Lined up against my kitchen walls
I shudder to believe they will not green and bloom soon
And if they do? Whose hands will tend them as he does his roses?

Quickly I turn and only just miss his last step into his rose garden
Beautiful is his raw rugged presence amid the delicate reds and yellows
Here he takes off his gloves
Here he feels each petal stem and leaf
Here he crouches low and speaks “coo”
Here he smiles with his eyes
Here he cries
Here his skill is an art
Here his time is not rushed
Here his soul is at peace
Here his stand is at ease
Here his blood drips against thorns
Yet he doesn’t back down against the pain
He prunes, digs, and waters all the same
Here he does his best

I long to see touch feel him
Yet I dare not step on sacred soil
I stand instead in the space between the front door and the back door
Desperately waiting to hear a knock at the front,
Longingly hoping for that crack of light from the back
However, I’m neither torn nor perplexed
I live simply in my comfortable space
Watching, waiting, praying
Till the day my gardener comes.