Poem: Twice Born

I am lucky.
My mother loved me enough
to birth me twice.

The first time she was
young and strong and fertile.
Her hips spread wide,
her breathing deep,
She bore down and pushing
gave me life.
Sprung forth one early morning
to the winter air I came.

We had a life together,
my mother and I,
some silent agreement
that she would see me through life,
saving me from myself indefinitely.

One early morning,
my mother decided to birth me again
--she loved me that much.

This time, older and sicker,
body withered, drawing in,
shallow breath in stony lungs,
she, grasping, gave me life.
One early spring morning,
coldly lovingly she left
--and I came to my life again.

Our agreement broken
Or altogether different
Than I thought it was.

My mother birthed me twice.
She loved me that much.
I am lucky.

Poem: I am clear

I've made up the dishes
and dried off the bed
I'm wandering woman
I'm walking while dead
and the voices I hear
have escaped from my head.

I've paid all the houseplants
and watered the bills
I'm listening softly,
and crying at will
and the person I pawned
is becoming me still.

I'm sorry I hate you
I'm happy you left
I'm dodging my feelings
and weaving the weft
I'm wheeling and dealing
with a hand that is deft

I'm writing my eulogy
sealing the chest
I'm toasting the people
who treated me best
I'm taking the good things
and leaving the rest
I am clear, I am clear, I am clear.

Poem: Return to Sender

I am going to sit
in the middle of myself.
Points belabored
noisy neighbors
people point and stare - so what?

I am going to sit on the stoop of my life,
perch and watch the people pass
smirk and hear the people laugh.
Tip toe up the stairs
to stare into my own windows
while I fold my laundry there.

The problem with composure
is that it is oftentimes misleading
and denies the self the bleeding
and while placating
leaves pleading - the soul.
Hungry, starving, compulsive
feeling clasped in hands - composed.

I'd rather riff the rage and
scat the storm.
I'd rather beat the drum and strum
the heartstrings
plucking plucking
fucking nerve it takes
to improvise.

Improvisation is
composition is
improvement is
composure.

I am going to square my shoulders and
circle myself.
Take me in and
size me up.
Why not>
Join the pity party
feeling partly like myself
feeling sorry for myself hardly
hardly, am myself.

Pretend. Perform. Perfect composure.

Expect, explain, accept.
Compost-like
bullshit, like
full of it
like pull your own shit.

I am going to roll my eyes and
suck my teeth and
give you all kinds of sass and stank.

And I might stand arms akimbo
feet pigeon-toed
rolling neck, "I told you so"s
and wagging perfect, pink-tipped finger.

I will allow myself the anger
and the confusion
the madness of angry woman
once-loving, once loved
to seep out my pores
oozing you, oozing at you.
Making you squeamish
so you can see this.
Me standing
staring
staking out my own self
trying to assess what ever is valuable inside.

All because you
made me stand outside myself
and question my plans
for my own design.
You led me through rooms of myself -
rearranged to your liking
and being a mutable sign
and an adventurer, wanderer
seeker, sister, lover -
I let you.

I let you
you hurt me
you left me
you learned me
you stopped.

BUT I LET YOU

I loosened my grip
on what I didn't want and you
began to step away.
half-heartedly I
followed you,
chasing in the end because really -
who likes to lose?

Know this:

You may have left and you may be gone
but before you walked out,
they were playing my song.
I packed up your things
and I bid you adieu
and just so we're clear
dear, it's not me
it's you.

But more importantly
I am walking proudly up the steps
to my front door
jangling my keys -
one set for me.

I am walking through
foyers, looking at furniture
needing to be put back in place
boxes unpacked
clutter undone.
Dusty windows
and burnt out bulbs
long forgotten
in the dim light of love.
Low, low light.

I am steeping tea
and playing Nina
ironically grinning at no one in particular.
Humming to myself, barefoot
in these rooms
to these walks
Ne me quitte pas
Ne me quitte pas.

I serenade myself
a song for me.
Song of myself
a welcome home ditty.

Ne me quitte pas.

And I promise me
that I won't sit outside myself
while someone rearranges me
ever again.

I will open the shutters
and pull up the shades.
I will use the china and
read the good Book.
I will feast to my own presence
smelling of jasmine
and glowing the color of honey.
I will embrace myself this day,
welcoming me home.

Poem: A Prayer

This poem has particular significance as I wrote it a month to the day before my mother passed away. I then read it at her funeral, where I promised to pursue writing - one of two things she always adamantly encouraged me to do. It was even featured in online magazine, The Vyne.

I can feel our lives slipping away from us,
Oh God,
from both of us and through our tiny hands - away.

I can feel the weight of mortality
rushing at me with full force contact
--the push of life's large ebbs and flows, at once.
At once I am knocked over and yet buoyed to the surface
--carried to shore and carried to sea.

I can feel the darkness
looming out just beyond the horizon, beyond the beyond.

I cannot see the start and stop
I cannot see beginning or end
I cannot grip what is slipping away from me,
Oh God.
I do not know which way I'm facing
I cannot read the starry sky,
Oh God.
I never could, but then again,
I never thought I'd have to

I cannot breathe
I cannot breathe
I cannot breathe
Oh God.
--my chest an angry chamber
--inner sanctum beating hollow

The resonance of solitude is
unwelcome in this world.
I want to find the shore,
Oh God,
to see the tide receding,
to know that I am anchored safely
in the harbor of your love.

I feel the living rhythm of the sea song now,
Oh God.
The gentle lull, the violent crash
The ebb and flow of masterful love.
I breathe the salted mist of prayer,
remembering the vastness of the ocean.

It doesn't scare me now, the bigger you and smaller me - the smaller we.
Together we bob in and out of this,
feeling somehow at peace,
even as we feel ourselves continuing to slip away,
through our tiny hands

Poem: Coincidence of Nikki

You can be strong
You can choke back each tear
and tell the world you’re full of hate and anger
or that you’re fine and full of nothing at all.

You can lie to them
and tell them you’re fine and that you don’t remember
that he is crazy and that it doesn’t matter
but it means nothing to history, to those things which were

To the coincidence of Nikki
and the ceremonious Saturday French press coffee
to the bottles of wine and rubbing of shoulders
to the laughs and love and touching of skin

To the reality of what is still there
of what you are still full of
despite your best efforts to be strong
you are weak in the knees, in the mind, in the heart

And you hurt.
and you cry and you wonder what you you did
when you tell them you blame him – you blame you.
and you are sad, very sad for the things that were

And you want them back, some days
and you call his name some times
and you cry and you curse that you let it happen
despite your best effort to be strong

You can be strong and you can be hurt and you can cry and curse
and you can tell them and yourself that it is your fault
and his fault and love’s fault for pulling on you
so strong, so real, so here and there at once.

Poem: Lie to me

We are afraid--

The world of us--to tell each other our secrets.
In hidden rooms, with jammed tight doors,
we suffer silently per protocol,
make messes of our messes.
if we would stand straight, eye to eye,
confessing our disaster...
 
Perhaps we'd find each other in our messes,
and our masses would seem masterfully drawn
together in the larger open spaces of our togetherness
where doors don't jam
and people cry
and laugh
and hold each other
 
instead of keeping secrets.

Putting it Out There

As part of this challenge, I needed to submit to a contest or apply for an award to demonstrate my expertise. I decided to submit for a contest of a literary journal, Crazyhorse, based on one of my gifts - poetry. After searching for a bit for a contest on authenticity, the only thing I could find was a contest which asked individuals to outline ways in which consumers of news could authenticate/validate the information they get via various news outlets. I decided to submit three poems which reflect my experience over the last several months. The poems follow in separate posts.

Walk the Talk

Over the last 60 days, I have been part of a challenge to become an expert in a specific area. I am working with a group of phenomenal women who are well-versed in such interesting and compelling areas such as sustainability, wellness, youth development, and education. I am even working with folks who are subject matter experts on paths less traveled such as lactation, gratitude, and astrology.

And then there is me. I am struggling still to define my area of expertise. 60 days into the challenge, I am clear that I am passionate about authenticity, but how does one demonstrate that? Unlike a fine art connoisseur, I can’t get ‘training’ on how to be an expert in authenticity. I don’t have a ‘kit’ like a forensics expert to assess the evidence I’m presented with on a daily basis. So what’s my gauge? My barometer?
Personal experience. I can’t say without a shadow of a doubt, that I can ‘teach’ someone else how to be authentic without first knowing that I am living my life as authentically as possible. What this means to me is that I am actively pursuing those things which I am passionate about and which I am good at doing. For as long as I can remember, my two greatest passions have been music and writing - not necessarily in that order.

I’ve sung for as long as I can remember (I even studied jazz and classical music) and I’ve been writing probably since I was 10--journaling, writing poetry and articles for various publications, etc. So in a quest to be more authentically myself, I am grounding myself in my poetry and in my music. I’ll dedicate a few posts not to me pontificating about what it means to be authentic, but just demonstrating it as best I can.

What Cosmo Magazine Won't Teach You

This content initially appeared in the online magazine, The Vyne. Since it's publication, Cathie Black has been denied the waiver mentioned below.

In the last two weeks, New York City has been set ablaze by the appointment of Hearst Magazines Chairman, Cathie Black, to School Chancellor by Mayor Michael Bloomberg. New York residents as well as local and national education advocates cluster primarily around two major criticisms — Bloomberg’s lack of transparency into his selection process and Black’s glaring lack of credentials as required by the state. While Bloomberg’s thought process has left many tongues wagging, perhaps more intriguing is what is going on in Cathie Black’s mind as she navigates the very rough and shifting terrain beneath her well-heeled feet. We’ve not yet heard from her in the media, so we can only guess at this point at her thoughts on the situation–quite ironic given her post as chief of a communications behemoth.

As the female Chairman of Hearst Magazines, a company whose history and global reach are impressive, Cathie Black makes for a venerable symbol of successful leadership. She has led and managed an organization whose primary medium, the print magazine, faces peril at the hands of digital media on a daily basis–even with such titles as Cosmopolitan and O, the Oprah Magazine. She has presumably achieved success by making shrewd business decisions and using sound judgment. So why does she now find herself at the center of a social and political maelstrom of criticism? How did she get here and what does she do now?

You’ve seen this scenario before, with yourself or a woman you know. You’ve been in a post or career for a while and you hit a wall, professionally, intellectually or personally or simply decide that it’s time to move on. Thinking that it’s time for a change, but without putting much physical energy behind it, you’re suddenly headhunted for a prime opportunity or tapped on the shoulder to do ‘the next big thing.’ What usually goes through your head (right after you pop your collar)? “Perfect! An opportunity to do something different.” And before you know it, because of your brilliance, political savvy, and charm you find yourself facing a new and exciting professional opportunity. The temptation to accept can be huge and taking the leap into a high profile position may seem like a great decision, the rush of newness, the promise of acclaim. Pause. What step did you miss? At what point did you clearly define what should be next for you? What are your personal/professional objectives for your next experience? Have you accomplished all you intended in your current position? Before you sign on the dotted line and upgrade your handbag, take a minute to put pen to paper and strategize.

Three of the most critical components of exemplary leadership are self-awareness, judgment and preparation. Cathie Black’s current quandary indicates that at minimum she lacked adequate preparation to articulate her unique qualifications for the role of School Chancellor. Prior to accepting the post, did she ask herself the right questions? “Have I taken the time to outline what I am looking for and how this opportunity supports that?” “Do I fundamentally know how to do the job and influence perception about my ability to do the job?” “Do I know what to expect in the first 5, 30, 90 days?”

As gifted and passionate women we are often invited to address major challenges and lead initiatives. It is flattering, and often justified, given our previous accomplishments. However, we have to manage our careers and safeguard our reputations, thinking critically about every potential opportunity. Clarity of purpose and an ability to articulate our unique qualifications only support our strategic thinking. Without this level of reflection, we may find ourselves second-guessing our decisions, scrambling for support and calling on the endorsements of the ‘Oprah’ in our own network to vouch for our ability – something we should be able to articulate freely and with conviction, instead of being shell-shocked into silence.

What happens with Cathie Black is yet to be seen, but in the interim it appears she has something more immediate to address than the broken New York City public school system–her own perceived ‘achievement gap’.

Pajamas = Productivity