she lights the room with her smile, well-practiced over decades, a gracious nod, a coy wink, she is masterful in the art of ladylike-ness, her voice like silk, never veering from script, lilt of laughter strategically slicing through the din of conversation, charming, ever charming, polite, nice exuding familiarity, sensuality, chastity… she’s an illusion, perfection in red lipstick, powdered porcelain skin, sculpted by shape wear suffocated by the tyranny of oppressive opinion maintaining the status quo keeping the peace
once upon a time she was fierce, a wild child, smart, inquisitive, intuitive, magical, a budding creator creature connected to Gaia, calloused feet muddied from stream-tripping, and forging untraveled paths she hasn’t forgotten the girl but secretly she loathes her, deceived by the lies repeated to her by those she trusted most
years from now when the porcelain cracks like an eggshell, she’ll emerge, granted by the fates the gifts of age and wisdom as she sheds the chrysalis that has held her through life’s tempestuous seasons to emerge fresh-faced, etched by sorrow and joy body softened, tracked by stretch marks, age spots, her once glorious golden locks salted gray, brittle-thin, oh how she will emerge magnificent boisterous, full-throated, opinionated having found her voice…her truth at long last
the girl will remember spring, come winter you may find her barefoot, tripping streams, revisiting paths forged in youth, where she’ll dance with the fairies, finally free count yourself blessed if you glimpse her take care to listen to her song, however brief, like a lullaby in the darkness holding us until dawn…alpha and omega with a smattering of lunacy in the in-between a life full lived, a force of nature silenced when Gaia calls her home
How are we so different from them, our women treated as chattel by power drunken men.
There are women I don’t understand, who deny themselves, follow in lockstep with a man.
Burning burst of water, blood, and flesh birthing is a beautiful, exhilarating mess.
~kat
Landay – The Landay is the poetic form of Afghan women. The poem is 22 syllables long and contains 2 lines. 9 syllables in the first and 11 in the second. Subjects can include, but are not limited to, war, separation, homeland, grief, or love.
Pronunciation/Etymology. In Pashto, “landay (LAND-ee)” means “short, poisonous snake,” likely an allusion to its minimal length and use of sarcasm. Landays (or landai) often criticize traditions and gender roles.
I am not pleased by
the repulsive, delirious show
of mean, bitter men in suits
driven by lust as they
heave death and crush the
dreams of girls aching
to be mothers…NO…
my blood boils red hot
So it is easier for you to find all the parts/chapters of my ongoing fiction series, I created a new page that lists all the links. You can check it out HERE!
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