She Learns to Shout

It barely matters which door opens first

Welcome, and a warm first hello to the newcomers!

I’m so happy you’re here.

Each of these Sunday poetry collections centers loosely around a tarot card, and this week we’re checking in with the Hierophant, also known as the Pope or the High Priest.

He reminds us the life is a teacher, and each experience can be trusted as a chance to grow.

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Contents:

1. Compact Wonder

2. She Learns to Shout

3. The Loving Doors

(Thanks to

Margaret Ann Silver

for leaving the kind comment that inspired this sonnet!)

COMPACT WONDER

A friend gave me a little bird today:
She nestled it into my weary palms.
It opened up its tiny beak to say:
"The things that happened to you, they were wrong,

But youth is not the curse that it would seem:
You still have so much time to taste the world,
To relish it, to fly off toward your dreams,
To watch your greatest masterpiece unfurl."

What compact wonder you are, little bird:
All tucked-in-wings, so healthy and robust.
I feel myself purified by your words:
I find my gaze shifting from what’s unjust.

A friendly gift-bird may take many forms,
But you’ll know it’s there when your heart is warm.

SHE LEARNS TO SHOUT

“There is no room inside,” she cries aloud.
“There is no space for what you’d have me hold.”
She does not crave captives. She learns to shout. 

The casket, the funeral pyre, the shroud:
An obstacle course to a woman-bold.
“There is no room inside,” she cries aloud.

“Not yet,” she screams to her army-so-proud.
“Today is not the day we are left cold.
We do not take captives. We came to shout!”

Conquering hordes control the surging crowd.
Whose defiant hands can I find to hold?
“There is some room in mine,” she cries aloud.

I’ve seen too much blood I could not rinse out.
Mine is a story that needs to be told.
I cannot be held captive. Hear me shout. 

An addict seeks an infinite amount.
(I lived that life. I don’t need to be told.)
“There is no room inside,” she cries aloud.
She does not need captives. She learned to shout. 

THE LOVING DOORS

I will leave all the loving doors open:
The door to the white refrigerator;
The bedroom door, so the cat can get in;
The bead curtain that leads to the dance floor.

I will close doors that open onto hate:
While there are things that I do not approve,
I simply cannot change the whole landscape,
All I can do is control how I move.

All day: trying so hard to get it right.
Internal critic, performance review.
I forgot that I deserve sleep at night.
My body has been wailing for its due. 

It barely matters which door opens first,
As long as one does. This girl’s fit to burst. 

Special note: I am heartbroken by the wildfires in LA right now, but I’m financially powerless to assist relief efforts, and I live too far away to use my own hands to help. So:

If you enjoy my poetry, and you have the means, please consider making a contribution to World Central Kitchen. It’s hard to know where to begin in a crisis, but I think filling hungry bellies is as good a place as any.

From the WCK website:

World Central Kitchen’s Relief Team is in Southern California to support first responders and families impacted by wildfires in the Los Angeles area. Our teams have mobilized across the region to provide immediate relief. We are working with restaurant and food truck partners to provide comforting meals.