We Ancestors

A few minutes go, my Irish grandmother,
Brigid Elizabeth Gibbons,
admired my baby, and now
she’s away and he is forty-eight.
An hour or so it’s been,
since I watched my Italian nonna,
Maria Angelina Caterina,
stir polenta with a wooden spoon.
How can sixty years have passed?

 

Ancestors have made the way for me
even as I make a path
for descendants who make the future.
Grandmothers who went ahead
now come present, touchable.
There is a way being made,
a spiral road, intricate with epochs
that pass by again at intervals,
and in waving distance.
Nonna! Che piacere vederti!
Elizabeth, is the wind still at your back?

In the elegant curve of space-time,
we forebears make the way,
greeting so-called past and future.
Without even leaving
the present’s widened reach,
we travel between the times
like particles taking every path
in the no-edge multiverse.
There are ways being made!
Wormholes, geodesics,
intersecting roads that link us all
in more dimensions than we know.
Grandmothers who went ahead,
come touchable and present!

©Susa Silvermarie 2018

Finest Ride at the Earth Faire

A cosmic wave
shoots through your body—
finest ride at the earth Faire!
Call it Kundalini, call it holy cleansing,
call it the O that women know,
but ride it through to wholeness.
Ride that cosmic jolt of joy
to remember that you came from stars,
that you are large enough to hold
every one of them inside you,
that space-time seas wash through you,
and light more luminous than sun
is poured into your fleeting form.
Let the earthplane give its gifts to you!
Let the body
teach.

©Susa Silvermarie 2018

with gratitude for the following words from the ancient Charge of the Goddess: “All act of love and pleasure are My rituals.”

 

Collective Trauma Healing

(a poem dedicated to the collective healing of collective trauma)

Thousands of us, triggered—
re-membering what
we hoped to forget—
thousands and thousands of women
battered by the news,
unsheltered again, from all the times
it happened to us.
Thousands of women sickened
with post-traumatic stress
by the social disorder of misogyny.
Battered once more by watching
another accuser ridiculed.
Thousands of us experiencing
abuse again in our sacred bodies.

Our rage ignites us.
This is female anger, a mother’s rising-up
to defend what is tender,
bodies that belong to us.
Like a mother bear we rear and charge,
no time for argument, we engage
in order to protect!
Our female anger is fuel and then
we carefully convert
the flames that scorch and sear
to the steady burn of love.

Thousands and thousands and thousands of women
re-experiencing trauma
in our sacred bodies,
Thousands and thousands of women
rising to rage, to action.
Anger sparks a steeping, sleeping rage
that can destroy. And when we choose,
can be used to kindle Love.
This fiery rage we exchange,
at the fitting time,
for the steady fire of the hearth.
Ferocious female anger used for Love
will burn the world into a single throbbing Being
a planet with a heart of love.

                                    ©Susa Silvermarie 2018

photography by Susa Silvermarie

Through the Open Window

Whatever happens, we need to rise and make sure the window that has been opened never closes again. Eve Ensler, Oct 5, 2018

Today the world is seeing
through the open window
what was always there,
blurred by such a dirty pane.

Daddies proclaiming to daughters:
“I know my rights.”
Daddies grabbing daughters—
tickling under their shirts while they scream.
After the bath, Daddies flapping the towel,
looking them over with ownership.
Daddies teaching daughters
they belong to him.
Grabbing daughters’ girlfriends
invited to stay for supper,
giving sudden kisses. Teaching how his rights
extend to any girl or woman of his choosing.
Small men, shouting it,
“I know my rights.”
He knew his rights but she
had never heard tell of hers.

Today the world is seeing,
through the open window,
what was there but blurred.

Dates that become rape, but never labeled that,
Daddy’s rights extended to another man.
Children born of rape, guarded from ever knowing,
children told a fairy tale of romance
that the now-numbed, grown-up daughter
for decades, made herself believe.
He knew his rights, but she
had never heard tell of hers.

Today the world is seeing,
through the open window,
what was there but blurred.

Daddies parading about with bathrobes open,
emperor-kings of their pursestring castles,
laughable to sons but not to daughters,
teaching both, who has rights to whom.
Daughters’ sense of self annihilated
before it ever has a chance to grow.
Daughters taught unworthiness
in a million tiny ways.
Daughters like me and you
who learned to compress our presence,
to be wary and cautious, constrict who we were.
He knew his rights but I
had never heard tell of mine.

Today the world is seeing,
through the open window,
what was there but blurred.
Now we keep the window open.

©Susa Silvermarie 2018