Tag: poetry

  • I Won’t Let You Break Me

    You’re not the first narcissist I’ve dealt with.

    You won’t be the last.

    And like the song says, you probably think this is about you,

    But it’s not. It’s about me.

    I am strong enough to weather your storm.

    You are nothing more than the wind outside my tent.

    Sometimes hurricanes cause great damage and destruction,

    But they are not us. They are outside of us.

    As you are. As you remain. As it is.

    And so it is.

    I remind myself of my strength.

    I remind myself that my hurt parts who want to respond to you

    Are the lost children of my history that is long and filled with monsters.

    But history is not destiny, and I won’t let you break me;

    Just as she could not break me – and you are nothing near to her.

    You are a petulant child, like another petulant child flinging ketchup at the wall.

    I actually feel sorry for you, when I’m not in the storm of your abuse.

    Your life is hollow, and will remain so.

    The hole you seek to fill by destroying others will remain stubbornly empty.

    And that is Justice.

    I will not let you break me.

    I am not food for your maw.

    I am not fuel for your conflagration.

    I am not sustenance for your starvation.

    I am not yours.

    I claim my power, back from all times and places, from all timelines and commitments,

    Back from all soul contracts entered into consciously or unconsciously.

    I call myself back to myself,

    Into my body, my holy vessel with which I interact and experience this world.

    My body is not yours. My mind is not yours. My spirit is not yours.

    And my breaking is not for you to accomplish.

    Any breaking that will happen here will be me, breaking the bindings you have tried to forge over me.

    I release you. I forgive myself for believing your myth.

    I forgive myself for wanting connection with you who are incapable of it.

    I forgive myself for not somehow psychically knowing what you were about before you showed your hand.

    I forgive myself for wanting to be one of your in crowd.

    I forgive myself for wanting anything from you.

    I release myself from any bondage or commitment to you.

    I reclaim my own power and destiny from you.

    I call back the power I gave you and put it rightfully back into myself.

    For I am strong. I am resilient.

    And you will not break me.

  • Sound – A Poem

    Sound – A Poem

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    The sounds are still,

    Silent now in the wake of madness.

    The crowds came through like locusts,

    Digesting everything in their path as

    Huge earthmovers rearrange landscape.

    The air is frigid and wet, an arthritic\’s nightmare.

    Paper detritus blows in the breeze, a dance without music.

    The anniversary has passed, the revelers gone home,

    Their legacy filling the large garbage trucks

    That will prowl the predawn streets before traffic.

    But here, now, it\’s still night, and cold, and

    The sounds are still.

  • Lines of Lights – A Poem

    Lines of Lights – A Poem

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    Image © 2015, A. Catherine Noon
    All Rights Reserved
    Lines of Lights
    Moving at speed past the window, reverse parallax.
     
    Facing backward on the train, the lights receded.
     
    Facing backward on the train is a title.
     
    A good title for a memory, even.
     
    Metaphoric.
     
    Like Benjamin Button, living backwards to get forwards.
     
    When everyone is walking in the other direction, sit down and get still.
     
    Follow the still, small voice insight and listen.
     
    What does it say?
     
    I don’t know, I’m still listening.
     
    What about now?
     
    Shh. You can hear it too.
     
    Listen.
     
    Rhythm.
  • Tue Cent Twosday: Bird, a Poem

    Tue Cent Twosday: Bird, a Poem

    Image from Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons free license.

    Bird.
    I see you, bird. Black feathers. Shiny.
    Beak. Black beak like jet, hard and grooved along the length.
    It’s longer than I expected. Long and sharp.
    “Once there was food here.” Tatiana Tolstaya.
    The forest. Mass graves, running for miles, between trees.
    I like trees. I don’t feel death when I’m in the trees.
    Death is probably there, I mean, it has to be.
    Death is everywhere. That’s the whole point.
    But in trees, the sense of life overwhelms all that.
    I think that’s why I liked hiking so much.
    Outside the reach of her voice.
    Stay where you can hear me.
    God, that used to piss me off.
    I’d push at it, silently, in my stomach.
    The ulcers are a reaction to using magic, I think.
    Maybe it’s improper grounding. I wonder.
    But birds are hard to find in trees.
    My father said he’d piss off the other people in the Sierra Club.
    He’d find the birds faster than anyone else.
    He was smug about it, too, which I think is part of the problem.
    If not all of the problem.
    Meat hook on your face, bird. Weapon. Knife.
    Are you carnivorous? You’d have to be, with that beak.
    We didn’t have crows in that forest.
    Stellar jays. Nasty birds, steal other birds’ nests.
    But no crows. Maybe ravens, though I don’t remember them.
    I saw a crow at the zoo. He was enormous. Pretty, but huge.
    Not a wimpy bird.
    Birds in England sound different than birds here.
    How many different varieties of crows are there?
  • Lines of Lights – A Poem

    Lines of Lights – A Poem

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    Lines of Lights

    Moving at speed past the window, reverse parallax.

    Facing backward on the train, the lights receded.

    Facing backward on the train is a title.

    A good title for a memory, even.

    Metaphoric.

    Like Benjamin Button, living backwards to get forwards.

    When everyone is walking in the other direction, sit down and get still

    Follow the still, small voice insight and listen.

    What does it say?

    I don’t know, I’m still listening.

    What about now?

    Shh. You can hear it too.

    Listen.

    Rhythm.

  • A Poem for Saturday

    Have you ever experienced a moment when reading a piece, where it feels that the author somehow wrote it directly for you without even being aware of it? Some call that Kizmat, others synchronicity. Me, I find it startling. Creepy, even. Particularly if it feels like the author has a webcam into my life and writes things that will work for whatever moment I\’m feeling the moment I\’m reading their words. Julia Cameron does that, a lot.

    Poet Sarah Fuhro did it this week. I want to share with you her lovely poem. Enjoy.

    It\’s Almost Time

    It\’s almost time,
    almost time for the change in light
    but almost time for the poor and weak to reach out
    their trembling hands to each other and to grasp.

    It\’s almost time for the kind to smile
    and be seen
    in all their glory,
    for the shift in power.

    It\’s almost time for the silenced to sing
    and for the earth to receive the sweet rain
    of justice as it falls on ploughed fields.

    It\’s almost time to be brave
    and to go the next step without knowing how.

    It\’s almost time for the knowledge of the Moon
    to rise in the dark sky and let us know
    there is more than one way
    to see the road ahead.