30 Day Poetry Challenge: Day 17: CONVENTIONS

Day 17: Conventions

Pg 66 from A Room With A View by E.M. Forster. 


“I've always flown in the face of the conventions all my life.”


This poem is more than partially inspired by the announcement of the replacing of The Affordable Care Act with Trumpcare. Perhaps we should say TrumpBeware. There is little care in it's attack on everyday people, people who make only enough to keep going, who have pre-existing conditions that include migraines and vaginas. Who suffer from other sick parts of this society, if they have fallen victim to rape.

Western conventions say that I need to have a husband by this point, have a child, own a house, work a 9 to 5 job or clean and take care of my house. I need to dress a certain way, look a certain way to be loved and accepted. These conventions ignore the flavor and diversity of life. Of what humans can be.
So, fuck you conventions! 

   


The Grey Box

It has always been done this way
says fear
as it clings to what it knows
that small part of you that denies intuition
growth

This is the way it must be done
says society
old rich white men
who tremble beneath their mountains and walls of imaginary wealth
terrified
of the day you discover
how flimsy and changeable the conventions of living are;
the game they built and we all agreed to play

Til one day
the people
we
we who are as diverse and colorful
as the spectrum of light
we
the people
will link hands
push our backs against their tiny boxes
and with a one, two, three, heave!
Leave
This illusionary world behind
make space
for something new, something real
something in transition
evolving


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

April 6th: Transparent

Transparent Put your brush down woman leave your transparency exposed pause your paints of uncertainty  just for this day welcome the sun through this open face to cast rainbows against the wall you look to fall in love with another like you, seeking to love yourself through another lens
Read more

April 13th: Song of Wet Stone

Song of Wet Stone When the rain comes to the shore, watch the rocks they transform revealing their shy colors rust reds and treasure map browns sea teals and leaf greens watch the rocks watch the girl stumbling slowly along the shore eyes seeking picking up, greeting loving each stone in turn slick stones, slipping into her pocket treasure her hands roll the new precious things round and around blessing the seeker And then! one large stone twisting blue of the sea dancing kelp green this is a mermaid's heart, it sings from the deepest deep mine! Thinks the girl, rolling it between cold pale hands and then she notices between her fingertips, sheltered from the rain the wet skin of this mermaid gem begins to dry the wild life evaporating away leaving grey blue grey green grey stone shock and bewilderment out come the rest from her pockets all warm and dry their magic gone Watch, as this child sullenly
Read more

Just A Small Town Girl...

I bet you knew which song I was implying there. The forlorn vocals and searching lyrics filling your mind for a moment, turning your head into a radio. Or not. Makes things easier in this post if you just go along with whatever I say. :) It's been a while. Pull up a chair. I'll catch you up: If you missed the reference, I'm the small town girl who has jumped in the huge pond of Seattle. Headfirst, it feels like. Off of the really high diving board. I love it! Most of the time. I'm surrounded by very talented people, who are very kind to me. I'm pretty damn lucky, actually.  But what followed me to the city is this sense of ineptitude. The talent pool is stunning around here! And so intricate, with the many social tide pools and gossip eddies. (had to continue that analogy). And people are BEAUTIFUL around here. Tall, and chiseled, and well-groomed (most of the time). Even the women. This is not hyperbole, there must be something in the water, I swear.
Read more