Girl you are not a girl anymore
you are a woman
woman you are reviled and judged
for being a woman
when you were a girl it was suffice to
have a nice pair of legs and a pretty mouth
do you recall how often you were asked to ‘cheer up and smile love’
when all you were doing was trying to grow-up and be serious?
how men would do your bidding because of your WonderBra and not the sense of your words
now you are a woman
you will inherit
inequality
double-standards
and not be able to find clothes that feel right in stores not meant for your body
because nothing is going to come easy anymore and still
as you sit there in your curves and your burgeoning skin
feeling the surround of yourself lapping at the corners
you will inherit also
the voice of your round bellied ancestors
who have come ringing through time and again
been judged, poked, prodded or worse, flat out ignored
seen how silver haired men get all the fuss like carefully licked jewels
whilst a woman of substance is
lost lost lost
behind the mad din and snuff of youth
for youth it seems needs a distinguished father of any age
but does not require
a mother
a grandmother
a female sage
for women are judged upon their reproductive abilities and
the years they have lived beneath the moon listening to the shore
if too few, they are deemed unintelligent
too many and nobody wants to hear
for women are judged upon
scales created long before
an even playing field was won
if it has, if it has yet
for women it is easier to become lost after the lights have grown less hot
held to a higher standard than the eternal covet of men
who are picked up and dusted off by many worshipful female hands
too eager to say ‘there, there, I will help you, poor thing’
who shall help then, the woman?
Not her own kind, surely, nor men who adore only youngest vintage
Who shall see her? When she is grown and perhaps does not accept her allotted place
or wish to remain invisible or grow old with pressurized grace
who shall listen when she wants to be heard at any age?
or the desires of her are beyond the sanctioned pail
or her damp passion which does not flip and flop and require Viagra
a woman if she is loved
is ten-fold her maiden self
for the wefts and the welts are earned and learned and now they represent
a splendid coat of multicolor
she wears with pride and sometimes regret
but more often silver wisdom and the softening yet
of her edges into rounded corners and eventually
a supple circle come full
the world may dominate her discourse
the youth may clamor for their right to change the channel
she may slip quietly through the bridled noise
with strong thick womanly thighs
and as men chase their tail and young women cast a gaze that seems to say
who the HELL do you think you are, old lady?
woman, you do not bat your eyes or rise to those absurdities left behind
for she is the wake of day and dusted sleep of night
cradling the future in her all-mighty grip
she learns from being kicked
to stand she must let go of the girl within and be
a woman of our time
casting her pearly net wide as she
swallows the sea and sighs
letting the tide tumble out with her exhaled breath
aaahhh yes
aaahhh yes
Reblogged this on Dances with Tricksters and commented:
The lesson of the Crone, of wild magic and rich rebellion after youth has fled and we come into the powers of Baba Yaga and Hecate.
There’s a song I like that seems to go with this.
I’m glad you selected this image again. It’s a beautiful and powerful piece of art. It accompanies your words very well.
❤ Aaah, yes.
Substance, overwhelming and unafraid. A wonderful text Candice, to the bone.
This speaks to me of the lessons of the Crone, of that sage third stage of womanhood when we come into the Matriarch, HIgh Priestess role and our magic is ripe and wild. Lovely poem and very powerful read!
❤️
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
TheFeatheredSleep – Girl to Woman – multiple transformation
Incredible! ❤
👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻
I loooove everything about this ❤
Love this! Being “a woman of a certain age”, I can definitely relate…feel the emotion of each and every word.
Some 25 years ago I spent an evening at a Crossword Setters’ Dinner with a beautiful, elegant, woman who had once been photographed by a famous photographer. “It’s all right for you, you are in your prime. I am past it,” she said at one point. She was my contemporary and became a friend. Reluctant as I was, I understood what she meant. Your excellent poem brings back that moment
’tis a strange thing, how we each experience the coming of the Crone each in our own ways. This makes me ponder my journey.
Ever the beautiful. Ever the courageous. Ever the Warrior. ❤
Amazing piece and very relatable.
This piece was shared on Go Dogs Go Cafe. I am mesmerized. It spoke to me on more levels than I can count. I will follow you knowing there is more to come. Thank you for writing.
Shallow we are. Sold our souls for 30 pieces of silver. Were the Crone becomes the recluse, whom only the wisest seek audience with !
SMiLes the feathered sleep Candice long date
no write with visit but wHere i go i always
leave somEthing
behind
at lEast
for i remember
the days of few to no
Emotions for i remember
come to find out Emotions
are A source for even the Voice
we give to others for i remember 47
and my Great Aunt at 94 ever able to
talk for hours while i could not muster even
a smile
that felt
like a smile
and a laugh forgotten
as a feeling too.. and yes
i remember waiting to get my Hair
Cut and the Eighty Something Year
old Woman Kicking Her Legs up in the
Air smiling in glee about all her GrandChildren’s
Accomplishments for what they all had that i lacked
then for even the strength for a paragraph of speak and
even though that weak feeling of Loveless Fear in my Legs
that could still press 500LBS for what i was Lacking is the Spirit of
my Great Aunt yes the
Spirit of Love within
Smiling ear to
ear through walker
slow step by slow step
Broken back twice stooped
sTill Brilliant FLoWeR within of LoVE..
It’s True my FriEnd FLoWeRS wilt outside
but to Sing a Cliche Steel Magnolias Root in Love Forever now..
And as far as Young Women on the Dance Floor i never sing Poetry
to them.. but it’s true my friEnd it’s not always the Old man who is the aggressor
as they say different strokes for different folks for a smile is enough for me for i understand
what it is
like to
lose
all that
counts in life..
but as any wilting
Flower i am still Flattered
but for every GroWinG ever more
SouL that my friEnd is the Secret of Regeneration always now..
And the Reality of Every Grandmother and Beyond Loving aLWays now..
Beauty
Rose
Beneath Petals
Little Boys who are Loved
as Children by Mothers
And alloWed to
Love by
Fathers SMiLeS
Grow up to be Loving Mothers
As Fathers too with or without
Children at lEast in Theory my FriEnd..
My Great Aunt said what is the Root of the
Problem Self Evident then 66 Months Later LoVEFRiEnD ReNeWeD..:)
I often (usually) feel invisible now with my gray hair and wrinkles when (as you say) I once never was. But sister, there is movement now…we are taking it back! Our freedom, our space, our lives, our bodies, our voices and our visibility. I don’t care if some man doesn’t want to see me, because I know I am here: strong, beautiful and wise and SEEN. And so are many beautiful women who say: ME TOO!!
Absolutely right! Totally agree!!!
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.
Interesting and poignant. The pain and bitterness is palpable, gushing from this piece.
Fabulous! ❤
This is wonderful and sad.
Sad because it is true.
We are blind and foolish, far too much of the time.
An excellent piece, painful with truth.
I appreciate you.