I feel discouraged by WordPress (WP) banning my personal site (this) for life from following other WordPress sites. I have written letters of explanation to WP, explaining if I ‘followed’ 30 people’s sites in one day, it may be because I’m not on WP often (I pre-schedule posts) and follow handfuls of people at a time for the purpose of garnering talented writers. WP banned me FOR LIFE from following any further WP sites, and has refused my numerous appeals. It behooves them for people like myself to promote WP authors through publications, I did no harm but am treated like I’m Trump and it’s Twitter. After 7 years on WP it’s disheartening. I cannot leave WP because I’ve built my site and contacts there. The bigger picture discourages me. To work so hard and get slapped down. I feel social media can do this with us writers/editors/publishers when it ignores the hard work we do. I hear this from FB folk all the time whose personal pages are ignored. I wish there were some way to push back. When all we are doing is creative work. How is that in the same ballpark as spamming? Would any of those who I followed really have objected my following? When it gave them a chance to find out about publishing opportunities.
But I am divided. In a way that is hard to shape into words.
For women who love women are often the rarest night birds.
Theirs is a love that does not come easily and for this reason, it takes a great deal to stay
Sure and certain on the rainbow path.
Sometimes I understand my bisexual sisters, who having had their love affair with the curves and softness of a woman
Return to their husbands in droves or pick out that wedding dress and let the man
carry them over the threshold.
For a woman to be loved by a woman may feel natural but many times it is a struggle
we have no rule book, we may both want to have the other carry us or hold us when
and men are so good at being heroes
and women are taught to be saved and rescued.
I understand then, the desire for a woman and the longing for less strife
where if you have children it is sometimes impossible to find a way to describe
why you leave daddy for a second mommy and how
fractures in emotions are not easily translated for young minds.
Had I children, who is to say I would have been brave enough? Equally it is part why
I never did.
My sacrifice came because I saw no other way
for it was never as it felt in the arms of someone of the same gender
and in that I am unusual and possibly 1 or 2 percent of the entire world
though it will seem more during Gay Pride and other events
where everyone holds a rainbow and joins in.
Only the days when we are not celebrating, we may be struggling
to fit in with even each other, strange as we may be, these women who
in various guise and costume
fall in love with other women.
I don’t get on well I admit, with those who believe the only true lesbian
is one who shaves her head and dons mens clothes.
It is not that I cannot see their point, or how many years before
it may have been the only choice
but I did not fight this hard to dress as a man and love a woman
who is also dressed as a man.
I would rather pick a full cheeked feminine boy with long hair
and pretend he had nothing between his legs than sell out my own idea
that love of a woman is as feminine as it gets
and we shall share each others’ dresses.
Our history has been unkind and as such, we do not trust very easily
if at all and when we do, we are liable to judge or leave out and exclude many of our tribe
just as women have done for millennia in their pursuit of men
hated other women for existing and challenging that thin mesh of safety.
It saddens me then, to be ostracized when I walk into a gay bar
and do not fit in, or feel judged by my sisters whom I want to
take into my arms and feel less lonely by.
This is but one aspect of the kalidoscope of being the L in the LGBTQ and
few of your G’s and B’s and T’s and Q’s will rush to your defense
we are co-opted in a group who really knows little of the other
for we are as disparate and different as it gets and often we walk
alone, despite our legal rights and our social acceptance (some of the time).
Alone because we cannot befriend a straight woman for she may
wonder if we would fall in love with her (and quite possibly might)
nor a gay woman for her girlfriend will begrudge us, nor a gay man
as they have often hated women and especially those who forsake
men, there is nothing in common there, and straight men will
try to tell us we just need a good f**king and we’ll soon change our
ways so who is left? In the great wide world to be close to and share?
Those fears and our desires, the very stories of our lives
for whom 98 percent of the world cares not, they have their
1.5 children and ideas of normalcy and we don’t fit well enough.
Sometimes, how much I want to tell someone
of the love I have for a woman and the stillness of night
when we move together and how I catch my breath as
she turns like a thimble in my hands, silver against moonlight.
So quiet instead we are, often falling in love and unable
to share this or speak of it, for it is forbidden. No one will
listen, or be interested, they do not understand our strange ways.
Still in this day and this time we are shadows within
light and light within shadows picking our way through
mostly eaten strawberry fields, dreaming of a girl
who may like ourselves be wandering, looking for
a girl like herself who has only ever wanted to be
held tightly and hear the slow beat of a girls heart feel
the rise and fall of her soft breasts and know
she is where she belongs and needed every bit
as much as her own thirsty heart longs
in the early hours and late at night like the lonely
wolf who by himself will climb to highest point
in futile search of another’s call.
Skim the stone on the surface
watch it butt against reflecting light
until falling through surface
out of sight it drops
to a darkness
or a peace
depending upon your vantage point
I for one would welcome
a life spent below, than above
listening to the mocking calls of unseasonal green parrots
filling trees with their envy
they make everything brighter it is true
yet something about the jarring
competitive nature of their plumage
strikes me as less sincere than
the drab and disliked pigeon with
old face and white circles around
his rumey blinking eyes
who can always be relied upon
to lose a toe in Winter
I think of how often I have watched
something curl to the side of a street
and wait to die
how a part of me felt helpless
inhabiting stages where stories
rent through armor and pierced
after the third pigeon in a box
tucked beneath my office shoes
my boss told me
look, this is enough
he preferred I collected his shirts from the dry cleaner
bagfuls of shopping for his wife
my perk was
one day I could grow up to be like him
ignore dying birds in the street
driving silver BMW to my Thursday mistress
whilst another slave worked after-hours
filing life upward like blind builb
it came to me then, ungluing my eyelids
leaving behind one word
written in magic marker on his desk
I took the cooing box I’d hidden
and the pigeon and I went home
to a cold flat with no furniture
where he proceeded to try not to die
and I watched understanding very well
the hue of his life
for I am a stone who sank before
she saw the sun and only the moon knows
the way to lift me up
Losing your fingers to frostbite
is one way of learning
the lay of land
await their turn by sunset
we who are foolish
blunder across landscape
like lost phesants
littering harmony with mottled noise
when the car flings them to
roadside graves, warm and feathered
twitching their gory surprise
it is the still ebon crow
hungry for ojos
stark against his watch
who shall taste their regret
for dressing too brightly
attracts less than one might guess
in worlds where to last
you must blend a little
with surrounding color
lest you stand out