A Wedding Poem

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Our loved ones who’ve risen

and live now in the bless-ed skies of rose gold—

they beam down upon you two,

as we all who breathe are

smiling upon your grand

unification.

 

This day, you’ve both chosen to

tie your souls together before devoted eyes.

We are all bless-ed

witnesses

to these oaths.

We are all bless-ed

to be in the presence of genuine love.

 

Nicole—

my sweetest girl,

I know you

as surely as I know the cadence of my heartbeat.

The first time I held you,

I knew

you were meant for me.

 

Now you’re meant for him, too.

 

Isaiah—

young man of conviction,

I trust you

as surely as I trust the rhythm of my lungs.    ,

I know

your hands were meant for hers.

 

The journey has begun;

 

Go forth with Virtue of Truth in

mind,

mouth,

and deed.

Honor one another with Respect;

for weaved within its fabric are the

sinews of great character.

 

The journey has begun;

 

Go forth with all of our love and blessings.

 

 

Nicole and Isaiah Rodriguez—25 August, 2018 

 

© Kindra M. Austin

For the Women I’ve Lost

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Nothing scares me.

I’ve built my house around those who haunt me.

Brick and mortar rises tall—a keep.

The older I grow, so does my fortress.

Soon, I’ll be left alone to revel in my ghosts in peace.

Soon, I’ll be left alone, where I belong.

Soon, I’ll be happy in spite of mourning.

Soon, I’ll hold them, and be able to feel their weight.

Soon, we’ll throw a party in the house I built.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: DeviantArt)

The Terrible 2s

Today is Poems & Paragraphs’ 2nd birthday.

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Oh, my Glob! Thank you, David Bowie! You’re awesome, too. Almost as awesome as my readers, friends, and partners in crime. I’ve met some terrific talent and beautiful souls here on WordPress–people who I look forward to crossing paths with every day. Rather than celebrate the birth of P&P, I celebrate my community, and give my deepest thanks.

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I promise to continue writing my truths, and supporting the collectives I’m so fortunate to call friends and family. And I will never stop advocating for those who need to borrow my voice. I’m looking forward to another year of challenges and growth. It makes my heart smile knowing that I have all of you–I hope you know you have me, too. FOREVER.

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P.S. expect tantrums.

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Intermittent Bullshit

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You were goddamned gorgeous, and a fucking conundrum, my mother. When I think of all the men in your life who’d tried to solve your riddles, I laugh. The relics of those men inhabit a corner in the catacombs of my heart. I don’t want them, but each one retains a precious part of you, so there they shall remain. Yes, I’ll keep those tokens to remind me that I never want to be like you—insecure.

You’d always believed you required a man’s love in order to be completely happy. From the depths of my being, I am so sorry you’d lived your life on the cusp of a chasm so black. I wish you had known your true self through the eyes of your daughters; and I don’t understand why Tara and I weren’t reasons enough for you to be content.

I’m angry tonight—angry about your failures as a mother. And I’m pissed off at myself for even thinking about all of the men you’d put in front of me and my sister. You’re fucking dead—anger is a waste of my energy. What kills me is that I’d believed this shit was behind me. I’d forgiven you a long time ago. So why am I reflecting on my adolescence all over again?

Maybe forgiveness is infinitely intermittent, and real acceptance is bullshit.

 

grief (noun) deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone’s death

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I’ve written the word grief so many times now, it appears to me to be misspelled–not even misspelled, but a term invented by an imagination most dark. I wish I could detail the profundity of my grief–of my sister’s grief–because I swear on everything deemed holy, if I have to defend myself, and my sister, one more goddamned time, I’m going to come unglued, and bust up this motherfucking house. And Tara’s house, too, for fuck’s sake.

I’m one more cliché away from shattering teeth. “Buck up” is not an appropriate reaction to anyone who is mourning. For real, what in the nine circles of hell is wrong with you? I can tell you–you’ve not yet experienced this level of utter absence, yet you’re so secure with how you’d handle your shit, you believe you have some sort of stunning immunity to the potent taste of black abyss.

Well, listen here–it’s confident pricks like you who end up lost in the fog of tragedy. Tara and I, we acknowledge our need for help. So maybe “bucking up” fits. Not by your definition…but I don’t give one fuck about your definition of taking responsibility of oneself.

You praise me for my strengths without mentioning my frailties. My frailties make up the biggest parts of my strength. How can one be truly strong without that which they must overcome?

This level of mourning is none like you’ve ever had to see me through before…and I know you loved my mother. You mourned her, and now you seem to be done with all of that sad business. But goddamn it, there is no box big enough for me to stuff my feelings into, and no time table of grieving laid out for me. Shit! When you come in from work, and find me crying while holding a photograph of my mother, don’t ask me why I’m sad! Fucking duh!

I refuse to pretend I’m okay. And I defend my sister’s feelings, too.

Don’t make this a choice for me.

You’ll lose.