Racism Can’t Be Healed Without Facing The Truth About Patriarchy.

alec favale — un-splash

As so many have written this past week, the verdict in the George Floyd case has almost been hard to believe for those whose hope long since hardened within the cruel and human legacy of racist violence in our country. The Derek Chauvin verdict, nonetheless, offers evidence that America is beginning to ‘see’ the trauma invisibly emblazoned and inherited within the souls of black Americans. Each morning as the prosecution laid out its case, the trial brought the unspeakable grief — not just of the Floyd family, and the witnesses, but of generations of black Americans — into American households…

Poetry Sunday

Photo by Romain GILLE on Unsplash


Under morning sun,
my son points to the
moon in the sky.
“Look meetch,”
(my nickname)
“it’s still here!”

A wolf moon last night,
our eyes rest on this
sliver of silver,
an arc of light
persisting through darkness,
into the day’s pale-
blue waking.

“Oh, yes!” I respond,
“she’s saying
good morning to us
down here,
on the earth.”

My arm wraps around my
son’s soft, 9-year-old
nakedness as we silently
receive this delicate wisp,
a portion of
the mass that it is,
the intimation of light
and shadow that guides
oceans currents
and the cycles
of women’s cycles…

photo: alaric duan — unsplash

What I don’t want to face
is the 1001 ways
I don’t understand,
can’t figure it out,
won’t be able to explain,
or do enough
of anything
to right the world.

What I don’t want to face
is that this woman’s body
can’t carry its history
without help. Without
a hand from others who
know the weight
we carry today, our
eyes open to the
losses our mothers
couldn’t bear.

What I don’t want to face
is how many nights I have
woken, tossing off the sheets,
wet with sweat in a body
out of balance, fretting in a
Home whose…

Photo by Matias Orihuela on Unsplash

Across the tip of my monitor
beyond the top edge where contact
with humanity ends, I see
successive lines leading upwards to
a final one that
rolls across the expanse of my vision,
rising and falling along
the crests of distant trees.

Demarcated by shades fading
from green to grey, the line
is juxtaposed at 4:57pm
by the pinkening sky,
sharpening to orange at
the far edge that frames my view.

Quarantine here.
Where the long limb of an oak tree
lumbers across this horizon,
a familiar branch, like
an elbow, reaching down
as if to rest,
has a crook, and above that…

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

It was just after sunrise.
With a warm cup of coffee clutched
between clasped hands,
I sat on the couch
in pajamas,
my head weighted down
by news of murder on the streets
and shots fired between sheets.
I glanced upward
across the room
towards the frame
of the open door
and that’s
when it happened.

When I saw what I had
never seen before,
when I, myself,
was seen:
Caught in the act of being human.

The Madrone stared back at me.
Strong. vibrant, limbs
gnarled and honest,
bark-skin curled and cracked
across solid branches and trunk.

Her flaking…

courage — pixabay

I spent all morning avoiding the gold biscuit tin
with the wide, cellophane tape wrapped tightly around the lid.
On arrival, I’d signed off with Fed Ex at the front door.
“This box contains cremated remains,” the note said.

I felt nothing.

But now, by afternoon, my circles around the object
have tightened towards the truth of it.
I reach to take it off the shelf and hold it in both hands.
I am struck most, and immediately,
by the weight of it.

I am aware this is
only a portion of you.
The rest was distributed to siblings or scattered

Photo by 丁亦然 on Unsplash

Great Mother,
ineffable, boundless and free,
how far down to the center of the earth do you dwell,
sourcing us there as your own?
We, your children
your angels
your missing parts?

Why is it that you hide there,
waiting over lifetimes for us to find you?
Or, am I the one hiding
while you wait in plain sight,
blinded, as I am
by my-one-human-life -
this trick of fate
that robbed me of my trust
setting me on the path of hide
and seek
in the first place.

It’s a game I have no way
of winning
- until I…

How much of life needs to break down
at first slowly
then in ways, unimaginable.
And not only here,
but here
and here
and here…

How much needs to be turned inside out
make no sense
as day after day
familiar routines fade into memory
and fate makes folly, once and again, of my plans.

How much of this happens
before I begin to see that even I
am changing.
That I am not the person I have come to know myself to be.

I have tied my identity
my ambitions and my future
to mainstays and certainties now upended,
as security is…

Drew Farwell — Un-splash

The more we dissect something
the more we name its smallest parts
and name its whole

the more we believe
in the doing
we are making something
called ‘science’
- making something called

The more we seek to identify and name
what we have ‘discovered’
so we can birth more things
so we can feel powerful
- feel we are

the more we miss the beingness
of all we observe.

The less relating we have.

The less we have.

What we dissect recedes
unable to reveal itself
unable to come into view
we are not seeing it.

A morning prayer for men (and those similarly afflicted by patriarchy.)

zachary nelson — unsplash

May I awake each day remembering
I am not the master of
all that follows.

May the light casting through the window remind me
that the uprightness of my home depends
upon the power
of a far-away sun.

May I remember how little I know of that sun,
its un-thinkable scale,
the force of its heat and invincible magnetism.
May I remember I depend on this.
And everything else.

May I remember I depend on the children
who wrestle and shout in the room next door,
without whom I may have forgotten, altogether,
what it sounds like to laugh like this.
To live as…

Karin Swann

Writer/student of the truth. Lives at the intersection of philosophy, the gender (r)evolution, politics, psychology and art of parenting. karinswann.life

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