October 18, 2018

Rise: a Call to Women. {Poem}

Lo, to the silencers of the world, a woman’s cry will not disappear like vapor to the wind.

Pause for a moment. Impatient voices celebrating, and eager to move forward.

Silence is reserved for the still of the night—not for the burgeoning hearts and lips of those who have been quieted for centuries not remembered.

She will rise like a massive blanket covered in the colors of sunrise and earth—oranges, yellows, gold, and splendor peaking over the mountains at dawn, lifting in the sky.

Her marching orders, from the winged kind and multiple arms of deities past, are with her internal heartbeat—guiding, pulsing, pulsing.

Her emotions are lit; she will not assuage or pacify—heat, glow, fire, a rhythmic steady.

Sound will vibrate from within, a package yearning to be opened, fingers loosen the bow.

Unraveling, unthreading, bursting.

Her wisdom of lifetimes lived are ever held. She has carried this forward within the sack she bears upon her back. She is armed with reason, and passion, and exposed understanding—might and will.

Steady, steady she will set her voice free, a rope hoisted in her direction—a gift from brave sisters. Do not mistake meekness for weakness—her strength is immeasurable, her need not to please.

She is gathering and treading footprint in sand, footprint in red desert, footprint in moss, and grass, and snow, and wet sidewalks.

She will counter the offerings of pittance that have left her forlorn, patterned, and empty.

Her hands up, she will say—not enough.

Brace yourself oppressors for she is moved and stirred, churning and ready to mark her world at the behest of her own esteem and that of her sisters, mother, daughters, and placement.

Hers is a voice worth value.

Her throat is warm, the reed has been cleansed and cleared, muscles have been built and carved—in motion is she.

She knows that sun does not discern where it shines; warmth, rest, and reawakening—her mark will be.

She will strike a match to dehydrated twigs and sparks will leap from one to the other and a great fire will spread and seep into antiquated, unlit rooms.

She will storm the gates of blockage where the disillusioned take comfort. They will try and shoo her away like a fly from the nose.

Her voice strengthened—she is not here to sing of bluebirds and sweet things. Dandelions have sprung upon her lawn and gusts have spread seeds to and far into the backyards of the sacred feminine—lighting and busting.

Her tears have been collected in clay pots from time gone by, a massive accumulation to fill oceans and seas.

Oceans will kick up and threaten and rise and flood the desks and pillars of those who sit upon false platforms serving but a few.

Falling, crumbling dust and residue—ashes, lungs filled, the establishment falling—water streaming.

She will siege and take hold.

No more, no more. Her voice of authentic listening will blur the disturbing sound of the old.

Patience is now a thing left behind—silenced words will not be trapped. The moon of the day, the sliver at night is upon our backs.

Rise, women.

One by one we will grab hands of the female—softened, calloused, blackened, blistered, weathered, unheard, faint.

With hands unseen, sisters will take hold of the other—in unrelenting tenacity.

A mighty power is set forth—she knows. A single voice matters, two of like-hearts strike a chord of silent knowing and multiple upon multiple stoke a great reckoning.

Hear my fire, hear her fire—feel the drumbeat of flames, and the reconciliation of our own power, collective strength, and motivation.

Feel the heat, rising, rising.

She is coming. We are coming.



Our time is now.

Rise women of ancient time cloaked in modern clothing.


Our time is now.


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Annie S. Greenleaf

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