Sisters Of The Earth

She can set everything on fire,
But she would never stop and take
Notice. She only feels her own desire

For success. She wants to make
Every man feel weak and powerless.
She is never the one who will fake

Her own confidence. She is the mess
And chaos. She is also the calm
And will never be the one to confess

Her sins to the greedy. Her palm
Faces up not to surrender, but to
Help those who need it. She is a bomb

In the making, never taking shit from you
Because she is built from the ground
Up. Do not run to her when you screw

And mess it all up because she is bound
To not care about your pathetic excuses.
She is death, quiet without making a sound.

She never apologizes for her bruises
Or ugly scars. You should be the one who
Is running scared. She chooses

To see her life from the top window and view
Without being selfish. She works hard for
The money. She sees past everything that blew

Up. She has made the choice to restore
Her own happiness, trust and faith.
I caution you to think extremely hard before

She comes to destroy you like a wraith.
She does not float in the light like a halo,
But she also refuses to forever bathe

In the darkness like a lost child with yellow
Hair like the sunlight. Watch out for the
Lava that is coming out of her like a volcano.

I.      
       
The first time        
I heard the word Sister        
was when my older one died—        
       
I was too young to remember        
inside a nascent emptiness        
unfilled by a brother        
       
There is something indescribable        
that happens to a middle child        
when they become the eldest;        
       
a salient discombobulation        
solidifying over time—        
whether or not you qualify        
       
II.        
       
The second time        
I heard the word Sister        
was when a classmate asked me        
to be hers in first grade        
       
It was Mississippi, post segregation—        
I was white, she African American;        
yet, something felt right        
       
I said, Yes, and we played        
until older children parted our color        
on bus number 90, route US 51        
between Batesville and Pope        
       
III.        
       
The third time        
I heard the word Sister        
was in England; she was British        
       
Our fathers served        
the same military base—        
mine for America, hers England         
       
We held fast to that bond        
despite taunts of  “Yankee go home”        
from jealous schoolmates—          
       
until relocation orders separated        
our continents by space        
       
VI.        
       
The fourth time        
I heard the word Sister        
was from a Norwegian pen pal—        
       
it was a school project;          
she was from a port town, Ålesund        
and one of very few who learned English        
from European grandparents          
       
We exchanged personal items        
only sisters would—ribbons, secrets—        
until her untimely death in a boating accident        
separated us by memories        
       
V.        
       
The most unusual time        
I ever heard the word Sister        
was from a gay man who loved        
the way I dressed back in the 70's;        
       
but, even that became normal        
over time, accepting him        
for who and what he was        
in an era that did not        
       
We were tight until we graduated—        
he moved to San Francisco        
overdosed in a club one night        
wearing that silver sequined shirt        
I had sent him        
       
VI.          
       
The last time        
I heard the word Sister        
it had risen as Perseus and Andromeda        
to become SiStar in the heavens;          
       
we were a group of diverse members        
representing various cultures        
and beliefs meeting under the new moon:        
Christian, Jewish, Buddha, Wicca, Agnostic        
       
because we have learned that labels        
are only the experience of this life—        
but our feminine—our Divine Feminine        
is eternal through life and death        
       
VII.          
       
We are the tree        
that grew in Brooklyn;          
the miracle of truth in action—          
       
regardless of race, creed, or color        
power is the rhythm of each other        
that cannot be separately deciphered        
       
Our offered intent in shades of smoke        
sounds of chant, raise the vibration        
from the core of Ancestral Spirits          
       
We are the Divine Feminine evolving:        
nurturing, intuitive, empathic regardless of gender—        
a collaborative energy of ancient knowledge  
beyond flesh and blood:        
       
cooperates rather than competes        
senses rather than thinks        
creates rather than deconstructs        
       
It is the softer voice that exists        
beyond the critic inside yourself—          
       
listen and unite. . .SiStars of the Earth      
~