RANT AGAINST MARRIAGE

norse goddess
Thank you to the unknown creator of this online art.

Marriage is prison. Pure perversion.

There have been billions of forced, loveless marriages over the course of history. Many marriages are a  result of a “family” wanting their children to breed like cattle so they will have someone to take care of them in their old age, or forcing children to marry because of unwanted pregnancies.

Some countries now mercifully allow divorce, but many nations do not — even when one partner is abused. Marriage is an unjust institution, designed to entrap and enslave.

Yes, I believe in love and raising children in a safe environment. The family, however, does not have to be a man, a woman and their children. Families are of many configurations more creative, compassionate and free flowing than the societal cliché.

Marriage has brought so much unhappiness and bondage to the world. If I am with someone, it must be my choice, my free decision — not because of some tradition-dictated, civil or religious arrangement.

I despise marriage. Just because everyone is doing it, does not make it right. It is a perversion of faux love and faux friendship — a means to extract money from people and to provide insurance and bragging rights to selfish parents. (Believe me, I am not one of those.)

I despise marriage. I despise watching someone’s life fall into ruin because of being forced to marry a non compatible stranger. Being with someone is about voluntary love and promise. Can you honestly name more than a few married couples who have even a shred of happiness because of their marriage? Happiness and joy is in spite of marriage.

If I am with someone, even when it is difficult, it is only because I choose to be.

This is something I simply had to write out of conviction and experience. Yes, it is counter-cultural. I am a 70 year old retired clergy-woman. I have seen a lot and lived a lot. My true family is of kindred heartfelt love, not common nationality or DNA.

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A WOMAN HAS TO DREAM

masked Gerard Butler
Gerard Butler “Phantom of the Opera”

He came to me out of the dreamy fog, wearing an ornate mask.

Without a word, he put his firm mouth against mine —

then gently coaxed my lips apart with his lips and tongue —

urging me to unfold like a dewy blossom.

I knew he was the lovely articulate man I had met at the store.

He had bemoaned his struggle to quit smoking.

His hair was combed back from his fine face.

This dream was a baksheesh of hope for an abandoned woman.

 

 

authentic love

Authentic love
Photo ~ yours truly

What to do?

 

I don’t know, but this I surely comprehend:

I cannot bear to look at the moon or stars except when I am with you.

To look at your photos gives me a twist of joy and pain,

except knowing you would be mine.

To study anything to do with your country

brings a lump to my throat.

Arranged marriages of any nation bode me ill.

I cannot bear images of young men with brides

or men holding babies or children.

I’m like a specter gazing at what she can never have

with you. I die.

And yet

I wish you to prosper.

How could I hope to be your happiness

in place of all your dreams?

I love you enough to sacrifice all.

I simply do not know what the “all” should be.

Surely not you.

Me?

Us  —

how many congratulations

how many condolences would this entail —

my heart’s breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sparklers . . .

sparklers

spark visions of sparklers in childhood Julys.

When time to light them came in the twilight

after an eternally sunny day,

I felt like a fairy holding a potent wizard wand.

There were never enough sparklers

for my brother and me

on those firefly lit nights.

Like not enough eggnog,

never enough chocolate covered cherries

at Christmastime.

When I became a responsible adult,

I drank a quart of eggnog and

ate a pound of chocolate cherries

in one sitting.

That night I didn’t sleep

because of the cannonball in my stomach.

I was cured.

I love being satiated.

Like with you.

I cannot get enough of you,

my silken magic carpet navigator.

Never enough.

There is not a cure exists.

FEET OF CLAY

feet of clay
Art from Realistic Poetry

 

Today I marched for the innocents,

victims of the haters of the dissimilar desperate.

Where your feet go, tells who you are every day.

One can grow weary on feet of clay —

remnants of our greatness eroding away.

It is not of ability, but of will.

Love is the footsore person’s cure.

POETIC ANALYSIS OF LOVE IN PROSE

mparkes unraveling him
Art ~ Michael Parkes

Why are we so obsessed by love?

Many poems concern qualities of love:

NEW LOVE, an epiphany of seeing life

in a way filled with novelty and bliss

for 2 weeks.

FOREVER LOVE, cemented and guaranteed to

last forever and make you happy

for 2 weeks.

LOST LOVE, filled with the hopelessness,

the angst of never finding another love so grand.

Well, maybe I will try loving again

in 2 weeks.

There is infinity to analyze concerning love.

But I suppose I must close this prose.

Good luck.

All is a Reminder of You, My Love

landscape
Photo from Realistic Poetry

My eye delights in your panorama with relish.

You are my perfumed paradise destination.

My love for you spans to our rock-pounding horizon.

The world beside you is my eye candy dish.

My love is given for your joy. I am not selfish.

My love is poured for your delight – not for dull procreation.

The glory of our far reaching passion is for celebration.

Of all the wide open women, choose me to be your purple fragrant fetish.

MIRRORS

happiness 4-17
Photo ~ Raj Swami, April 2017

I can’t help it.

 

I look in a mirror;

I see you:

My hands, hennaed by you with our initials and wit.

My eyes remember you kissing the lids with true

desire. My body’s stately asymmetry

You call unique perfection.

I look in a mirror at you

cradling your beloved

me.

Today when I look into the mirror

I see ghosts.

Heal Thyself . . . ?

michael-parkes-diamond-warrior-preview_1424x1187_marked
Art ~ Michael Parkes

CAN POETRY MEND A BROKEN HEART?

 

Maybe writing poetry can mend my heart –

But most likely not reading it.

Although I LOVE reading your poems.

The cliché says time heals.

Not sure I have that much time.

“Incarnational” healing means “in the flesh” healing.

That would be your poetic hands all over my body.

Yes.

 

In response to a prompt from @Realistic Poetry.

Gothic Prompt

gothic
from Realistic Poetry

 

Such fascination with the solitary path of shadows ahead.

Light, light years behind.

Isolation.

Annihilation.

How did my Karma spawn such bereft imagination?

Perhaps opening my paper umbrella will bring consolation.

 

 

Written for @Realistic Poetry in response to this picture prompt.