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#MeToo

So many have expressed the lasting pain of sexual harassment, exploitation, and rape better than I, and yet, I feel that all of our voices need to be lifted until respect replaces entitlement, and honour becomes instinct. 

This fight is not new.  Nor is it close to being over.  For my part, I write.  The following two poems, originally posted on One Woman’s Quest, express my feelings.  (Titles are links to originals, both penned by yours truly.)

Woman Are Red

Women bleed –
red blots in an otherwise
black and white world –

have learned the language,
yet feel like foreigners,
undermined by nuances;

travel this patriarchal
landscape, would-be leaders
whose compassion like blood

unsettles the ambitious,
too exhausted to play the game
corporate agendas do not align

with weary-hearted
mothers who would slow
progress to raise wholeness.

We take back seats,
submit to sermons from self –
proclaimed prophets, who mime:

words without substance;
are starving for sustenance
in a fast food, quick fix world

where harm is overlooked
in praise of mass consumption –
crave relief from the imbalance –

seek woman-only refuge
to vent our quiet rebellion,
give voice to our marginalization.

Our blood is thick, heavy,
like our passion, offensive to some
and like our power, unstoppable.

We Are Not Cattle

We have been molded,
complied with stringent
guidelines, define selves
as mothers, wives, daughters,
bear the shame of blemished
lives, remain mute, passive,
robotic observers, marginalized

Until we witness the
senseless dismemberment
of a sister, the flow of her blood
like a bolt of red electricity,
jarring our numbed minds,
disrupting loyalties, alerting
us to the price of obedience

We are consciousness rising,
eyes opening, alert, questioning
the crimson-stains on the hands
of those who would herd us,
rage growing, abandoning
this show of submission,
demanding accountability.

 

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Categories: abuse media poetry

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V.J. Knutson

Writer, avid reader, former educator, and proud grandmother, currently experiencing life through the lens of ME/CFS. Words are, and always have been, a lifeline. Some of the best adventures, I'm discovering, take place in the imagination.

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