Becoming the Crone

 Finally!  I ascend to my Cronehood.

I proudly wear a silver crown in the lights

of my hair.

I claim the armrest on the airplane.

I allow my belly to flow without shapers

or cinch.

I let my hardworking breasts roll without bras

or shame.

I am retired from heels, mascara, hair dye,

wrinkle cream and diets.

I can wear white pants all month.

I don’t have to fuck anyone.

I call bullshit on political deviance, cruelty and

shameless self-promotion.

I will speak out against patriarchy’s tyranny,

even when you don’t want to hear it.

I will point out your gaslighting, greed

and arrogance.

Hecate is my sister.

I notice the small overlooked things.

I am in love with the lines mapping my face.

I bless Nature and Mother Earth, for we are family

and peers.

My dreams can run faster than your excuses,

your hate, your oppression.

I am an army of one.  I hold superpowers

you can only guess at.

This Crone is a volcano, a sacred well, the braying wind

and a kind harbor for all manner of love.

Jennifer Pratt-Walter

(c) 2019

The Wild Woman In You

The Wild Woman in you

learned to dance on glow-eyed coals

when needed and felt all the burning

but never complained.

The Wild Woman in me

tries on your dancing shoes and understands

fiercely all manner of your pain.

Someday we might ease each other

through the brimstone, singing our songs,

our Wild Woman hymns of burnt offerings

surging through our chests and

moving us along, 

honing our aim 

and thanking the flames.

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2019

TreeSong poetry workshop

Overdose

       In this land

we are starving

for peace

In this land

we eat fear

hate

violence

oppression

Please

America

let this banquet

end

Clear the table

of gluttony

and hate

      Let this overdose

of injustice

die

        J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2019
      

Last Waltz

How my body 

wants to waltz!

Now, when the wild lupin lifts

its blue triumph over the tipsy

orchard grass,

now as the tiger lilies flex their

orange arms.

Now, as cherry blossoms

feather their way to the ground,

hinting of the lips of fruit

almost too rich to bear,

let us waltz this one warm river away from any clock,

hands so alive, feet

haunting the floor with yearning

for more –

one last sunset time before the metallic

broken bell of parting.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c)2019

All the Modest Miracles

This is the fire

when truth spills out

of a poem.  You were one thing,

but deep with writing, you

become a being aflame.

This is the air

I am exchanging with you.

It has touched everything

on Earth in its own time. It lives in

all the right fires.

We are two pages in a book, stitched

side by side.  Our words are different

but we feed each other

meaning, forking our eyes

at each other’s print,

recognizing the modest miracles

that ask for nothing.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2019

Heartbeat of the World

Sometimes the heartbeat of the world

is measured out so sweet

in lamb bleats and liquid birdsong.

Sometimes you hear it,

an echo at the end of a sunset

and the truth of it dances in your core.

Sometimes the pulse of Earth

swells and swings as slow as a mountain grows

then rolls itself down as sand to the sea.

Sometimes it vibrates like honeybees

or makes the hollow sound of loss

or keeps the cool silence of fossils.

Someday I’ll hand my pulse back to the world.

I’ll go willingly.

Listen for me at sunset, or where redwing blackbird

clasps the cattails and sings

and sings.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2019

That is You

I looked upon the white-coated mountain

and All that is Holy, She said “That is you.”

I lay in the shade of a towering maple

and All that is Holy, He said “That is you.”

I played tag with the ocean’s waves

and All that is Holy, They said “That is you.”

I danced with the fire by night

and All that is Holy, We said “That is You.”

I held an old, old kitty as he breathed his last breath

and All that is Holy, One said “That is you.”

I wept with a lost refugee

and All that is Holy, All said “That is you.”

I saw my reflection in a deep still pool

and All that is Holy, I said “I am You.”

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2019