In The Crosshairs

Everywhere they instruct you on who to hate. 

Believe it!  It’s our government!  It’s for your own good!


Fingers point as hate battles your thoughts.

Brown people, Moslems, Jews are taking your rights away!


Queer people, Mexicans, Liberals are stealing your jobs!

Sick people, immigrants, the poor are eating your food!

Journalists who tell real news, women who expect

autonomy over their body parts – hate hate hate!


They can’t stop vomiting up their hatred all over you.

Fear and loathing grin from every corner.


Then they plant assault rifles in your town, crowing

“You Second Amendment people can take care of this”

and “I could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and still…”


Suddenly people are wearing bold red targets

on their heads as ravenous hate bathes roads, ditches,

schools and churches in easy greasy red.


There are crosshairs looking for you next.


J. Pratt-Walter, © 2019

Being Found

 You can’t play hide and seek

with yourself forever.

Eventually the thunder reaches into

your secret hollows and slumbering roots.

   

       Eventually

       the years jump out to meet us,

       whether we accept them or not.

The rest of the task is learning which side

a gate opens out on while unlearning

what it meant to be lost.

J. Pratt-Walter, ©  2019

Notice

If you are grinding through this world

seeking all those magical truths,

your eyes are stopped unless

you pause to notice


the clasp and tallying eyes of a

praying mantis


or how a bean seed shoulders up

its horseshoe curve and tastes the air and rain

before committing its leaves


or how huckleberries talk

like fairies to the coming Autumn

then drop.


J. Pratt-Walter, © 2019

When Words Collapse

 When poet Mr. William Stafford incorporeally

came to visit, he noticed that when words

collapse, the dense low trees became

my harbor.



Then he reminded me how miraculous

were the daily workings of plants

as their photosynthesis built ladders

to the sun



and how, in my animal mind,

all lost syllables can again come home

to their true meanings found waiting

among those trees if I would just

look.



J. Pratt-Walter, © 2019

Healing River

this journey is a

mystery but still, I will

bravely take it

I don’t know the

destination     but someday

I will cross that

blessed river of Love

and drink, deep as the sea

my garments are worn out

by my      imperfections

sometimes my cup is     broken

but still I will gather 

talking handfuls

of healing waters

and carry them like a

newborn sparrow

right to you

j. pratt-walter

(c) 2019, Latourelle Falls

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