I SHALL WEAR PURPLE
I created a series of dolls called 'I Shall Wear Purple' -
fun, reflective, honouring.
I realised we are each a human being,
reflecting the image of a loving deity,
with an inherent dignity.
We are called to honour this dignity,
and share in its wisdom and vitality.
INVESTMENT OF WORTH
Terri L. Jewell
You value the earthen vase -
each crack applauded
for authenticity,
a slave's Freedom Quilt -
hand-pulled stitchery
a rare tale relinquished,
Victorian silver hair pins
with filigreed flowers
delicate as unconscious.
A collector of ancients
quite proud of your tastes
but scornful of
curled brown leaves
slight grey webs
parched desert soil
of a woman
turned and tuned to her ripening,
whose life is dear
as a signed first edition,
whose death as costly
as a polished oak bed.
Terri L. Jewell
You value the earthen vase -
each crack applauded
for authenticity,
a slave's Freedom Quilt -
hand-pulled stitchery
a rare tale relinquished,
Victorian silver hair pins
with filigreed flowers
delicate as unconscious.
A collector of ancients
quite proud of your tastes
but scornful of
curled brown leaves
slight grey webs
parched desert soil
of a woman
turned and tuned to her ripening,
whose life is dear
as a signed first edition,
whose death as costly
as a polished oak bed.
BECOMING SIXTY
Ruth Harriet Jacobs
There were terror and anger
at coming into sixty.
Would I give birth
only to my old age?
Now near sixty-one
I count the gifts
that sixty gave.
A book flowed from my life
to those who needed it
and love flowed back to me.
In a yard that seemed full
space for another garden appeared.
I took my aloneness to Quaker meeting
and my outstretched palms were filled.
I walked further along the beach
swam longer in more sacred places
danced the spiral dance
reclaimed the daisies for women
in my ritual for a precious friend
and received poet's wine
from a new friend who came
in the evening of my need.
Ruth Harriet Jacobs
There were terror and anger
at coming into sixty.
Would I give birth
only to my old age?
Now near sixty-one
I count the gifts
that sixty gave.
A book flowed from my life
to those who needed it
and love flowed back to me.
In a yard that seemed full
space for another garden appeared.
I took my aloneness to Quaker meeting
and my outstretched palms were filled.
I walked further along the beach
swam longer in more sacred places
danced the spiral dance
reclaimed the daisies for women
in my ritual for a precious friend
and received poet's wine
from a new friend who came
in the evening of my need.
LIFE'S RAINBOW
Shelia Banani
Beginnings are lacquer red
fired hard in the kiln
of hot hope;
Middles, copper yellow
in sunshine,
sometimes oxidise green
with tears; but
Endings are always indigo
before we step
on the other shore.
Shelia Banani
Beginnings are lacquer red
fired hard in the kiln
of hot hope;
Middles, copper yellow
in sunshine,
sometimes oxidise green
with tears; but
Endings are always indigo
before we step
on the other shore.
BAG LADIES
Ruth Harriet Jacobs
We are all bag ladies
or becoming so.
Nothing lasts
not love
or the beloved
or hope
even mountains crumble
only the ocean waits
to catch our tears
Bags of memories
tell us who we were
before we were wise
The bags burden us.
Carrying about
our losses,
we stumble
clutching our unfreedom
against all threats
or promises
it being all we have
it being all we know
it being all we are.
Ruth Harriet Jacobs
We are all bag ladies
or becoming so.
Nothing lasts
not love
or the beloved
or hope
even mountains crumble
only the ocean waits
to catch our tears
Bags of memories
tell us who we were
before we were wise
The bags burden us.
Carrying about
our losses,
we stumble
clutching our unfreedom
against all threats
or promises
it being all we have
it being all we know
it being all we are.
OLD WOMEN
Barbara Lau
Old women
wrap scarves around their necks
to hide their wrinkles,and flatter their bosoms
with bold beads and brooches.
In dresses buttered with flowers,
in voices light as Baby's breath,
how they bloom in the corner
of the cafeteria, billowing
over pictures of grandchildren
passed round and round like hor d'oeuvres
like jewels they plant on each hand
to occupy the spaces once held
and warmed by husbands.
Now twined around each other
arm in arm down the sidewalk,
defying the dark grave
with their colours and perfume,
old women
tending time more fragile than youth:
poinsettias in the snow.
Barbara Lau
Old women
wrap scarves around their necks
to hide their wrinkles,and flatter their bosoms
with bold beads and brooches.
In dresses buttered with flowers,
in voices light as Baby's breath,
how they bloom in the corner
of the cafeteria, billowing
over pictures of grandchildren
passed round and round like hor d'oeuvres
like jewels they plant on each hand
to occupy the spaces once held
and warmed by husbands.
Now twined around each other
arm in arm down the sidewalk,
defying the dark grave
with their colours and perfume,
old women
tending time more fragile than youth:
poinsettias in the snow.
FOR MY MOTHER
Michele Wolf
I sharpen more and more to your
Likeness every year, your mirror
In height, autonomous
Flying cloud of hair,
In torso, curve of the leg,
In high-arched, prim, meticulous
Feet. I watch my ageing face,
In a speeding time lapse,
become yours. Notice the eyes,
Their heavy inherited sadness,
The inertia that sags the cheeks,
The sense of limits that sets
The grooves along the mouth.
Grip my hand.
Let me show you the way
to revolt against what
We are born to,
To bash through the walls,
To burn a warning torch
In the darkness,
To leave home.
Michele Wolf
I sharpen more and more to your
Likeness every year, your mirror
In height, autonomous
Flying cloud of hair,
In torso, curve of the leg,
In high-arched, prim, meticulous
Feet. I watch my ageing face,
In a speeding time lapse,
become yours. Notice the eyes,
Their heavy inherited sadness,
The inertia that sags the cheeks,
The sense of limits that sets
The grooves along the mouth.
Grip my hand.
Let me show you the way
to revolt against what
We are born to,
To bash through the walls,
To burn a warning torch
In the darkness,
To leave home.
Dear God,
We struggle, we grow weary, we grow tired. We are exhausted, we are distressed, we despair. we give up, we fall down, we let go. We cry. We are empty, we grow calm, we are ready. we wait quietly.
A small, shy truth arrives. Arrives from without and within. Arrives and is born. Simple, steady, clear. Like a mirror, like a bell, like a flame. Like rain in summer. A precious truth arrives and is born within us. Within our emptiness.
We accept it, we observe it, we absorb it. We surrender to our bare truth. we are nourished, we are changed. We are blessed. We rise up.
For this we give thanks.
AMEN.
Michael Leunig
We struggle, we grow weary, we grow tired. We are exhausted, we are distressed, we despair. we give up, we fall down, we let go. We cry. We are empty, we grow calm, we are ready. we wait quietly.
A small, shy truth arrives. Arrives from without and within. Arrives and is born. Simple, steady, clear. Like a mirror, like a bell, like a flame. Like rain in summer. A precious truth arrives and is born within us. Within our emptiness.
We accept it, we observe it, we absorb it. We surrender to our bare truth. we are nourished, we are changed. We are blessed. We rise up.
For this we give thanks.
AMEN.
Michael Leunig
