Does a Woman need a Man? updated w/ Does one Need a Man?

We were taught growing up

a woman does not need a man

to want one maybe but need….

needing a man was a sign of weakness 

a life riddled of dependency and control.

We were taught from a young age

watching our mothers and aunts

with the right tools women can do it all

they can fix the broken toilet, provide for

the family and kiss the children goodnight.

As adults, we learned from the loyalty

of Eagles and the closeness of Wolves

it is natural for us to need a companion

not someone to take care of us or fill a

fantasy but to love us and touch us…

Cinderella was not our favorite story.

I did two versions to this piece. Since, I posted the first I have come to wonder why I posted it other than letting pressure get to me. I like the second much better which I wrote first.

Does one Need a Man?          

I remember thinking it is weak to need a man.

To want one yes but need…

Oh it horrified me, numbed me with images of

housewives and brainless, obedient women

ridiculed with dependency and control.

An existence of imprisonment

a nightmare to us, the daughters

of strong independent women

we grew up being taught

a women does not need a man

with the right tools women can do it all!

they can fix the broken toilet, provide for

the family, and raise the children

there is need to settle.

Then I learned of human need

from the loyalty of Eagles

and the companionship of wolves

need was not necessarily bad

it mattered why you needed

I realized I needed a companion,

best friend, a lover. Not to take care

of me but to love me and touch me…

you can probably imagine

Cinderella was not my favorite story.

5/11

  

The Collector

Rob Hanson

The Collector

In the neighborhood when I was a kid

there lived this strange sort of a man

he somehow lived off the grid

and he chased us with a frying pan.

He lived all alone around the bend

off Fernickle street in that house

of broken shutters with his friend,

his only friend, a house mouse.

When we saw him, we always ran

it seemed to us he’d lost his lid

to survive we had to have a plan

if our parents heard, they forbid.

Then one day we saw a blouse

curious as all we tried to blend

she carried out a plastic grouse

we learned he had come to an end.

She asked if we would help her plan

and carry what he never got rid

her dad was a collector his life span

we said yes it was time to contend.

 posted for Sunday Photo at One Stop Poetry

Crossroad

  

drawing by Annie Perconti                 

                       
                     Crossroad

A young woman treads in circles

caught at a crossroad of decision.
Her eyes bleed of confusion knowing,

she lost herself in their image.

Dreary and afraid, her lotus
fades, peeling open her rawness, 
exposing a weeping child 
grown, pleading for direction.

She leans against the body of her 
grandmother, listening to her stories,

trying to find meanings behind

images sketched in her branches.

Her grandmother’s wise words 
echo the shadows of answers.
Teaching the young woman 
to dive into fresh waters and 
flow with her intended path.

                     ©River Urke 5/2011


posted for One Shoot Wednesday week 50 at One Stop Poetry

The Prize~

The Prize

Dedicated to Brandy Brenna

Three good friends canoe down the Kinni

each with their own bag of thoughts.

They navigate Clapping Waters

following a calmer course

they lean back, gliding the stillness

and hear the air between her wings

before any of them see her.

The fisherman in the rear

only noticed the fish

The artist in the front

only saw the bird

The dreamer in the center

witnessed the marvel of both.

An Eagle great in essence and size

Dove down to the surface of calm

waters, a little ahead of the trio

Grabbing a huge trout in her claws

Hovering over the water

Flapping her powerful wings

Gathering her strength

then flying away with her prize.

                                         ©River Maria Urke 6/10

6/11 rewrite

thanks to google images

gabriel ~ duel poetry

gabriel...
 
beads tumble
down the crest
of the rising horn
skirts twirl
fingers tap 
ancient rhythms
on sides of glasses
emotions liquid
beats flowing
among a purity of tone
a range of octaves 
match the rising horn 
then descending tones
passionate growls
bring wide-eyed smiles
and a chorus of sensual amens
a moment of silence
fills the room until
the ring of cymbals strike
as the music of soul 
begins again 

by Charlie Martin & River Urke

This is the eighth poem Charlie/slpmartin and I have wrote together with Duel Poetry.   

Duel Poetry:  a prearranged poetry writing challenge  between two people to evolve a new poem where each writer must respond to the other writer’s lines  (4 -5 ) until both parties agree that the poem is complete.

photo by Charlie Martin- "horn"