Was there ever
a time and place
where nobody spoke?
A time in the day or
a place where it was
discouraged
I think when your
gab is trapped
your ears open up more
I think nobody shuts
up anymore
I think I’d like for
folks to shut up more
Sometimes people whisper
about a local boy who
doesn’t speak much
I don’t know the boy
but I already like him
People think he’s
mad or sad or dumb
I figure he’s wise.
When I am quiet,
people think I am
dumb.
I don’t care
what they think.
I think they sound
like those cars with
the muffler that makes
the car sound fast and
speedy…
only it’s not
it’s all show
it’s all NOISE
I wanna wear a
sign that reads
Shut Yer Trap
Stop russlin’ your
own tail feathers
I don’t care what
your brother’s cousin
had for dinner
For fuck’s sake
I mean, just leave
me be
Understand that
I am quiet.
And when I offer up
a poem there is no
obligation to listen
to what I have to say
it is a choice, a courtesy
for me to zip my mouth
and point to a poem
Stop dancing, ladies
Stop hollering and pointing
to your crotch, cause I don’t
wanna see it
Stop pounding on your
chests, men
I think it’s just me and
that one quiet boy who
think it but…
Let me come to you.
Do not mistake my
stillness for depression,
for I am simply conserving
my thoughts and words
Like a good person outta
Was there ever a time
and place where nobody
spoke?
If there was it is far far
from here
I want peace
I want quiet
and understanding
I want to shut up and
listen and I ask the
same of you, no
I beg the same of
you
Tag: Poetry
Healing Spaces
Some places make
for better healing spaces
out under the moon
in the first rays of
the days sunshine
in the shower
where my fears
run on forever
along with that
steady stream of water
then out they go through
the dime-sized copper pipes
and into the land if only for a
moment’s notice before rising
up again
I find a healing space
on the inside of a just
laundered sock
at the lip of a hot Mason jar
filled with tea
on the soft, forgiving face
of a yoga mat
at the tip of my tongue
when I am speaking
the truth
in the warm embrace
of a familiar loved one
I find a healing space in
dreaming
creating
accepting
allowing and
holding back
I find a healing space in
kissing and
licking
cooking
cleaning
and challenging myself
there
there
there
it is
the healing space
where my actions
are for the good
not destruction
how easily we can self-destruct…
I find a healing space
when I CHALLENGE
muscle memory
when I allow myself
to do what’s best
I find a healing space
in forgiving myself
I make a list of the
healing spaces
I write down:
kitchen
bath
candles
incense
scents
warm clothes
wood stove
massage
self-massage (more likely)
I write down:
order
a clean car
clean pillow
clean mouth
clean fridge
I write down:
near a stream
sea
lake or
fall
I write:
inside of your own self
if you’ve got nowhere else
at all
I write:
on the teet of my
dream goddess mother
I write:
in my lover’s arms
I write:
call my father
I write of healing spaces
like within the pages of a
Jack Kerouac book
I remind myself and
I write it all down then
I remind myself to look
again
Not So Hot
Too easily offended
I’d rather not listen
to some people
most of the time
My anger is my
downfall and rage
follows, like falling
boulders, from behind
I’m antsy in my heart,
which the doctors have
confirmed–they say my
heart doesn’t pitter-patter
right
Some days are fine,
some nights are worse
some are best for not
speaking at all
but I faux smile
cause that’s what
people want of me–
it’s what we want
of each other
Silence is t h r e a t e n i n g
d u m b i n g
only meditative if you’re
…drinking hot tea before or
…wearing lycra and a yellow scarf,
with elephants on it
No but that’s not really true now
What I mean is:
that was just my anger talking and
ah I see what I shant speak today
So I lie on the bed
or I cry
because I can’t feel my head
like a hot air balloon it has risen
and escaped me
no longer attached by way of
my spine to my feet
no longer accepting responsibility
for foul thoughts and behaviors
Truths I’ve built up with strong
hard-to-destruct things like
addiction and the inability to
see l o v e clearly
the tendency to judge this l o v e
of its worth
inspect it for faults and errors
beg with my body but sometimes
do not give it up when he has
come home for me,
when he is ready
When he is ready I sometimes
see the hands of another man
a man that some of us women all
know so well
the very hands of a man who first
showed us hell
on earth
turned an ordinary meadow
into a red burning thing
where all routes leading out only
lead to more traps and catastrophes
the hands of a man can either help or threaten me
the hands of a man can trigger me
in the best and the worst of ways
I’d say don’t come for me on a day like today
I’d say don’t come for me
I’d say my devil man hands
never paid
as many of them don’t
too many wrists, unroped
so many women coping daily
in millions of different little ways
I myself
I toxify
detoxify
toxify
detoxify
on and on
Inside my mind I am
ringing my hands I am
pulling my hair I am
opening my mouth
to scream
my eyes are bulging
out my pretty little head
I am coming apart at
the seams
and though I can’t
seem to get a grip
I am still.
And all I am actually doing
is leaning on the stove top
and staring at a boiling pot with
hot salted water and chicken
One would assume
I am daydreaming
thinking of nothing
deaf n’ dumb
But I am a poet 
and I am still scared
in millions of different little ways
I am still scared in the way that
too many grains of weightless sand
could crush my every last bone
like the way a toddler could drown
in a half bucket of water
I am still scared in the way that
teenager held her breath and her
friend pushed on her chest and she
died but it was all suppose to be a joke
an experiment
My anger has turned to sadness
My rage into despair
Somethings,
most of the time
are too difficult
to bear
A Free Woman
Caretaking my day job
and tending to my valued
friendships, my words lay
dormant inside of me for
days on end
my fingers lazily
flicking the turn signal
with the underside of my
pinkie finger
my feet are on the pedal
and is it sunny and busy
outside–I am outside for
once
Later in bed I am trying
to wind down
I swat away thoughts
with my fingers and the
turn of my head like
the thoughts are flies
and it is summertime
I hear the click click
of my cat’s tongue
across the room
and the up and down
of conversation out
on the back porch
it is Thursday night
and my boyfriend is
hollerin’ out there
I left the music on (Tom Waits)
in the kitchen
so I wouldn’t be tempted
to stretch my ears and listen
to the stories grown men tell
as I have done in the past,
waiting for the drop of a
questionable manstory
–a story about a woman
or women and nakedness,
something controversial to
make me sweat and panic
and feel sorry for myself
But never have I overheard
such a story
and it’s not that I try to listen
it’s just the combination of my
natural inquisitiveness and
the fact that they’re fukin
loudmouths that I ever
end up eavesdropping
The sunshine has kept my
heart hurt at bay but I
cannot help but see
heart hurt coming down
the lane
as always things
are changing in “love”
But I’m not sabotaging,
No I’m not sabotaging
Though I do rifle through our
existence for weakspots
and I poke at them like
the bruises of a brother
I shudder fearfully acknowledging
the power he was over me
my future wrapped up in him
like a thin-linked silver thoroughly
knotted necklace
I don’t want to be pushed
to my limit anymore
So why do I take myself there
I want my home to be
a meadow of peace
So why do I search for
the imperfections?
Strain my ears to
hear them
Then spell them out
for everyone to
see when the only
one making a mess
here is me
I walk the plank
everyday in this love
and you and everyone
we know would say
I’m making too much of this
and I am
in just about every way
Like any good woman
eager for a baby,
I scare us both
I vow to dry out my
moistened wounds
in the springtime sun
and think
fresh and
trust and
first things first
First…Things…First
Me,
in bed,
alone.
As it was in
the beginning
and then thereafter
and as it will be again
in the end
I cannot, should not
control him I think,
as he shouts, emphasizing
a word in conversation
I cannot track his words
I cannot control him
I am enough as I am–
Ignorant
and trusting
A free woman as
he is a free man
and we are unmarried
and probably happier
than most
On Transformation
If I am to change
I shall be the agent
of that change
Borders
and many of them
have still to be
crossed
I thirst for
the waters
that course through
my future person
quenching
my mind
my body
my spirit
When I am alone
and quiet
I can better move
through the landscape
that is being human
better scale the mountain
that is being me
the past is an avalanche
above and behind me
the trail in front
is forked
and broken
sadly, I see that
some paths lead to 
nowhere–and if that
be the case then
anywhere is somewhere
when you still have a
heart
My mind
slips and staggers
My impressions,
the ones that I give,
are not always kind
I do worry about
my mind
I must prepare
for battle
It’s as simple
as that
I must balance
out my person
I need to take
some sort
of chance
If I am to change
then I shall be the agent
of that change
I see Transformation
I’ve done it before
I see a makeover
of the soul
nothing outwardly
or flashy or faux
I see spelling-out a prayer
and later finding its been answered
I see asking some questions
for once
I see saying
no no thank you
to the many temptations
that just don’t suit me
I see blank pages
and getting more
writing done
I see stepping into
the shoes
of the woman I
want to become
Dressing
Mostly always modest,
I wear my one-piece swim
suits like a relic or a
ghost woman
on the shore
I cover up and I
end up getting so
steaming hot
that I tear off those
heavy unnecessary
clothes back at home
feet screaming in the
September heat
I tear the black
scarf from my neck
like I am my own damn
birthday present
I unwrap myself and
when I look into the
mirror
I see that I am naked
and somewhat beautiful
and if I just showed off
a shoulder or two…
but then I forget and
I wake and I wrap
myself up again
in cloth and jean
and leather
I roast in the
Indian summer
wondering
Who is it
that I’m hiding
from?
Love Blues Balance
Twelve cups of coffee later and I have (finally!) completed my book of poems Love Blues Balance. A project I have been compiling for weeks now has a cover and 108 pages of material. Just awaiting approval from Createspace and then I will a) order a copy for myself and b) order copies to distribute. A special thanks to friend and photographer Kirsten Lara Valenzuela who provided the lovely cover image you see here.
Can’t wait for distribution! Stay tuned! ❤
So I Am a Woman
So I am a woman
occupying a square
a circle a triangle
a rectangle a glob
of space
of air
of spit
or moisture
of particles 
and earth matter
beneath and above
and all around me
I like this space
I take this space
for granted
I rarely look up
at all that wiggle-
room above my head
I rarely jump,
but I should
I forget that
S P A C E
is not something
everyone has
I neglect to be thankful
for what I can control,
for what I do possess
Instead I go to extremes
trying to control things
way way wayyyyyyyy
outside-of-me
maybe even up in
someone else’s space
Today was sad but
stupid-sad like,
like running late
to work though
not really late
just the type
that’s like
Oh I can’t take a
hot cup of coffee
with me
I can’t change my
scarf or my skirt late
like Poor me whaddami
gonna do without
my hot coffee
without
my perfectly
selected shoes
So I get in my car
and take a quickdeep
breath
I say to myself
I’ve got my health,
among other things
I’ve got my s p a c e
and I start to list those
things for which I’m thankful for:
Thankful the windshield
isn’t frozen over
Thankful for a
heated leather seat
Gosh, how much do I
really need?
Thankful the customers don’t
come in til nine
and only because I want
to clear my mind
Thankful I have a job!
and one that I like!
Thankful we made love last night
Thankful for the space to think
it all over
the solitude of being young
and childless
and grandchildless
and great-grandchildless
though I hope for those things too–
for now I am Daughter
I am a woman
occupying a square
a circle a triangle
a rectangle a glob
of space
of air
of spit
or moisture
of particles
and earth matter
beneath and above
and all around me
I take this space
for granted
I rarely look up
at all that wiggle-
room above my head
I rarely jump,
but I should
How To Deal With Monsters
As a kid I’d get scared
We all did I know
We feared a thing
called Monster
It’s origins unknown
Yes it could be
under the bed
in the closet
down the hall
but where did this
thing come from
all slimy sickly and slow
I thought it all over
I thought it through
real good
I though if I ever
actually meet the
monster,
I’d know just what
to do:
I’ll make friends
with it, I said
a monster seems
a lonely thing
now I know I
only wanted to
manipulate the
monster–get him
to stay under the bed.
Do we ever dream
up female monsters?
No I think we don’t
Do we have good reason to?
Sometimes, but mainly no
Amazing that I feared the
green and gooey
When monsters
were all around me
Well at least there
were one or two
But people called them
Grandfather, Neighbor
or just Joe
Rather than run
from them
call them out
or call the cops
we would roast
them chickens
fill their coffee,
clean their pots
Now I’m not saying
the women were angels
the men were devils
and that was that
but there’s something
to be said for fighting
not running
when things get bad
So if you ever meet
a monster
Don’t you listen to me
Instead of making friends,
you just be as loud as
you can be
Scream, shout, bite, tell it all
Don’t you hold a thing back
There are exceptions to this
rule, as life isn’t always
white and black
But use your rage and
use it good
Be wise beyond your years
Know that monsters come in
all sizes and ages
And this is how you know their near:
You feel it in your gut
it doesn’t have to be dark outside
The monster doesn’t have to
be scary
When you know
you know
you know
you know
And I know you know
what I mean
The sooner you tell
somebody about it
the sooner the monster
stops feeding
But even if it’s been
years and years
come out with the
thing and start
your healing
At the Post Office
So full of dreams
like me
a young woman
comes in for keys
I’ll be here for life!
She tells me
through her bright
blue eyes
through her strait
young teeth
I don’t hesitate for
a second
I don’t skip a beat
What’s your lucky number?
I ask her
So we can get you
a box that you like.
We wrangle the woman a
mail square to last a lifetime,
should mail last that long
I swallow the knowledge
of divorce
and betrayl
all stories
my boxes tell
We talk for
over one hour
about the land
our man
our jobs
and plans
the girl’s got
a grand plan
though not
yet a roof
I mean she’s
got a place
it’s dilapidated
and out in
the rain
but I can see
given her stance
that failure doesn’t
stand a chance
like me she’s
banking on
her man
her vision
and most of
all her strength
I withhold from
shouting friend!
Long lost
counter-part!
I withhold from asking
What is your sign?
I’m betting it must be
fire like mine
I simply nod my head
and shake her hand
and wonder if there’s
more in store
for her
for me
for us
for our men
for our stories
for our boxes
for our lives
A young woman
comes in for keys
so full of dreams
like me
I swallow the knowledge
of divorce
and betrayl
all stories
my boxes tell
I keep the faith
and I keep it well
for it is my very own story
that I’m trying to sell
TERAH RACHELLE VAN DUSEN 