The rich and powerful are nurtured
within our so-called ‘public’ schools.
They grow into sleek Fat Cats
stuffed with a surfeit of earthly delights
They prowl the palaces of Westminster
sporting the old school tie
spouting the propaganda of privilege.
The rich and powerful are surrounded
by sycophants and wannabes
who cocoon them from the plebs.
They drive by the homeless
on the way to their second homes
and scorn the blisters
of those who pay the price for their wealth
© Michèle A.L.Barzey
Your words are not mine.
You distort my voice and
corrupt my words.
You cannot bear
the weight of my words
You recoil from glimpsed truths
You twist words of pain
into trite trivialities.
You turn shouts of injustice
into whispers of acquiescence.
Your words are not mine.
Don’t speak for me.
Not now.
Not ever.
© Michèle A.L. Barzey
You shouldn’t want
To kill yourself
On a sunny day.
You shouldn’t look
Out on beauty
And see only death.
The light shouldn’t
Hurt your eyes and
Boil your blood.
The light shouldn’t
Leave you a refugee
No peace, no womb,
No tomb, no hope.
The light shouldn’t
Expose and burn and
Shine and shine and shine
When there’s nothing you can do
Because you are nothing
Because you are dead
But your heart beats and beats and beats.
© Michèle A.L. Barzey
when i close off the world
and sink into the Dark
and sink into the Dark
the memory healing
Dark
i find
unjudged nakedness
mask free existence
when i retreat into the Dark
and sink into her womb
and sink into her womb
her death defying
womb
i find
unjudged nakedness
mask free existence
you want to sear my soul
and feed me to the light
and feed me to the light
and say my name is
mad
i say
i Become in the Dark
in the Dark
i find
unjudged nakedness
mask free existence
fading scars
growing strength
© Michèle A.L.Barzey
Originally published in Raw Edge issue #24 p11.
The sun came up, and went down.
The moon did the same.
They walked.
She walked behind them.
An outcast among outcasts.
Alone.
but for,
her bastard, her child, her beloved,
cradled in her arms.
Days passed, and still they walked.
Their burdens grew heavier,
the sun hotter, the road harder.
They began to shed more pieces of their lives.
A favourite toy.
A treasured quilt, passed from mother to daughter.
A furniture-filled cart, with a broken wheel.
The food ran out, and still they walked.
Step after step. One foot in front of the other.
Ignoring the blisters, and the pain, and the hunger.
When her strength ran out, she stripped herself
of everything, except
her bastard, her child, her beloved,
cradled in her arms.
The water ran out, and still they walked.
Less steadily, more slowly.
After the water ran out, her milk dried up and
when the child lost the strength to cry,
she picked up a stone,
she picked up a stone, cut her breast and
her lifeblood, flowed into
her bastard, her child, her beloved.
Still she walked.
She walked to the camp.
To the hospital tent, and waited.
And waited.
When her turn came,
she had left her body,
and her beloved
and walked to that haven
where another Mother continues to hold
her bastard, her child,
the Beloved.
© Michèle A.L. Barzey
I died last night. You never knew.
You did your bit and turned your back.
I said good night
And died my death
And all the time you never knew.
I died last night. You never knew.
You brought me breakfast just the same.
I washed and dressed
And left for work
And all the time you never knew.
© Michèle A.L. Barzey
Arn’t we all women?
We’d die if we got pregnant
We’d kill to have a child
We watch our children grow fat
We watch our children fade away
We make Twiggy look voluptuous
We make Dawn French look gaunt
We read romance and Morrison
We read engineering and philosophy
We build bridges and warships
We build barricades and revolutions
We get upset when we break rocks
We get upset when we break nails
We work from dawn ‘til dusk
We party from dusk ‘til dawn
We dance the night away with the ones we love
We dance our lives away for the ones we loathe
We hate the weight of your hand on our face
We love the feel of your hand on our face
We obey our husbands
We don’t obey our husbands
What husbands?
We like to be held
We like to hold
We wear ‘fuck me’ shoes
We wear Doc Martens
We wear the soles of our feet
Arn’t we all woman?
© Michèle A.L. Barzey
Because I can remember the night flights and moonlit glides,
I hate the smooth, cold glass of this prison
and the clumsy landclingers who put me on display.
Because I can remember the night flights and moonlit glides,
I miss the hunt, and the taste of flesh,
and the sound of my love; calling me home.
Because I can remember the night flights and moonlit glides,
I hate the smooth, cold glass of this prison.
© Michèle A.L. Barzey
Your Christ is a pale, polite
blue-eyed blond.
Your priests are all male
and extremely well bred.
Your God is sorted,
tied up, and boxed.
With no room for justice,
or anger, and truth.
Your hymns sing of joy
and the body of Christ,
ignoring the struggles
of everyday life.
I thought we were one Body
’til you tried to amputate.
I believed we were all equal
’til you tried to put me down.
You shunned and ignored me,
assumed I could sing.
You sent me to learn
and grow strong in the Lord.
But now She’s transformed me
You don’t want to know.
© Michèle A.L. Barzey
I found my pride
and my self-respect.
I found my courage
and my hope.
I still love you
but now,
I love me too.
© Michèle A.L. Barzey
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