She Was Everyone’s Saviour
Her strength, her empathy, her love
She woke with the sun as did you and I,
She woke to the same desperate clouded blue sky,
She opens her eyes to yet another day,
The difference being she was confident in her way.
**
As she clambers from her bed she has a mission,
Her goal for today so simple, yet her life-long vision,
She has an epiphany of need for the sordid past,
Endearing herself to others in a future so vast.
**
Her tasks take her to the needy and the sad,
Washing them of the horrid emotions they felt were bad,
She’d hold them close and wipe their tears,
Destroying their demons and years of fears.
**
She would garnish their hearts with love and joy,
Retaining their sorrows and diminishing their pain to enjoy,
Harbouring darkness in a soul of essence so pure,
Strutting her goodness as an effective lure.
**
She’ll drive her hills and forest trails searching for time,
Tangling with the monsters that have washed in the shade she climb,
Following pathways that vanish into the past,
Histories of torment that you and I wallowed in last.
**
The smoothness of her footsteps pound the land,
So tormentors who follow her mired in the quicksand,
Birds call her from afar so she’ll never lose her way,
And once she wandered your future, she’d cripple the dark fey.
**
Where once they would wait for us to sleep into tomorrow,
Now she struggles with our darkness and swallows our sorrow,
So the food for thought they needed were now no more,
She gave us hope and dreams, putting us on a more even score.
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.
Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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More stories from Colleen Millsteed and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Why Black History Matters in America?
The United States of America is celebrating their 250th anniversary in 2026. I'm proud to be an American and as someone who was born here, I wouldn't imagine myself living anywhere else. This is a country where opportunities are possible. Where anyone can be successful in anything they desire to do. Equality, community, and togetherness are the backbones of what America is and should be about. However, we have an administration who wants to erase and disregard those who have made positive, meaningful impacts in our country, specifically Black figures, such as Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks, and Maya Angelou. President Trump and his administration have been constantly complaining and fighting against what they call the "Woke agenda". They use this excuse as a distraction from other issues they refuse to address, such as the high cost of living, climate change, and inflation. That equality is dividing America, when in reality, it's bringing us together. Being woke is not tied to a specific political party. No matter where you stand on the political spectrum, you can still care about other people and their plights. Compassion and empathy for others isn't tied to a political party, either. We were taught as children to treat others the way we want to be treated and not judge others because they're different from us. Caring about others isn't a personal attack on your beliefs. It doesn't make you any less of a person. People who are easily offended over African American figures, past or present, or anything related to it, are grasping at straws. Current and future generations need to know who people like Harriet Tubman and Shirley Chisholm were, especially in the classroom. Black History is part of American History. It should be recognized, not hidden or forgotten. Besides, you can't shield children from everything, just because your feelings are easily hurt.
By Mark Wesley Pritchard 8 days ago in The Swamp
Comments (4)
Mother Theresa in super hero form.
Your poetic prowess shines brightly in capturing this ethereal narrative. Absolutely loved it!
Oooo, your poem was absolutely powerful and I freaking love your cover pic!
She is Angel for sure. She cannot help others fight their demons if she cannot fight her own but she used the universe internal power to sustain her . I wish this was a story 🥳🥳🥳🥳Happy New Year Colleen ❤️🥰💗May you sustain a lot of good vibes this year 2024