she believes in me
mother is the name
of God, the title of
wisdom;
she is a guiding ship
and the port that leads home—
she is the lighthouse,
the womb, the friend, the
parent, and the authority;
she is a song of magic
too oft forgotten—
but she is patient,
she is kind, she is full
of effortless beauty
and charm;
she takes my hands any
time i have fallen
and whispers to get up again—
she believes in me
and all of my strange dreams.
-linda m. crate
whisper of your past
playing a game of solitaire
with a deck of twenty eight cards
is as wrong as me being here
without you,
i think of all the adventures we
should be having,
all the things we should be
or could be doing together;
always wanted you to be my sun
because i always knew i
could be your moon—
but i guess
life had different plans
for us
than everything i wanted,
i thought i could be
your wife;
a beloved melody of a song
you could never
resist—
turns out i am just a whisper
of your past that you keep
around to remember good times.
-linda m. crate
give me the large dose
small doses of kindness
are beautiful,
yet sometimes are not
enough;
surviving off of crumbs
a soul can still starve—
i prefer large doses
of kindness that last and
linger on more than
a single day,
i want do be drowned in
flowers, trinkets, affection,
compliments, and love;
i want to know i matter
to someone else
other than me—
i want to linger on the mind
as a dream or a haunting
crow, whose inky black feathers
and eerie song bring no peace
in accordance to how
a soul treated me.
-linda m. crate
they're wrong
i am overdue on some
forgotten hugs,
i have back rent in hugs that
are overdue;
i don't mind who gives me
a hug whether it's a tree, a
crow, a unicorn, a dragon,
or my fictional father lestat;
but i am overdue on hugs,
affection, and care—
i guess that happens when
you're a misfit crow,
everyone assumes you're
strong and silent;
that you don't crave connection
or love or depths—
but they're wrong, i always have.
-linda m. crate
my heart still beats with music
flying with a broken wing
has never stopped me,
the wing will heal;
and my heart still beats
with music—
so let's give the psalm some
rhythm and a lot of
soul,
let the chorus be a melody
the world has never heard before;
i am a weird girl dancing
to the beat of my own
drum—
i am not a song you've ever
heard before or will ever hear
again so make sure you listen when I'm singing to you,
because if you make me feel
small and insignificant;
then I'll keep my crow song to
myself and join the rest of
the misfit crows with my inky
black wings.
-linda m. crate
i define myself
watching from a distance,
you can lose your whole life
waiting to become;
and so i decided to believe
in myself and my dreams—
for it didn't matter if others
could see what i saw,
only that i could get there;
because there's nothing
this simulation can do to hold
me back from becoming
who i truly am—
i am magic, i am a melody,
a poem, a song, i am the crow,
the fox, the creek, the tree;
i am immortal and i will never
be forgotten no matter how
many discard me—
i define myself although many
others have tried, they don't
know my heart or the mythology
of these bones.
-linda m. crate
where my magic is understood
dragons in flight, freed from
the tethers of anyone's need
are so beautiful to watch;
but there's a part of me that
also wants to escape
on the back of one into another
realm where i am warmly
accepted and loved
where my magic is understood—
some forgotten princess
which is suddenly remembered,
pulled away from a reality where
she doesn't feel known
or appreciated;
ever since i was a little girl i thought
perhaps if i were good enough
my father would come find me
and take me home—
sometimes he was a prince
or a king,
but usually he was a vampire.
-linda m. crate
no night sky without darkness
memories are occasionally
a tragedy,
i think my mom thinks i want
to be sad sometimes;
but i don’t really choose to be—
sometimes my brain takes a
trip to memory lane,
and all i can think of are the things
which hurt me;
there’s love and light in my life
but those echoes seem too soft
in comparison with all the hurt i
have either have had to face
or overcome—
memories last forever,
the impact of words and deeds
matters;
and i will not apologize for the way
i process things—
there would be no night sky
without a bit of darkness,
but i won’t let the darkness swallow
all of my light.
-linda m. crate
they won’t steal my magic
piracy of hope
is like when nightmares
steal the light of
dreams,
but i won’t let anyone
dim my magic
or my light;
they may come for it—
but i am well versed
in cutting thorns
and making my tongue a
sword,
all they will find here
is their ruin;
won’t sacrifice
myself or my magic
for anyone—
i will always be the one
who protects
hopes and dreams fiercely
with everything i have.
-linda m. crate
falling into dreams
the song the crickets
sing beneath the silver
moon may enchant
you to dance in dew
covered grass,
where the distant cries
of coyotes and owls
hooting will chime in;
as you're dancing insomnia
will leave your bones—
you'll enter the house tired,
and fall into dreams
you cannot remember
when you wake.
-linda m. crate
from a previous life
old books and dust
make me sad,
i try to give them a new
life;
sometimes it is hard
for me to be captivated
by old stories—
other times i open the
page of forgotten stories,
and remember something
from a previous life;
it opens a portal to my soul
which i hope leads
home
to my magic and to the
mythology of my bones.
-linda m. crate
some battles aren't worth fighting
dreaming violence
sometimes comes natural
as breathing,
no one knows the violence
required to become gentle;
but i know—
i wouldn't wish it on anyone,
but i know the deep magic
and all the scars it can leave
behind;
yet i also know magic
which heals and is kind and full
of light and love and joy—
when i feel my fingers curl
into a fist i just take my fingers
apart and remind myself of the
miracle of life,
some battles just aren't worth
fighting;
sometimes the best thing to
do with the violent dream
is walk away.
-linda m. crate
from a previous life
old books and dust
make me sad,
i try to give them a new
life;
sometimes it is hard
for me to be captivated
by old stories—
other times i open the
page of forgotten stories,
and remember something
from a previous life;
it opens a portal to my soul
which i hope leads
home
to my magic and to the
mythology of my bones.
-linda m. crate
parasites and monsters
the treasure i buried
was my magic,
figured only the worthy
ones should be able
to find me;
a best friend of twenty
years forgot me
so i see no need in
offering all the prettiest
songs of my magic to
any stranger—
if you want to know me
then you can deal with these
walls,
until i feel safe enough to
show you my shiny things;
i used to be openly
vulnerable but i learned
i needed thorns and walls
to protect me from the
parasites and monsters.
-linda m. crate
what would their water be?
a world without water
isn't one where i imagine much
could thrive,
perhaps machines would
roam the earth;
but what would their blood be
made of and what stories
could they forge or tell?
what kind of world would
they live in?
could they see any beauty
in color or value anything that
once lived?
what would their water be?
i wonder what they would do
or what they would dream of,
what would they be?
i wonder what language they
might speak and what variations
to those languages there might be,
and where did all the water go?
-linda m. crate
what would their water be?
a world without water
isn't one where i imagine much
could thrive,
perhaps machines would
roam the earth;
but what would their blood be
made of and what stories
could they forge or tell?
what kind of world would
they live in?
could they see any beauty
in color or value anything that
once lived?
what would their water be?
i wonder what they would do
or what they would dream of,
what would they be?
i wonder what language they
might speak and what variations
to those languages there might be,
and where did all the water go?
-linda m. crate
meander into an adventure;
perhaps i'll see a butterfly
or a deer will lock eyes
for a second with me before
his or her white tail disappears
into the trees—
maybe i will see giant trees,
or go play in the creek;
you never know where a road
to nowhere may lead you—
and as long as the day is full
of light and the skies are blue,
i say adventure away;
no one wants to end up
in a horror story.
-linda m. crate
whispers in the dark
the shadow people
roam around,
some of them are
friendly and kind
i am sure;
but i am always
weary of anything that
whispers in the
dark—
i remind myself i was
born at night,
the moon and stars
knew my face
before the sun ever did;
so i try to tell myself
perhaps in the darkness
there can exist more than
monsters and parasites.
-linda m. crate
this world too full of nightmares
moonlight blessings
shimmering in silver,
pink, red, orange, purple,
blue, yellow, green, indigo,
and any other color she so
chooses;
the moon is a rainbow
hearted woman like me—
she taught me that i am
beautiful in all of my phases,
and always full of light
even when i don't feel whole;
she always watches over me
when i am sad or happy
and she never judges my moodiness—
she always kisses me with
compassion,
a cool hand to soothe all the things
which burn me up in this world
too full of nightmares.
-linda m. crate
song of magic
lifted by faery wings
the butterfly seemed to
remember how to
dance among the flowers,
and i watched those wings
sweep pollen off the
lilies as it flew past;
making the clovers dance
with more food for the
honey bees—
i watched the orange and
black wings of the monarch,
and i think he or she
watched me back for a moment
probably wondering what the
giant creature was doing;
but i couldn't help but be
caught up in the song of magic.
-linda m. crate
something more practical
dripping ink
would make me so
impatient,
people have talked
about gifting me quills;
but i think i can write
perfectly pretty
letters in cursive without
them—
i can see them just sitting
behind the plastic,
gathering dust;
the ink never used—
so get me something
more practical
or pretty because a girl
could never have too many
jewels or crystals.
-linda m. crate
shapeshifting
the animal within
sometimes shifts,
at times i can be a
happy dog;
other times i am an angry
wolverine ready to slash
you with my claws—
sometimes i am the
happy crow hopping around
in autumn or shrieking with
joy to see my friends,
who must collect all of the
shiny things;
other times i am a melancholy
little cat sitting by the window
feeling forgotten—
sometimes i am the turtle slowly
crossing the road,
other times i am the impatient
hare who can wait no longer
as i speed walk past you;
but mostly i am just me
regardless of the animals within.
-linda m. crate
an invitation
the blank page
is an invitation,
always i want to see
what she'll bring
me;
sometimes it is
memories and other
times dreams and
others there are worlds
i scarce remember
from another life—
but every blank page
excites me because the chance
of something new,
an adventure i've never known
waits and beckons for me;
and so i must go—
to lose everything weighing
me down,
and to gain everything i was
meant to know.
-linda m. crate
once i got it
daisy chains
were never something
i learned how to
make,
i've always wanted a flower
crown of real daisies;
but no one ever thought to teach me
these things and my mother's cure
for everything was watching
a tutorial online—
i have always learned better
from someone showing me,
i could mimic the movement of
their fingers and learn how to
do it my own way;
but it is easier if the person
is actually there—
because i am curious,
and i need to ask questions;
i need to see it more
than once but once i got it i won't
forget.
-linda m. crate
meander into an adventure
roads to nowhere
where i can go
slowly,
the skeleton of who i was
hypnotic melody
whispers in my ear,
tries to make me
worship an entity whose
purpose i don't trust
or know;
i ignore the song
no matter how pretty
it may be
don't need a religion
willing to sacrifice me—
i had one of those
growing up,
and i have left it behind;
those bones aren't something
i would wish upon anyone—
the skeleton of who
i was warns me that this
music is just a spell which
could undo me.
-linda m. crate
