This poem,
Is a safe place.
Holding community,
In the palm.
Consensual respect.
Our queer butch lesbian elders,
Trying to help raise,
Us fucked up kids.
Devoid of any loving family.
They showed us,
How to hold space –
In kindness,
A listening ear.
Circle after circle.
There is an inherent hope,
In what our teachers tried to give us.
Mentors to the lost.
We cryptids pretending to be human.
Paying it forward,
Is a matter of honor.
There still needs to be spaces of love,
Even in such dark times,
As these.
Wildlings,
Never to be tamed.
Our power comes,
From a dozen sources.
We all know,
What comes with power.
This is but a fleeting fancy,
In that it has weight.
As much or as little,
As you need.
Never my place,
To judge.
Only to offer my hand,
To hold.
Or my strength,
To listen.
There is an art,
To making safe spaces.
Carving your will,
Into reality.
You must be strong yourself.
Strong enough to take space.
Share space.
Cede space.
Allow warmth to flood,
Across a dozen hearts.
It is communication,
Respect etched in runes –
To ensure consistency.
Vox Populi.
In virtue & valor.
Honor should guide our hand,
Most days.
Trying to leave this world,
Better than we found it.
Helping those who come after us,
Feel a little safer.
Knowing we’ll love them –
No matter who they decide to be.
Perhaps it’s old fashioned.
To want to help pick people up,
Or offer them protection.
Like some damn chivalrous bastard,
Instead of a punk,
From the gutter.
Perhaps in a world of pragmatists,
We’re naive fools,
For trying.
Drawing lines in sand,
Scrawling words on pages.
As if we can do good,
For those within.
But damned if we don’t try.
Don’t need to right,
A hundred wrongs.
“I’ll give them shelter,
Like they’ve done for me.”
Maybe that can be enough.
This Poem Is A Safe Place.
