Broken Seeds

Little one,
little seed,
are you staying small because it’s scary,
because it’s painful
 to stretch?
Or because someone may see you?
Is a weak smile and nod the only defense left in your pocket,
were you told it was unfriendly to take up more space than you are allotted?
Stretch my dear one,
my flame,
my star,
my child of wonder…
and you don’t have to smile for anyone when you don’t want to.
The ones who made you feel like you could never measure up
could have never imagined the size of you once unfurled.
You were made for grandness.
There were once castles and giants on top of a mere beanstalk,
and you?
You can house whole worlds, 
balanced on your self.
Believe.
Believe in 
you.
I do.
Concentrate on your core,
your roots and the sun,
dig deep.
Your strength is no accident,
it is no shame,
and those glass ceilings are merely for you to aim at,
not stop you.
Shatter them.
Shatter the bowl too while you are at it.
Leave the pests to trundle among the detritus,
humming and hissing in disapproval,
their wings are too brittle to fly
and their voices puny
and their stings not as lethal as they tell themselves.
Your face is turned to the sky
and the whole of it unrolls before you
and there is space un-imagined
un-fenced and un-limiting
 waiting for you
to build.
Yes child, you.
You who are made of wind and fire,
you are your own architect,
you write your own poetry,
burn your own bridges,
plant your own garden
and if it is in heaven or in hell…
that is yours alone to decide.
To guard?
 to guide?
to hunt?
or to rule….
All above and below
all before and behind
all began with the gathered courage of a broken little seed.
Break little one…
Break.
©jayetomas2015

 

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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10 Responses to Broken Seeds

  1. Absolutely beautiful! Tragedy can flower into strength and courage… there’s always something to be learned from the lessons of life.

  2. Reblogged this on Barrow Blogs: and commented:
    Love this poet’s writings.

  3. Lovely. Isn’t that the hardest part, encouraging your child to break free of the cocoon and dare to live?

  4. Reblogged this on Jane Dougherty Writes and commented:
    Parenting poem. Beautiful.

  5. chimerapoet says:

    Reblogged this on Chimera Poetry and commented:

    re-posting, by request

  6. I thought I must have reblogged this one already. Beautiful heartfelt words.

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