Charlotte

This poem is a part of the Sister Series, a series of celebrating individual women and sharing their beauty through poetry.

charlotte

by Regan Smith

Standing in San Francisco,
one can’t say one’s head is in the clouds,
when it’s fog that’s covering the earth.

She sees through this,
standing in truth.

The wind tousles her hair,
bu she is unwavering.

Full of life and color,
she is a contrast to the grey.
She is a fern.

She stays calm,
and composed.

Though her spirit is sprightly,
she stays taciturn in speech,
for her posture speaks it all–
such elegance in her:  
strength, power, composure.

Carissa

This poem is a part of the Sister Series, a series of celebrating individual women and sharing their beauty through poetry.

Carissa

by Regan Smith

She smiles and slings laughter about,
creating a perennial landscape
across barren land.

She kneels down to gently stroke,
the buttercup bloom,
savoring even the smallest beauty.

She shares not only her empirical truth,
but pulls the words that have lived in the wind,
down to this buttercup bloom,
delighting in its growth,
tending to her garden
that stretches across the earth’s surface,
a harvest truly meant for the heavens.

Sister Series

I felt pulled to start a poetry series the past several weeks; this announcement coincides with International Women’s Day, a delightful happenstance. We’re calling it the Sister Series, a sequence of poems created with several particular women in mind. These are poems that swiftly sweep past the surface of their skin and swing deep into the beauty that dwells within their souls.

The introductory poem to this series is one I initially read aloud around a year ago. I’m proud to introduce the Sister Series with this piece, one which encapsulates my true birth-sisters, wrapped together within a single work.

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Jacquelyn Raquel Elizabeth

by Regan Smith
(poem also known as Sisters)

Baby blue stitches, 
little crossed threads creating denim patterns; 
though fading in the elbows. 

She paints oranges, develops photos of her sisters, 
and captures footage of the Cinquefoil flowers. 

She wraps her arms around her brothers, 
and laughs loudly; 
honeydew hope is held in her eyes.

On a basking blanket between two Cottonwood trees,   
with a short story collection between her palms, 
her face begins to freckle—
beneath her full eyebrows,
and on her soft shoulders. 

She is in the wind, and will grow weary, 
belly swells as baby grows—
resting her spine on the bed, 
as she pulls splinters from her fingers.

Gray strands emerge from her scalp, 
woven throughout her cocoa curls;  
it holds the air of the forest, 
and unravels beneath streams of warm water. 

A lively life looms, 
indigenous to encouragement. 

Her heart is held, 
familiar to a full mind—
but not foreign to today. 

I think she understates, 
how many good traits she received from her mother; 
how they both speak with words that break the bones of death, 
and shift tides with a whisper.

Waxing Crescent

Truly a soul of sunshine, I met Peyton online through connections that I can’t fully recall, but am incredibly thankful for. She is an astounding creative and connecter, and is reckless with encouragement–it spills out all sides solely from her existence. She’s currently working on her debut poetry collection, which I was incredibly tickled to find out this week. Her work and bright personality can be further explored through her Instagram.

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waxing crescent

by Peyton Elise

i haven’t seen the moon in three plus weeks,
my heart had nearly sunk. 
tonight when i saw that waxing crescent,
my soul felt so much luck. 
then i realized it wasn’t luck at all,
but a status i hoped would be met. 
now i’m full of grace and truth and light,
my longing - i crave at sunset.

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i live in colorado, where the mountains swoon me in and have been a huge part of this story of mine. i began sharing my writing a few years back when my heart felt more ache than it could handle - writing has been this sense of release for me ever sense, an escape for my feelings to make sense, and a connecting piece in so many ways! writing is now a ministry for me and i am making my way toward self publishing this year - all for love, with love, and because of love.

Cloudland

Cloudland

by Regan Smith

I travel to Cloudland,
where the warmth of my partner’s hand
never leaves mine, where the sound of
tousled leaves fills the air, accompanied by
the scent of jasmine and rosemary;
where rosebud tea lingers on my lips,
and a honeycomb hexagon melts beneath
my tongue.

Cloudland, made by Elohim Himself,
accompanies me through the evening’s
golden hour, to sit and hold my children
these apple blossoms that I have not yet seen.

We, three, sing them lullabies,
soothing them to sleep like lavender,
grazing their creamy brown skin,
smooth white skin,
caramel face.

And how they’ll sleep through the night,
while my partner and I exchange
soul-smitten smiles, pulling
mutual love from our hearts and
webbing into the other’s.

Ripening Prayers

Amidst a season full of a steady rest, though time passing quickly, Raine shared this sweet poem with me. Every time I revisited these humble words, it resonated deeper. What does it mean to be brave? How can I slow my mind and wholly trust?

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ripening prayers

by cheyenne raine

i have sat at the edge of my bed
with my face in my hands
trying to decide whether or not
i was brave. 

a bowl of freshly washed raspberries
sat at my feet, begging me to taste.
what does it mean to taste? to want
this bowl of fruit to sit on my tongue.
what does it mean to be brave?
is it when something sour
erupts in my mouth
and i must learn
to speak sweetly, despite?
despite the bitter. sharp tartness.
(still, the sweetness that comes after
is the sky being coated with raindrops
and clouds made of sugar.)

today, i gathered my prayers into my chest
and heaved as i tossed them into the sky,
where i think God knows how to hold them
better than i. the fog crawls in
and takes my whispered words
from my lips— it does not pull them
from my teeth or my bones. it guides
these hushed prayers of mine
into a place where they could grow,
raspberries blossoming under a gemini sun.

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Cheyenne Raine resides in the San Antonio light, pulling warmth and bliss into her lower-case lettered poetry. she writes the beauty amongst every scene, lacing diction to create vivid pictures. she publishes her work consistently on her website and sends little letters through email.

Raine is the author of several books that can be viewed here.