Who Do I Listen To?

You ask [insert absurd question here]?

You. You with your hair, expensively coiffed,
by those certifiably deemed deft to cut-to-form, angled to “perfection,”
to final-gloss-finish, a spray-to-stay style,…
You, in your Versace giraffe-print, draped, asymmetric dress
up-to-style, up-to-date, and up to “date”
poised like arm candy, are not a model to follow.

The core, of me and My Family (those who understand), knows
that those…
who stand bare, freshly washed by unpolluted rivers
graced by knowing that their fish friends bathe with them
that those…
whose bird friends drop feathers for their adornment
are the more beautiful, and enriched through caring.
Safer, more secure within this Circle of relevance and responsibility,
I hear,
through bird song, the dissonant sounds of naïveté,
the foolish query of one who believes they know,
through a false-empowered-sense, “the” truth, in a mere grasping
of a man-made speech tool taken into their hand.
I feel reverberating thunder shudders
watching you aim a microphone, like a rifle barrel
or sling to shoot insults
directed to undress me and petrify my voice.

I stand instructed
by the feather I wear in my hair that is my knighting
aligning with Spirit, igniting my soul, invoking
the rivers of my blood to roar, to loosen my lips,
to let my voice fly, flutter, flow
to protect all that is sacred.
Imbued with strengthening spirit, I whisper loudly,
as one who is taught to speak respectfully, at the river’s edge;
then, taught to use words sparingly, I resiliently resist with a wave circle
posting my response to [insert absurd question here].

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