Poetry Blog

A Table for One

8/10/2025

I sat alone, eyes wandering wide,
A couple across, side by side.
She stared at her phone, his eyes cast low,
And I thought, "How lucky—yet, how alone."
I envied them, at first glance, it's true,
Wishing a man sat across from me too.
Someone to talk to, to share my day,
But not like them, with nothing to say.
I saw the silence between their eyes,
The weight of words, unsaid, disguised.
And I knew then, with sudden grace,
I'd rather be here, in my own space.
For I don’t want just any hand to hold,
Nor the comfort of warmth grown cold.
I want a love that meets my soul,
A man who makes my spirit whole.
And if that man is not to be,
Then I am enough just being me.
For the peace I hold in my heart, alone,
Is kinder than love that’s turned to stone.
So I sit here, with quiet peace,
Grateful for my own release.
No empty hands, no hollow glance,
I will wait for love, I chose - a chance.

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If God Was a Woman…

6/8/2025

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If God was a woman,
She’d be the womb of stars,
Birthing galaxies with the breath of creation,
Fingers tracing life from chaos,
Her whispers weaving the web of what is.

She’d bear the weight of mountains,
Cradle oceans in her hands,
A portal to realms unseen,
Delivering spirits into bodies,
Carrying the miracle of breath across the veil.

If God was a woman,
She’d know the sting of silence,
Her strength mistaken for surrender,
Her power, misread as threat,
Becomes the root of battles we never asked for.

Her body, a temple desecrated,
Yet still she rises, resilient as dawn,
Each scar a testament to survival,
Each pain, a seed of wisdom.

If God was a woman,
Would she weep for her daughters,
Whose predators walk among them unchecked,
Whose fires are dimmed by forced submission,
Yet who remain, unbroken, defiant in their flame?

Would she marvel at the irony,
That the givers of life must fight for their own,
While men write laws to bind the hands
That once held them as infants,
Helpless and dependent on her infinite grace?

If God was a woman,
Perhaps she would reclaim her name,
A name erased, reshaped, demonized,
Her legacy hidden beneath centuries of dust,
Her voice echoing still in the whispers of the wind.

And when her children ask why she left the garden, She’d smile, bittersweet, and reply: “I was not meant to kneel to what I created. I am the root, the river, the sky above, And the storm that breaks the chains.”

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A Table for One

If God Was a Woman…

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