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Caroline Pegram
Jan 08, 2025
In Share Your Writing Here
I wrote this poem about a year ago during the Aquarius New Moon. Workshopped it a little and am feeling sentimental about the ways I’ve grown since writing these words.
I was born a centaur
Required by Aquarius
to breath into me some life.
I am a fiery Sagittarius
in the light of day and
I fall into a pit of Scorpio
when dusk folds into dark.
At night, I fear you see me
conflate my trauma for my sense of self.
In the comfort of an old growth forest
I play my games of hide and seek -
Hoping you mistake me as a wise
and mysterious woman, instead.
Still I have this impulse to make sure that
YOU know that I know
all about my dark frayed edges,
before I ever let you see
just how much I can shine.
I have this nightmare -
I arrive at my dance recital
after not having rehearsed all year.
Perhaps my biggest barrier in life -
Needing to have perfected my pirouettes
before I allow myself to be seen at all.
In the desert I breath more deeply.
She's invites me afterall
To a gathering where I'm wanted
No need to fight or fawn,
No need to question deserts -
I know where I sit with stone.
Still I've worked my self to bone
to fit these rigid spaces
the ones where praise comes
for how well I perform
and how good it makes your feel.
Experience tells me backbends
are a means to being a good daughter.
This is what I've long since learned
about what it takes to be a worthy lover.
But not everyone can grow up
to be such an accomplished
or esteemed chameleon.
Shadows are sometimes hard to see
among the crimson hoodoo rock.
I wonder if I like to hide here
for the very simple fact -
I am her same color scheme .
Catch me camouflaging
in a scenic southwest scape.
Deserts don’t ask me to wear tutus
or to explain myself
or to contort beyond my means
or to provide an even scoreboard.
And despite it all I'm here -
Strutting before you, a very Sag disaster.
Glowing below you, a mess of spring time asters.
In the depths of this dark moon, two truths will be uncovered:
1. My worth - best understood as I journey to be my own mother.
2. My value - unmistakably found when roaming the vastness of a desert.
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Caroline Pegram
Jan 26, 2024
In Share Your Writing Here
I only committed half way
To bangs this time.
My jaw will not unclench.
My eyes are all dried up.
Sternum braced and hot to touch.
This full moon feels guttural
And I am not immune to the burn
Of an unhealed Leo.
It’s easy to forget the feeling
Of being wakened at 3 am.
The shadow time of winter,
Another log on the stove.
A jolt of fear that arises.
Eyes wide in the dark
Hands reaching out
Grasping at those whose spoons
Are still stacked and soiled and
Waiting in the sink.
And here we are in liminal time.
Feeling and fighting burn out
In a burning world around us.
Yet some how, I am still
Burdened with the task
Of paying my taxes on time.
We live in the belly of a beast
At the will of a mighty dragon.
To be alive, is to drink
From the well of gasoline.
Extracted and imposed.
Cradled in the veil of ‘normalcy.’
A gaslit class system
Will be too distracted to see
How this gas continues to
Fuel the flames.
A gaslit, divided culture
Will be too stretched thin
To gather the water,
To douse the fire.
And maybe we have already arrived.
our very family, too busy, too heavy -
To stand up for a cease fire.
No empire is immortal
And neither are we.
A worn out, hopeless people
A perfect feast
a thirst for blood
In the belly of an
imperial dragon.
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Caroline Pegram
Dec 11, 2023
In Share Your Writing Here
I am writing poems.
I am crying.
I am going to spin class.
I am eating cheese cake.
I am drawing some people close.
I am pushing others away.
I am frozen.
I am having intrusive thoughts.
I am remembering they’re just thoughts.
I’m being pulled down into the depths.
I am clawing at the shore.
However inconsistently,
I am taking my herbs.
I am reading a book.
All two pages.
That’s about how much
This version of me
Can carry for today.
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Caroline Pegram
Sep 13, 2023
In Share Your Writing Here
you will always start
brand new,
blossoming dogwoods
buds and blooms
out of no where
but always right on time.
the sun lingers longer
than it once had
and the tear soaked earth
shows promise of fruit
and the world comes alive
ramps and morels
heaviness of humidity drips
on your skin
like when you explode together
in awe for the first time.
discovering the beauty
and fullness of what’s grown
as if that is all
there has ever been
fresh cut grass and roses
comes and goes without preface
replaced with decaying leaves
and uncertainty
flood of golds
illuminating emotions
I thought had long past
behold -
your shadow and nostalgia
oak and moss
feelings fade, sienna to brown
hearts drop into stomachs
following the chill in the air
huddled under blankets
alone and anticipating
barren reflections
amber and smoke
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Caroline Pegram
Sep 13, 2023
In Share Your Writing Here
it’s never just about the dishes
and it’s not about the tone.
it’s never about one person
or usually even two.
it’s never about the misunderstanding
it’s never about being right or wrong.
it’s never about an apology
it’s not about compromise
it’s not about a truce.
because when the dishes
are finally washed -
you won’t feel better.
when fault is admitted -
that sense of relief is promised
to be short lived.
trying to quiet your rage
will not soften sharp tongues
or bring the kind of space
needed for truth telling.
the knowing that’s being
asked for lies in the
the pit of your stomach.
this knowing is found in the fear of being forgotten or abandoned.
this knowing exists when you are alone and without a story
to tell about yourself.
it’s found right here,
not because it’s only you
and you alone.
but because it’s you and
the life of your grandmother.
it’s about the fruit of her fall harvest
when she was only 12 and growing.
it’s in the response your mother had when she learned of your existence
it’s in the position of the sun
and it’s rays when your eyes first met them.
it’s in the political landscape
power hungry cliffs
individualism seeping into canyons
and precious water sources.
it’s in the memory of your great grandfather
when his nervous system knew
this shell shock would shape
whole generations.
it’s when he came home and
ceased to show his emotions
in the crease lines of his eyes.
this is what we known as generational risk factors and
wounded neural pathways.
it’s in the genetic coding
ancient blueprints of men
it’s in the divorce between
human and earth
and mind and body.
it’s in every thought, belief and
movement of those who
took a breath both
before and with you.
all this to share:
what you’re feeling is not
just about the two of you
and I promise it’s not
about the dirty dishes.
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Caroline Pegram
Sep 13, 2023
In Share Your Writing Here
the winter also seems to be in denial
of the bloom and change that is upon us
as cold droplets turn white
tears dampen the ground
making way for the blossoms
and moments more apt
for the kinds of movement
we’ve been aching for.
it seems counterintuitive to cling
to the darker times and all it’s captors -
we’ve been in the shadows for
so long now.
the promise of being washed anew
feels too good to be true again.
we may grasp at the future,
or lay horizontal in the past.
often with disappointment reminded
of our inevitability.
nature’s rhythms + lessons,
non-attachment + dialectics,
synchronicities + insanity.
and on this gloomy equinox morning
I will choose to see the mirror of myself
laid out in the patterns of the snow.
prompting a loose grip
from a season in which
I am no longer welcome.
Here is to new beginnings and
the season of the lilies.
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Caroline Pegram
Sep 13, 2023
In Share Your Writing Here
A Poem for New Moon in Cancer:
When I am crying in your presence,
please do not pass the box of tissues.
Please do not place a hand on my shoulder or
get up to give me a hug too soon.
Please believe me when I say
I know when someone is able to
hold space for me.
I know you’re there when
your eyes gaze at mine with patience,
despite your growing dis-ease
under the weight of a grief wave.
I know you care when you allow me
to linger in the guttural response of
of some raw emotion that has made its way
out of the hole I had buried it in.
I know you love me when you set
aside your desire to comfort,
in honor of my need to feel.
I know you are capable
when you tend to the pain
my tears excavate within you,
I feel your stability,
when you brush up against your pain
and resist the urge to sweep it away.
I know you are safe when my tide begins to return to sea,
and yet there is no trace or your exasperation.
I feel most at ease when others
trust me when I tell them my body knows
what to do in the event of a riptide
I will happily accept your Kleenex,
your touch and your embrace,
but please hold onto them
until I’m ready to come back to the shore.
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Caroline Pegram
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