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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.
Leo Full Moon 🔥  content media
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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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