Are You Asking Who She Is? {poetry}

Who is she?

Are you asking who she is?

You are, aren’t you?

Because you see her there,



extraordinarily free,

so exquisitely fierce.

Fierce is what lives inside her,

Along with her truth, courage, and drive —

they are her deepest parts. 

Her deepest parts,

tell me, do you see them?

Her deepest parts?

The strength that is in the bow of her arms?

The power in her gaze?

The serenity in her stillness?

Do you see it?

When she stands there like a warrior,

a formidable mountain of a woman,

humbled, but unafraid?

The honesty,

in her cadence,

the swing of her hips,

the length of her stride,

and the small smile

that dances on her lips?

And her knowledge

all of it showing,  

her essence, glowing,

tell me, do you really see it?

Her intelligence?

Well, dear boy,

it’s in her silence,

the way she does not speak,

over you, or in front of you,

her heart, it just listens, and unaffectedly beats.

But make no mistake, boy,

her quiet is not weak.

And her wisdom?

Oh, it’s old,

it’s as old as the sky, the wind,

as old as the sticky, well-worn mat beneath her feet.

That ancient one inside her soul,

once lost, now found

the one accepting Divinity’s return,

the one who knows it all,

who has seen it all,

who is filled with power gushing,

like a deep, river rushing,

still has so very much to learn.

So, just listen,

to her whisper

to her poignant, patient breath

when she exhales,

she responds,

by not telling you what to do,

or figuring life out for you,

she wants to let you be,

and love you quietly,

It’s how she loves herself now,

without your approval,

without affirmation from others, 

however kind that is.

Sometimes, though,


she opens the door,

for that distant, ugly girl,


occasionally, but beseechingly

breaks into her head,

begging to be seen and heard,

pleading for her attentions,

wanting to be fed.

The girl who is still holding on to jealousy,

indifference, resistance, resentment,

by a thread

oh that girl, the ugly one 

is long gone, but still not dead.

She’s human after all. 

But, even so,

do you see it?

That confidence about her?

Seeking to seep inside her,

weaved into her hair, her majestic crown,

her aura, shades of yellow unbound?

And, see it?

The boldness of her stance?

Who does she think she is?

Standing there like that?

Defending and undefended

like a palisade, tall, serene.

And how does she walk around like that?

Acting like you can’t break her?

It’s because she knows you can’t

It’s because she broke herself once,

and once is enough.

Now her soul is steely still,

she has the peace of iron will,

in her bosom, the answer,

she is but a cycle breaking,

a supernova quaking,

And when she rains, out she pours,

pours on your needy parade,

she recognizes the pain,

the pain in your charade.

And that’s why you can see it, see it in her

and you can feel it,

the earth, move

under your feet,

whenever she’s around

because she sees her younger self in you

and she’s sorry for it,

and a little angry too,

for you, you’re going through it,

she watches some dark history repeat. 

But now,

now her breath is hot and bold,

she pulls flames up from her belly,

and though mercy, honor, surrender,

are not an easy story to tell,

they are surely and truly her rebel yell.

Who is she, you ask?

You are asking, aren’t you?

She is the universal, primal Om,

she is shanti, shanti, shanti,

she is the sound of life revealing,

a mountain,

a tree unfurling,

an eagle soaring,

an elephant roaring,

as falseness crumbles at her feet.

And now

now she is kneeling,

with prayer hands healing,

her third eye peeling,

and she is

she is

a fierce, whole and humble, happy baby

a peaceful warrior



KimberlyValzania02Kimberly Valzania practices mindful gratefulness. She feels creatively driven to write about and share her personal experience and opinion on weight loss, fitness, life changes, adventures in parenting, day-to-day triumphs (and failures), and the truth-seeking struggle of simply being human. She believes that life is indeed a journey, and that precious moments appear (like magic) when you surrender, hold hands, and fling yourself into the great, wide, open.


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