All posts filed under: Poetry

Time

Once there was a man named Time He lived at the monkey display near the lemurs The man was old as dirt He loved the animals more than he loved another creature Time wanted to do something special to honor other animal supporters who like animals more than people. He decided to play a trick on the students Time stopped!  He took great elephant’s lead and made unusual times develop on Earth He never stopped really But he made the humans slow down He rotated through numerous obstacles each day wondering when the people would learn their lessons Time didn’t take credit though Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider becoming a sustaining member to help us remain ad-free. Invest in amplifying the voices of Black, Asian, Latine(x), Indigenous and other parents of color at our many intersections. Tiers start at $5/month and reflect your financial comfort.   

Morning Autumn

Mornings in the fall are subtle reminders that how things begin isn’t always how it ends. As the sun rises the frost thins, the leaves fall gracefully in silence, making a nest of colors beneath, unwilling to decay. Motherhood is like spring. We envision flowers blooming as our womb expands like accordions ready to sing. We guess the lyrics of the song and dance in the illusion of all the unknowns. We live in the symphony and speed past the breaks. That is the fallacy of dreams. Craving the touch of sun rays while leaping the sweat, wrinkles, and burns. We love to laugh but dislike laugh lines. We want the goodness without the mess. Being a mother to a diverse child is like Autumn. The third season that was thought of last. An ambivalence of slow mornings with unpredictable afternoons. We don’t call it fall because our children are not a decay. They are the transition between the two seasons most people skip, think of last. Everyone focuses on the beginning or the end of the story. The rising and falling action are …

depressions of symptom

If I ever become an acclaimed writer, I’d worry about the interviews because I don’t know many words. I don’t speak well. The interviewer might ask me about motherhood. I don’t know what I’d say because I don’t mother well. I stay in bed until it’s time for my child to eat and bathe. I tell them to eat and bathe from my bed. Doorbell eviction bell baby wipe showers. sheetsmattressconcaveprison. thesheetsrecyclemystink. sheetsdriedmenstruation. thesheetsaremyplate. Mush inside chrysalis, I hope. Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider becoming a sustaining member to help us remain ad-free. Invest in amplifying the voices of Black, Asian, Latine(x), Indigenous and other parents of color at our many intersections. Tiers start at $5/month and reflect your financial comfort. 

Convergence

For the neurodivergent parents of neurodivergent kids I didn’t come here to tell you I love my kids. I came here to suck and spit venom. Have you ever looked down to see an arrow of your own making sticking out of your chest? That’s the job. I drag myself to the edge of the battlefield to pull these arrows out through the other side. I have been paying myself first, but honestly? I am hanging on by a tenuous spider’s thread. My responsibilities have sucked all the stone out of my bones and the meat from my muscles; Brittle I scrape across the ground; spite and stubbornness are the heaviest things I can carry are what hold me to the ground. The only fuel I have to toss into this engine is the compressed mineral of rage. Because there is nowhere to put this! Because I get shocked snatching you back from live wires Because I had to jump on the grenade you unlocked Because you start fights that I have to finish Because …

De luto y sin dopamina

When I’m knee deep in laundry and memories, no one bothers with my title: Chief Executive Home Officer. I juggle dishes, schedules, control top yoga pants, the nursling. What this organization lacks in goals and long term strategic plans it makes up for in naps and races against time. Llora el bebe. Suena la lavadora. Separo el tiempo como ropa sucia. Días interminables. Mi memoria gira como tu, Papito. Bailabas espontaneidad. ¿Planes? ¡Ja! ¿Qué te importaba ese título: “Director Ejecutivo de Tu Vida”? En el caos se goza, ¿no? La organización, que espere otro día Mami, me decías. Todo bajo control. Laundry diagnoses me. So simple. So out of control: Load after boring load. Week after boring week. Time sorts, sets, starts, spins, shakes, stores. Disorganized suds dance in damp drum. Who needs working memory? Me, laundering for four, that’s who. Imaginary executive assistant brightens my daydreams. She knows how to plan. Me pierdo. Estabas y ya no estás. Papito, tantos planes sin cumplir. Tantos pasajes sin comprar. Nada bajo control. Todos ayudamos. Me encargue …