All posts filed under: Poetry Archive


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.   


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 …

Creativity Interrupted

Read three sentences, check my email Oh that’s a good idea, I’d better write it down it’s too quiet Rush down the stairs Everything is ok this time “Can I have some tape?” Searching for the masking tape in the closet. Found it Not in the tape box, but hooked around a jar of crunchy peanut butter Decide to finish making the hazelnut thumbprint cookies Think about writing this poem of creativity interrupted by motherhood Motherhood as a creative Creativity as a person with ADHD All three things existing chaotically inside of one person The swirl of the chocolate forming a kiss on top “Mom, I can’t do it!” Look at what the middle is doing, paper folded into a homemade envelope Oh crap, he’s knocked over the water The only thing I didn’t clear off the table from the afternoon snack, But the tablecloth had stains from the turmeric latte he had spilled earlier in the day, And hot chocolate stains from where the middle knocked over her cup during snack time, So it …

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 …

The White Night Shirt

Tide-scented, thrice folded, top of pile, she returns to me at night, pulls my soft, sagging mouth down her head and lies down, buffing with her hand my print — a cream and red cottage nesting on her chest. Her mother bought me full-price from the city’s first Westside and now she’s had me longer than she did her mother. It is winter in the picture, we can tell because snow is all over, except not as flakes or crystals but lush, comical apples. So many apples — filling up her dormant arms, polka dotting her hemline, sliced off on her neck — as if Newton was hailed on by one too many ideas at once, the plurality of such impossible weight flattening him before gravity could. This is how grief falls on her. Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider making a one-time or recurring contribution to help us remain ad-free. If even a fraction of subscribers signed up to contribute $1 per month, Raising Mothers could be self-sustaining!