All posts filed under: Poetry Archive

Told mama I forgave her, she said girl, what ever do you mean?

If I took a walk through your garden, what would I see? Told Mama I forgave her, she turned and said, “Forgive? Girl, what ever do you mean? ‘Tuh. For what could you possibly forgive me?!” It is the first day of month seven and I keep forgettin’ to bring an umbrella every time I step out Even if I did, I’d probably hold it upside down the way men tell you to turn frowns In an effort to catch all the blessings (angelito manifestations; silver linings courier service) falling to us from the sky It is the first day of July It’s ok, Mama, don’t cry. 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!

The Tide

A yawning, mawing emptiness that lies inside her without rest That pulls away at every thread, that leaves her sick and full of dread. With every step she takes in life, through love and loss, through pain and strife, she yearns to fill the void inside, to plant herself before the tide. The man she sleeps beside in bed with charming words and roses red. Though patient much, he cannot win. He cannot touch the depth within. The boy and girl, her love runs deep and yet they fail to see her weep. They fail to see the beating drum that beats inside their loving mum. And though the hugs and kisses leave a feel of warmth, a small reprieve, the tide is never far away for happy feelings never stay. The friend will always save her seat to laugh and rant each time they meet. The darkness then is kept at bay, the tide receding for a day. But as her confidence will dip, her lovely smile leaves her lip. The hollow feeling makes …

Mother

Dearest mother, I’ve fallen in and out of love more times than I can gather And where have you been through it all? dearest love, sincerest mother Breasts I once clung to But was never allowed to tether Dearest mother, mommy, please Where have you been? Nudged from the nest ‘Cause you thought indulgent affection was a sin So I learned to fly and never to crawl Never to be weak and on my knees, Never given permission to bawl Where have you been? Through it all. Mother Not just a noun, but a verb Beloved mother, Be loved. If not by me then please, Lord, by another. I pray by me, one day, Concurrent mother and daughter. Image by Juarte Cesnaite 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!

Breasts

My niece Came to me one day Picked up a pickle Off the sunny side of the day Climbed up to my lap To press my breasts Her eyes like almonds Enquired about the strange softness I held her dimpled hands And thought about how The clock will smoothen The dimple off that bow And blood would flow From where there were no wounds But blood will flow And blood will leave A trail of womanhood Sprinkled like autumn leaves And some will be breasts Some heartbreaks Some euphoria Some time’s shade But when she feels her hands Upon her chest Away from her heart How I’ll be away Not seeing one life mature In the wake of one to degrade 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!

Save Her

Have you ever looked so closely at a child’s face that you could see God? Victoria Chang, Obit what if I told you that I am wandering in the wasteland of a war-torn country, desperate to defend my young daughter? or what if I told you that my daughter is the war-torn country, and this is America, this is America and we are in a hospital room for those who want to be protected from themselves? and what if in order to keep the war-torn country on the map I have to convince you it needs saving? maybe where we are, the name of the country, which war, whose daughter, –doesn’t matter. listen to the long gone and the newly dead, their elegy is short and sweet and pleads with us in every language: save her save her is that a clock ticking in the corner or is it a bomb? you should know that a mother determined to keep her child alive can turn anything into a weapon: a clock, a daisy, a prayer, …