Ginny Webb Jan 30
How do you hold on to a blessing?

Tiny fingers and tiny toes
Wrapped in a blue cotton blanket.
The evening laughter in the hall
And the silence after
Made of living, breathing bodies,
Under a single roof and a sky
Brushed with falling stars.

And once when you were six
And sat upon your daddy's knee
And he, gazing at your mother, smiled.
A moment caught
Like a weathered painting
Upon a broken wall.
The bricks like ragged remnants
Of Rome before the fall.
Because all greatness crumbles
Because all young men stumble
Into useless, wrinkled bodies,
Raging like blind ponies
Against a locked and
Shrinking stall.

So, how do you hold on to a blessing?
And how do you even love at all?

You see, I used to count them
Like notches on an immortal tree.
Naïve, stacking each one like
Little petals from paper roses
Or brightly colored falling leaves.
Holding them tightly against my chest
Afraid that they would scatter,
As if by clutching them there I could prevent
The winter that comes after.

But I am left
Trembling in a deep and unforgiving snow
The flowers dead, the petals buried
Clutching only your picture
And that wretched question:
“Why did you go?”
For anyone who has suffered loss. I know this is pessimistic, but looking around at my beautiful little children, my family, I cringe when people say "you are so blessed," because, yes, I AM, but with that comes the knowledge that all of this is so fragile, so temporary, so illusory, and I don't want to let it go! How selfish I can be. I want to hold them all here because they complete me. Life is a series of losses, or so it seems lately. We have our memories, at least.
Ginny Webb Sep 2017
Don’t burst my heart with tiny daggers,
Draw your sword instead.
I see you sneaking around
The edges of the battle,
Flicking your venomous tongue
From a reptilian head.  
Just come at me with your saber,
Unsheathe your anger now,
Like the thundering clouds
That are brave enough to

I hate you!
Your poison leaks across your face,
Absorbed and erased
By osmosis.
Your thirsty skin,
It drinks the bitter river
Of sin that pools in the corners
Of your smirk.
Your lips are dripping toxins;
Your mouth is spitting dirt.
A nuclear meltdown,
Let me have it,
Make me hurt.

Don’t burst my heart with tiny daggers,
They’re not strong enough to kill.
I’m here in all my luminescence,
My naked essence,
Just bright enough to spill
Your eviscerated anger,
Which drips like  
Deadly ink
From the sharpened edges
Of my quill.
Passive-aggression is the worst! I hate it in relationships and I hate it on our national stage. Just reveal the true depths of your hatred already. Lay it all on the line! Don't dance around the edges of a battle with a fake smile plastered on your face. I'd rather see the demon inside, than some fake snake.
Ginny Webb Sep 2017
There is a little man
Staring at me,
Cradled in my arms
With eyes so wide,
It is as if
They could hold
All my stars.

And yet,
To him,
I am the universe;
All the darkness
Folding gently
Around his innocence.

And in this galaxy, I will hold
His hands forever,
Cloaking these tiny fingers
In the astral winds
Of memory.

Always my tiny man,
Clutched to the shores of
My skin.
An ocean to my moon,
Forever sheltered  
By the gentle pull of
A mother’s lunar light.

My little man.
My tiny shooting star,
Your blue eyes pierce my night,
Two meteors,
Ripping through all of my defenses
With their unadulterated light.
Born from my core,
Breathing with me there,
Forever bound
By an indestructible force
That once formed cannot be undone;
A gravity of love
Between a mother and her son.
For my little man. I love you forever, son. E.E. Cummings once wrote, "You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars." Inspiration for this poem and how I feel about all of my children, though there is a special sweetness between a mother and a son.
Ginny Webb Jun 2017
These lines on my belly are tangled and thick like
The dark underbrush of some Amazonian paradise
Where between the indigo streaks of
A primeval forest
Dance vibrant birds.

I can hear them singing there, chirping just beneath my skin,
A simple song of birth; of a million women clawing their nails into the earth, as in ecstasy they hear,
That first soft and mewing cry.

These lines are stretched thin over a canopy of soft and
Rolling skin, once taut and bronzed,
Now gentle and accepting,
The dance of tiny fingertips and toes
From deep within, and now without,
In the darkness of the night,
When I pull the covers to surround my children in
My warmth; the love that seeps from
Forests deep inside, and trickles without end
Through every hallowed line.
Once I had a child's body. Then ,I had a young and beautiful form like some kind of nymph. Now, I have a mother's body and I will love this body just the same, or more.
Ginny Webb Jun 2017
A high ridge in western Wyoming.
A heavy backpack on my shoulders.
Beneath me and rolling to all sides,
Darkened slopes of alpine forests
And reddened canyons cascading
In jagged crops of rock to
Unknown and wild gullies below.
And beneath the western sky,
Along the continental divide,
I am feeling like a thing that blends,
Like I could will my spirit from my skin and let it bleed into the sky and all the mountains calling, come!
And I would answer,
Here I am! Take me! Fade me into your crystalline air.
Erase me! Let this body go and drift my spirit into your singing spines.
And let the wind begin to roll,
In great waves,
Over slopes of thickened pines and brush,
It floods me in a rush that sounds like the aching song of something still free.
The rise and fall of a magestic, sacred sea.
Back in Yellowstone this week with my family. It has been years, but I once spent many weeks backpacking here, and this poem tells of one memory that has stuck with me: the ridge, the endless expanse of wilderness, and the wind that rolled in like the sea.
Next page