F/Houston, TX Throwing stuff up to see what sticks.
Anthology - Sometimes a Garden, ISBN 1-894241-03-7
http://battistonpublishing.com/ 135 followers / 16.1k words
Here I am standing within this moment. I feel the echoes of time's tide Lapping at my feet, washing over me Reaching the top of my head. My brain suddenly comprehending What time actually means to each of us.
Mother comes to where she is most needed Her gibbering womb speaks healing words She tells of times when she was barren She recalls the times when she gave birth She speaks of pain in the blood of children Written in red on black hearts of evil men She gathers children birthed by others to her Covers them with the volume of her skirt Though she had not born them she nurtures Calls them hers and continue to give them life She cries "Sisters, I will grow them in your behalf" Her womb speaks of each one as equaled in love She is eternally Mother and the world is her child
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Mother comes to where she is most needed Her gibbering womb speaks healing words She tells of times when she was barren She recalls the times when she gave birth She speaks of pain in the blood of children Written in red on black hearts of evil men She gathers children birthed by others to her Covers them with the volume of her skirt Though she had not born them she nurtures Calls them hers and continue to give them life Her womb speaks of each one as equaled in love She is eternally Mother and the world is her child
She blew her brains out Out by the dumpster The note she left said She had no one who cared And she went out that way Because she didn't want to Leave a mess for the cleaning lady I found a bucket, a good bucket (I think it may have been hers) Castoff and tossed afterwards I needed a bucket like she Needed to have a friend to care So, now when I use it, I keep her In my mind and alive, Although I never knew her
There's a little frog In the garden beds Beneath my balcony. Each morning, he greets With his peep, peep, peep. A spoonbill crane, In its rose-colored cloak, Swoops down to steal A tasty meal. But my little frog Will sing its morning song, On and on, still.
Words mean what they mean, I ask? But, ah, they can be nuanced or veiled. They can be soft as cotton, feather-light, Or hit like the proverbial ton of bricks Dead on the nail head hammering Their impact home. That's the power Of the weight of words. Weigh them carefully.