Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
mothers, your mothers,
and great grandmothers,
join us in spirit this night
follow the sound of our voices,
seek our fire and its light.
we’ve summoned the flames
now we call out your names,
dear ancestors, hold on tight
to this blood which bonds us,
come forth from beyond as
the moon comes into sight.
daughters, sisters gathered close,
bring forth the herbs
you treasure most
for these women
we have come to host,
we’ll roll their hearts’ delight
and ease the burden on their bones
as we carry on their fight
they’ll guide us, advise us,
stand their ground beside us
while we reclaim our birthright,
a world in which we rule the day
just as we rule the night.

the fifth poem
A son of Adam born anew,
Arrives into a joyous hopeful stage,
Everything set in colors of blue,
Two becomes three on a brand new page,

A son of Adam as he grows,
Has certain traditions to uphold,
None of which he yet knows,
But soon everything will unfold,

A son of Adam as he gets older,
Must bring his molders glory and gold,
To be the brave unrelenting soldier,
To be a savior and above all bold,

Now when a daughter of Eve is born,
The molders have such different hopes,
The loss of a possible son they mourn,
Then soon they begin pulling her ropes,

A daughter of Eve for generations past,
Is a puppet to her family's whims and woes,
Not a rival to the son, she is an outcast,
Never allowed to be bold or oppose,

A daughter of Eve must become a mill,
And produce until she has procured a son,
That is her destiny to fulfill,
Otherwise, society will quietly shun,

A daughter of Eve can perhaps teach,
A son of Adam she has produced,
How not to become traditions leech,
And break the circle of abuse.
Jen P Sep 10
On the cool earth
I writhe

Soon they will come to me
To pity
This unpretty thing

But I will be left alone
Left to fester
Left to spoil

I will drain into the dirt
Until I am empty

Until there is none for none
or any but me

Faint in the distance
I can still hear them speak
"Mothers purge your daughters
Of the dirt. It does not come off easy."
Francie Lynch Aug 20
I recall the day, before she was five,
She asked to go, and play outside.
I answered, Yes, for awhile;
For I read his poem, about the road,
The travails she'll face far from home.
At our door I watched her play,
And saw the roads lead her away.

There'll be times she's on her own,
In a one-on-one, or in a throng;
In places where she won't belong;
Or find herself between right and wrong.

Yet, I untied the knot,
Dropped the tether; as a father,
I knew there'd be tools to hone,
Wits to sharpen, boards to carry,
An ax to edge on her whetstone.
There was work to be done.

If all goes well,
If I got it right,
It won't matter
Which path she roams;
She'll always know
Which lead her home.
Derrick Jones Aug 16
The words flow like water
Drip dripping from my mind
Like a father’s pride for his daughter
Even after he caught her
Doing something he never taught her
Smoking weed with her friend
Why does childhood have to end?
He laments and he vents and he grounds her for a month
A punishment for growing up, for rolling a blunt
For changing so much
But deep inside he knows that every child grows and he has to let go
That’s the way my words flow
girl gonzo Aug 16
you used to bring me a blueberry muffin in a white paper bag every day from a bakery near your work
when i would bite into it
the blueberries would burst like little stars dying
i am ordinary, barefoot and head sunken in a fluid mountain of mousy hair
there was a day when the heaven's gate closed but i can't recall
a disheveled plastic container that held all of my belongings on the side of the curb
i held my bladder until the infection stood in front of me that sunny morning and told me to spit in the neighborhood's eye
when you kissed me i couldn't see anything but a mustache that felt like a sharp toothed comb in the bathroom i would sometimes bite when my compulsions got out of hand
my hand in the pocket of a jean jacket that smelled of old newspapers
that's how it is, you spend hours watching Bonanza and i never memorized their names but i knew your favorite was the one in all black
the back of my head being crushed because the guns would shoot but there was never any blood
and when the train station took me along with the wind
i knew that i loved you but it was just the kinda love that gets insects bites so you put lemon balm and never call them only think of them softly so as not to disturb your small body anymore
this is turpentine in a blender
Ismahanwrites Jul 24
It started with small bottles then small bottles became long liquors then long liquors became drunk house guests then drunk house guests became sleeping over in hotels then sleeping over the hotels became moving out from the house because he felt unsafe with his daughters.
it is a probelm when fathers blame you for their mistakes
Carnivorous fruit from uneartly plants!
Adults pumped into the children!
Murderous clouds in the sky!
They've created a million ways to die!

Eating you through the air!
Eating you through the water!
Eating you through the edibles!
Eating your sons and daughters!
girl gonzo Jun 13
my favorite girl is honeycombed
a heart of bitter jelly locked
the ants crawl but dissipate
amidst, i blush coquettishly
i am her prince, blue and fond
stranded in abundance of wild grass
somewhere in Texas
my throat is dry and my mouth lingers
on the sunflower seeds i spit aimlessly
into the dirt
Waiting for seedlings to crawl, a spurt of
"this love will grow someday"
i can taste the spit of the tongue
that knows my name by heart
and wouldn't have it any other way
no i wouldn't have it any other way
my fondness is knee deep fuckerr
Mary-Eliz May 9
In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.

Daily she put on shmattehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty

even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,

to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.

Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups

for her to drink the sweet
sacramental wine of fulfillment.

The story shone in her as through
tinted glass, how the mother

gave up and did without
and was in the end crowned
with what? scallions? crowned
queen of the dead place

in the heart where old dreams
whistle on bone flutes
where run-over pets are forgotten,
where lost stockings go?

In the coffin she was beautiful
not because of the undertaker's
garish cosmetics but because
that face at eighty was still

her face at eighteen peering
over the drab long dress
of poverty, clutching a book.
Where did you read your dreams, Mother?

Because her expression softened
from the pucker of disappointment,
the grimace of swallowed rage,
she looked a white-haired girl.

The anger turned inward, the anger
turned inward, where
could it go except to make pain?
It flowed into me with her milk.

Her anger annealed me.
I was dipped into the cauldron
of boiling rage and rose
a warrior and a witch

but still vulnerable
there where she held me.
She could always wound me
for she knew the secret places.

She could always touch me
for she knew the pressure
points of pleasure and pain.
Our minds were woven together.

I gave her presents and she hid
them away, wrapped in plastic.
Too good, she said, too good.
I'm saving them. So after her death

I sort them, the ugly things
that were sufficient for every
day and the pretty things for which
no day of hers was ever good enough.
The beginning of a poem Liz Balise posted "Where I Left Them" reminded me of this Marge Piercy poem. Liz's went off in a totally different direction, but since I had been reminded of this, I thought I'd share it.
Next page