Though the rooms of her heart might be shattered
Her strong will and majestic grace remains resolute
She bore the remnants of ochre like tattoos on the walls of her body
As she cradled humanity's first born with promise
Her eyes bore the ravages of battles lost
Yet her reserves will lead us into the future as a blueprint from the beginning
And she will be called the matriarch angel of the universe
-feel no Whistles or Bells?
A river my poor state of mind,
but I am home.
I wish to feel a bit more?
To expiate this Trollop!
...shall I **** the little Gnome?
I SHALL **** THE LITTLE GNOME.
When my grandmother dies,
I hope they fill her casket with flowers.
So that the last time we see her,
she is nestled in amongst
the delicate feathered petals of mountain bluet
haloed by the bright yellow of birdsfoot
of her soft
is caressed by the long stalks of bottle brush
and bog candle
so that we can imagine her,
splayed out in a warm field
on the outskirts of St Johns
laughing in the sunlight
of such a long life,
of mothering so many children,
into the warm red soil.
I hope the service
is held in a small white church
with all the windows thrown open;
the clear air and the sunlight
tumbling down onto our heads,
onto her lightly clasped hands,
onto her soft lips...
I hope they read poems for her
play light happy songs for her
everyone remembers to tell her
they love her.
I will ask,
that they bury her somewhere
with a good view of the stars,
lay her to rest where the wind
blows the smell of the ocean over her,
and she can admire the sunrise
under the arms of a gentle Alder.
I hope we remember
that she has loved
that she has laughed
and been so unbearably human
all of her life
even when she has been quiet
even as she has cared for us.
I hope we remember
what a resilient woman she is
but also how tender.
How new she once was,
and to it’s touch.
And when I
am someone’s grandmother
I hope they remember
that even I,
was once somebody’s lover.
Sustenance for friends and clients;
state your case – come one, come all.
The matron arms of Social Service
will not let you fall.
Food stamps make our nation stronger,
licked, then stuck on the public roll.
Social programs last much longer
adding recipients on the dole…
Like the Ephesian Diana
many are my benefits!
Mine the matriarchal manna;
latch and suckle at my teats.
Yours the client’s right to nurture.
Mother will supply your need;
Child, you must not fear the future –
feed, my baby, feed.
Call me nanny, call me Lord
just make sure you’re calling on me.
Mine are the gifts you can afford
they’re taxpayer-funded, worry-free!
Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing
like an intravenous habit.
Keep that ****** situated
where your will can never grab it
Let it never cross your mind
that there’s an end to all lactation.
Cloward-Piven have refined
Love me. Need me. I’m the State.
Your well-being is my affair.
With your consent I’ll dominate,
because I care.
Check da grafix: http://tinyurl.com/pxafq9s
gone so long
fine memories line
your beauty face adored
paltry company by now
the made doll with her tight red smile
no secrets will divulge
pretty blue eyes held so wide
by violent stitches black
no blinking now and no excuse
the truth is all revealed
as the lie was all reviled
but once it was a simple sharing
blood along the line
mother strength to daughter
from she to me to mine
musing with the doll made by grandmother for her daughter....
— The End —