A sorrow that feels like a mother
Out of shape, with a little scar
A cool kiss-mark that I wipe
On my way out of the house
Do not stumble, mother. Do not you
Lose your way on your way to us
I love you with childhood, with maturity
With the stubborn memory
Of chipped walls and a crammed room
Where you lived as a bride of waxen wings
Do not laugh when you speak
To us of flight. Do not warn with
A softened voice.

The cloak of your quiet
Leaves a scent in my palms
And the women sense it
The men are lured, they promise
Absolution, and I flee
Like a fly, return like a fly, I cower
In the shadowing absence of word

And it is in all my work. You,
Candle. Bribing the night
For momentary mercy. Do not laugh
When you itch to weep.
Your woolen arms loyal to tear
To fear and defeat. I know a lament
That talks of you

With a swollen lip, its reticence
Brittle as chalk, it bursts as a stifled
Fruit of spite, it eats eats eats you
I hate you with shame, with burning
Flight. I hate you with the sun.
I write all night, I cannot sing
I rob the little sleep of dream
And weep weep weep for you
Then crawling I sink within my blue
And let the morning dove take lead

Mother;
Mothering? Smothering?
do we need to re-mother?
Love of another?
Enduring legacy of
Loss and despair,
Acceptance, love and joy.
Reconciliation.
Mother;
You help us to recover,
Hope for more to come,
And life to enjoy!

no, i mean this anger
no, i mean this guilt
no. i mean, what is the difference
between this anger and guilt?
because the chains all rattle the same behind me.

i could go and ask my mother,
but the lines on her face would deepen
and she would tell me there is only anger
and she doesn’t know guilt
and how could i expect her to believe in something
which she has never experienced?
and would i take the trash on my way out?

i am unsure if it is my fault my mom feels this way,
or if it is my fault she doesn’t feel any differently.
she’s sewn me richly ornamented robes,
woven from girlhood ambitions fallen short
threaded with hopes she had long dismissed.
but i am not joseph, and the garments never seemed to fit me right.
and my mother is not god,
her love has never been unconditional.

the robes have long since become stiff
gathering dust on the coat rack.
maybe i could hang some of the guilt there, too.
or maybe i’ll hang the anger.
or maybe i’ll hang both.
or maybe i’ll hang on to it all a little longer.

i never learned when it’s appropriate to let go
and i learned a little too late about the bruises i leave behind by holding on so tightly.
a lesson all my mothers before me had to learn.
after all, in the very beginning,
eve never once received a mothers embrace.
the closest mother she had was the garden of eden.
(was she saddened in her exile, or was she relieved to be free?)

I look down from blue skies on high.
Birds fly,
And sing.
Clouds make their rounds.
Shifting shapes,
Take the form of peace,
Content with itself.
The wind whooshes and whirls my hair.
I smile at its gentle caress,
Happy to receive an old friend.
Together we surf the heavens,
Bid our greetings
And farewells,
To the Gods above.
Feeling safe and protected.

Arching across the firmament,
I become separated from the wind.
Frantic,
I search the sky for any sign
Of my wayward friend.
I ask of the birds:
"Do you yet glide upon the breeze?"
"No," said they,
"We must flap and flap
Just to stay a flight."
Worried,
I look down at the clouds;
Still moving,
Shapes still.
...
And dark.
So... Dark.
Lights flashed within.
A terrible boom sounded,
Causing me to loose focus on my peace,
Leaving me to fall downward,
Ever downward towards the raging storm.
Panicked, I yell to the Gods in the heavens:
"Please, I have lost the wind,
And without it,
I am left to plummet!"
I was scared.
Would the Gods save me?
Would the wind?

My prayers unanswered,
I plunged into the abyss.
My hairs stood on end
As electricity arced.
The sound of thunder,
Deafened my ears,
Leaving a hollow ringing,
Screaming,
Thinking it's the end I begin
To sing:
"Above the clouds I knew peace,
Tranquility,
The love of friends,
And songs of birds.
I was free to smile,
And happy with my lot,
High above the human rot;
But now I fall.
The Gods too cruel.
The wind is gone;
And storms duel.
If this is the end,
Then perhaps I will rise again."

As the last lyric left my lips,
I broke through the clouds,
Fighting off hail and sleet,
As I spun out of control.
Rain began to soak me,
Leaving me shriveled
And wrinkled,
As if I'd aged a century.
I can see the earth now;
My sweet mother,
Who had nurtured me,
And taught me to soar.
She too was also sodden.
Rivers flooded the ground.
Trees were being torn from their footing.
Lightning struck repeatedly.
A blinding cacophony,
That left dark scars on her skin.

Humans ran where'd they could.
Some climbed mountains,
Other dug into her flesh.
Parasitic cowards,
Unwilling to face their fate.
Their greed and avarice
Were what led me to the skies,
All that time ago,
When I cried to the great mother:
"They take and take and take,
Yet never do they give to you.
Once they worshiped you
With offerings of laurel
And incense.
Now they insist upon stealing your life."
Warmly, she brushed away my tears,
Saying:
"My dear nymph,
They know not what they do.
Just like you,
They too are searching for peace.
Though, they are not a part of me;
They do not pray to the Gods.
They do not dance with the trees.
They do not sing with the birds.
They do not blow with the breeze.
Much like lightning,
They are static,
And ever racing.
Life is a competition they feel they must win,
Regardless of the cost."

As the memory faded,
So too did that feeling of falling.
Looking around,
I saw light that was bright,
Instead of dark.
Clouds parted to shine brilliant rays,
Pristine,
A rainbow curved over a mountain top,
And birds sailed once more in leisure.
Looking down,
I see that I'm floating
Just inches from the ground.
Then feel just the slightest cool kiss
Brush across my cheek:
"My friend! You've returned!
And not a moment too soon!
For if you had been just a single second later,
I would have reunited with the mother,
Six feet under."
A new smile bloomed on my lips,
Relieved to be alive,
Yet also sad to see the state of Gaia;
Flooded and scarred.
She was unrecognizable.

I whispered to the wind:
"Set me down dear breeze,
For I must commune with the forest,
And help heal the damage
Caused by murderous men."
Unexpectedly, the wind lifted me up,
But not towards the heavens.
No,
The wind raced me to the nearest mountain;
Rainbow still curved over,
Where the humans huddled
In their ragged masses.
Stricken, I fought against the wind,
Wanting only to fall again:
"Those men and those women,
Threw me away so long ago.
They made me feel such pain and sorrow
As they hewed my forest
To satisfy their insatiable hunger,
Forgetting those days of peace,
Where nymphs helped lost humans,
And humans composed beautiful poems
About nymphs.
... And their great mother."

The wind did not listen,
Setting me down in the center of the pestilence.
I cowered,
Wondering why my friend
Would act so cruel?
The humans around me shied away.
Some yelled "demon".
Others "fiend".
I cried then,
Feeling other than,
And yelled at them:
"Stay away you barbaric heathens,
I will not let you cut me again!
Nor witness you harm my mother!"
Then, I felt the wind...
It nudged me towards a crying child.
She wasn't much taller than myself.
I felt... empathy for it.
Together we cried tears of fear,
And sorrow;
Both victims of life's losses.
Mine, in the past.
Hers, in the present.
Sobbing, I asked her:
"Why do you cry young one?"
She wailed:
"I lost my mommy!"
My tears redoubled as I said:
"I too have lost my mother,
But it is not the same.
You see, dear child,
I have been watching my mother die
For far longer than you have lived,
Or will live.
So do not cry.
Instead, go offer some incense and laurel
To the spirit of Gaia;
Pray to the Gods.
Dance with trees.
Sing with birds.
Blow in the breeze.
Find peace in nature as your people once did,
And compose a poem for me,
To read in Elysium.
...
If you do this,
A mother you will find.
I know, because I asked the Pythia,
Long ago,
In a different time."

Your Love,
        extends,
beyond generations.

O mother of the Saviour of the world,
     Blesséd art thou, among all women blest,
For God himselfe within thy womb was curl'd,
     And God himselfe did suckle at thy brest;
And he that dyed and rose and quitt the tomb
Blossom'd within thy house and there did bloom.

The firstborn fruit of Gods inerrant seede,
     Press'd like a bunch of grapes beneathe His wrath
Untill the Man of Sorrowes sore did bleede
     And suffer more than any martyr hath,
Was offer'd vpp a sacrifice for mee
By Father God and, Mother Mary, thee.

Woman, behold thy Sonne, the glorifi'd,
     Transfigur'd Kinge of Heauen; lion, lamb,
Messiah, God and man who liu'd and died
     And liues againe for aye, and is I AM;
Like Abraham, the LORD did ask thy Sonne;
Like Abraham, thou saidst, Thy will be donne.

Somewhere in all the mixing
of these herbs and spices
I was caught in a scent of remembering
the way my mother crushes
crushed black pepper
because it is never fine enough
And the way she closes her eyes
sprinkling in salt, cayenne, cumin...
never measured, never the same
Just hands with so much to remember
hands with so much weight
holding the past and present
holding our hair and the house,
holding her pain and my pain
holding a ladle and my hand
smiling and laughing
I chase her down for a hug
as she runs from one *** to another
we giggle and giggle,
and the flame feels cold
unparalleled to her warmth