Katie 20h

It is easy – easier – to imagine that at the first stirring of the breeze,
Everything ought to be thrown to the wind. The tides are going out
But does that mean that everything on the shore will be swept away?

When I feel the gurgle of the waves on my feet, is it feasible that
God does not intend for me to be drowned? I stand in a pool of possibility:
Root myself deeper in the sand, or surrender myself to the sea. I think

My mother worries about me, 300 miles away, because in our
Distance she senses dissonance. I am the rock face bruised by the wind –
But only because I want to be. She is the lighthouse entreating me to come in

Off the water’s edge, and join her where it is safe and light and where she can
Train her gaze on me in all my darkest days. Am I tempted? Her unblinking eye
Implores me to be honest. How far must I cast my beams for you to find me?

The spray of salt reaches my side before I can answer, and brine beats Light in this race. Storms come and go, and I watch them and hope
For the sake of my mother that when I cry, it goes unheard under
The squall. The wind and waves, unrelenting, ground me in humility.

After all, when a sea-weary sailor spots a lighthouse, does his hand
Quiver on the tiller to change his course, or does the quiet thrilling thought of home
Encompass him, comfort him, call him to stay steady ahead!

We steer clear of the lighthouse: we keep our eyes level,
Our emotions at bay, and clew our sails for the cliff,
A brooding entity rising out of the ocean, recalcitrant: resistant.

My mother keeps my flame burning from another state.
Tender stoking, stalwart tending. I stand tall not because
I know she sees me, but because I can see her doing the same,

Daring the sea to stifle her laugh, her light.

The Flower – A Tribute ©

Thank you flower for the wonderful bouquet you present to me

Thank you flower for your fragrance
That fills the air and makes me smile

Thank you flower for allowing me touch your silkiness
And to feel beauty

Thank you flower for blessing me with your array of colors

Thank you flower being there...

On my Birthday and to count the years

On Mother’s Day to thank Mom for being Mom

On Father’s Day to be with Dad

On Valentine’s Day to let my sweetheart know I love her

On my wedding day to celebrate my relationship

To celebrate my child’s birth

At so many special occasions

Even when there wasn’t a good reason

And one last thank you,
Thank you for being there when I pass on

I know you will brighten the room
Even if it is a sad moment for those left behind

Thank you flower for making me feel better
Knowing that you will be there

Andreas Simic©

suze suze Sep 10

I saw her suffer by my side;
Day by day she grew stronger;
I grew stronger on the outside,
But inside -
I grew just as weaker.

I smiled to comfort her,
And she -
To comfort me.
But inside,
Our hearts writhed in pain.

Her hair fell out-
But her eyes shined more and more.
And her lips were chapped,
But her smile , all the more pretty.
She grew beautiful with pain.

The doctor's words indicated separation was inevitable;
But still , hope nevertheless gave us hope.

Still now,
I can feel my little baby in my arms,
The way she called me "ma",
And how,  each time she did,
I felt complete.

these are just mere words
the pain of the mother can never be really portrayed

power pose
in front of the angry men
"we're not scared of you"

but they should be
she spits fire bright
from lips she wears matte dark
she's digging the perfectly manicured claws into the palms of her hand
hands that bring incredible generosity
and incredible pain
depending on how audaciously you approach her

with your alcohol-stenched breath
and a body that takes up space
but contains nothing of substance
aside from liquor of course
an empty, angry vessel of wordy slurs and slurred words

she knows they don't deserve her tears
they should feel grateful to receive even a smirk
an ounce of her attention
in this economy
with the men who untuck their shirts after a long day's work
unaware of what the women have been up to
is priceless

you can't commodify what you can't touch

they are not beds waiting for you
to lay down on
to make your lives easier
while you weigh down upon ours

her silk sheet skin
and the comfort of knowing she will be there at 2pm and 2am

this is her home
this body is an address
it is not your residence
loiterers will be fined
she will be fine

power pose
the power grows
this is your power prose
because mama,
you will be fine

for jass

Sere and yellow,
Rough and round, [bright pebbles in a mound]
Pitted and mellow,
Winding our necks round,
We wore them.

Amber beads unearthed from clay,
Fashioned by my artist love,
Glowing yellow, filled with day,
Captures sunbeams from above.
I still love them.

Some say gods have made these,
To ensnare the light of Sun,
But we women saved these,
In memory & hope of sons,
We keep them.

Fat & smooth as butter,
We turned them in our hands.
The bone beads scraped with madder,
The amber just with sand.

Those of shadowy carnelian
Embedded like a shield,
We treasure as we fear them,
Like wounds on battlefields.

The others soaked with brownish earth,
Sere and yellow,
Rough and round, [bright pebbles in a mound]
Pitted and mellow,
Winding our necks round,
We wore them.

So, when we are dead, take not from us,
These rounded, golden suns,
But bury them with us, with sword and severed buss,
To revere the slaughtered ones,
Who never returned to us.

Susan Tolbert-White – Revised November 15, 2016

This poem was inspired by several photos taken by poet/photography and historian, Giles Watson, of amber and other beads unearthed at an Anglo-Saxon dig site in England. I was struck by the way the amber still glowed after hundreds of years beneath the earth, and the artistry of them.
Patrick Aug 16

The masses roar for the heads of
But mothers once gazed down upon them
With dreamy eyes
At souls untarnished by
Hate, Violence, Terror
A Man on a Hill once said to
Love thy neighbor
So, even if they don’t
Don’t you think we should?

Francie Lynch Aug 15

Dear Dear:

I heard you're not well, and I'm sorry as hell. Nobody, not me, not anyone we know, could see it coming. Was it metastasized kindness with a primary worry; some say eroded patience and promises, a tightening of throat, are systemic symptoms of a body of hope.  I can send you the quote:

                               Drs. say excessive and extensive heart
                               failure is brought on by an over-exposure
                               to caring, and hence, is co-existent with
                               the rapacious spread of the disease.
                               Fortunately we've isolated the hosts.

I was sorry as hell to hear you're not well, and I asked,
Why you, not another?
But your immune to such an infectious question.
And Dear, I'm sad to say,  there's no remedy. You're  stricken with being a mother.

Laura Duran Aug 14

Is it okay that I still love you?
Even knowing what you did?
I knew nothing at the time
Hell, I was just a kid

I sometimes got the feeling
That maybe you were mean
But I'd push it from my mind
Like some forgotten dream

You used to tell me stories
Before I'd go to sleep
You shared with me imagination
But kept your secrets hidden deep

As I grew into a woman
You gave me great advice
You taught me to be honest
For to lie you pay a price

You told me I was beautiful
And you loved to hear me sing
I never felt you judge me
I could tell you any thing

By then my sister and brother
Had left to escape your fury
You made us think they alone were guilty
A swift exile by judge and jury

I believed they were to blame
Yes, I believed your lies
Even though Dad's heart was broken
Even when I heard his cries

As the years progressed
You shared a little of your tale
About your bastard of a father
And how he put you all through hell

Your last years were full of pain
You suffered much before your death
You begged them for forgiveness
Then you took your final breath

But the damage was too great
And we would not recover
We remained estranged
From our sister and our brother

Since your death I've learned the truth
What you did, and what was done to you
My hearts breaks for the abuse you gave
And the hell that you went through

Now my heart is so confused
I don't know how to feel
Is it okay to love you?
Is the woman I knew even real?

I can't explain it any better
And I don't know what to do
I wish some one would just tell me
Is it okay to love you?

A poem I wrote about my mother many years after her death, when I learned the truth about what she had kept hidden from her children.  So much more than could fit in any poem.  I remain confused about a lot of things, but I love her.  I am me, in part at least, because of her.  What ever wrongs she committed, she is my mom and I'll always love her.

A mother once told her son
Babe you have a heart of gold,
One day someone will see it
They will not abuse you
they'll take you and that heart by surprise.
Before you can even feel it.
Don't give up son
She will be worth it
The one to steal your heart
And tell you that you deserve it
Stay strong my son
Don't falter in the pain
She is right around the corner son
Save that heart for the one
Who truly understands what they will gain

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