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wes parham May 2014
Perhaps you’ll remember,
though most of us don’t
recall our earliest days.
What relative scale could you use
to describe the things you saw
and the things you felt?
It seems too unreal for a mind
you would one day call mature
and an intelligence
deemed sufficient.
If you could, would you choose,
and what would you find,
if you could retrieve these moments?

when a warm, familiar heartbeat
kept reassuring time,
in a comforting bed at blood temperature,

when hands twice your size
would cradle you completely; move you
from bath to crib,

when loving giants would come
when you called,
to sing or to soothe your pains,

when sleep held dreams of this and more,
in a language we all have spoken,
Beautiful to hear, forgotten on waking
As I struggled with the challenges of being a new parent, I imagined what the perspective might be from my infant daughter's mind.  I wondered what she thought of us, how she would describe us once she could do so in our language.  I say "our language", since the mind must be forming thought before language comes around, some ur-language of the collective conscious mind.  The phrase "loving giants" kept coming to mind, since we must seem colossal to a newborn as we move them about, cause some discomforts, alleviate others, as we sing and laugh to let them know they are safe and cared for.
Read aloud here by the author:
https://soundcloud.com/warmphase/loving-giants
I am afraid that I might hurt you when I carry you
That these hands – tired, calloused, and clumsy
Might not know how to hold a gift as precious as you
Son, I wish I could show you the beauty of the world
Sneak out of the house after dinner, away from your mother
And watch fireflies while listening to the chorus of crickets at night
I wish I could answer all your questions and sate your heart’s wonder
Catch a dew as it rises and trace its path as it falls again as rain
I want you to open your eyes
See a much brighter world; not like mine which is perpetrated by my silly fears
I wish God would give you great hands
One that would be so powerful that it would not be afraid to hold a basketball or a bicycle
But one that is gentle that it would hold mine and not let go as I grow older
How I wish, as you grow older, to give all of these to you
But son, how can I teach you of courage and valor
When inside your father’s chest beats a heart of a fearful dog; cowing in terror
You deserve someone who has a heart of a lion; brave and strong like a true champion
Still, I see you as possible
I need to see your smile to dispel my many terrors
I need to see you get up when you stumble so that I may let go of my failures and always move forward
I need to see you sleep so I may sleep
Need to see you cry so that I too can cry
I want you to like me
To see me
To see me now, in moments like this
Your father stays awake, gazing at your sleeping face
Fumbling as he reaches down to carry you
Being ever so gentle so that you might not wake
I am still afraid that I might hurt you as I carry you
But I need to feel the warmth of your skin
Like my breath needs air to live for
*10:18:08.23:30
Hi guys.  Allow me to narrate the background of this piece.  I'm neither married nor do I have a son. I was 25 when I wrote this. I was asked to perform for a concert for a community of abused children here in Manila, Philippines. They asked to write a piece about love for children and I thought, why not write a poem for my future son.  :) I do hope that I'd have the chance to read this poem to my soon when time comes.   :)
Each day,
I will  love you
with all my heart.
10 w
Ellen Joyce Jun 2013
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.

My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a ****** failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha

My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.

My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, ***** and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.

My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
Translations
When I wrote this poem to express the letting go of the babies much loved but never to be I thought of a song actually from the Prince of Egypt, a song I first heard in Hebrew, so I looked it up.
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
hush now be still love my baby dont cry
hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
sleep while you're rocked by the stream
Jeanette Jan 2014
I.
My son does not understand fear,
he is 3,
he thinks in color,
he believes in magic,
he says that our dog Smokey
controls the weather.

Watch him as he goes!
Jumping over cracks on sidewalks,
pretending to fly,
attempting to get near electric outlets
because he saw them spark once,
and fire,
fire is cool!

"Watch me Mommy!

watch me."

II.
Some days I stay in bed all day,
I tell everyone I am catching a cold,
a sinus infection,
another migraine again.

It is easier to lie than to explain,
that it is too difficult to shower,
to find an outfit, to brush my hair,
to make food,
to chew it.

Friends jokingly call me a hypochondriac,
my Mother thinks I am mellow dramatic,
My son asks me if I need my temperature checked.

It is too honest to say,
"I am fighting monsters, and they won today."
Who would believe me if I did?

We are taught since childhood
to not believe in the things
we can not see.

III.
The day we buried my Grandfather,
I wore my favorite gray dress,
I was scared to taint it
with such a sad memory,
but I was 8 months pregnant
and nothing else fit.

We threw dirt in a hole
as three strangers watched us grieve.
They stood with shovels ready to do their jobs,
ready to get home to their loved ones.  

All I could think about was how much
it aches to love anyone,
even in the good times, it aches.
Loss dances outside our window
like flames, waiting to engulf.

I vowed to protect my child
from any unnecessary pain,
I vowed to make him feel safe.

Now I fear I am the one
tainting him in gray.

IV.
Not every day is bad,
most days are nice, in fact,
some days are so good
that the bad ones seem
like distant memories.

On the good days I feel brave,
brave like my son;

I tickle his tummy and show him
which lights are stars, which are planets,
and tell him I love him, always,
no matter what.

— The End —