#parent - Hello Poetry

#parent

The school playground a basis of duality for so many people. Children playing voluntarily together…while parents are forced into proximity. Bound by name and schedule. The birthgiver of your daughter’s best friend. They are so happy together… playing tag. So you speak to the woman you would never choose to voluntary , the one trapped inside your social circle by obligation, not affinity. You exchange words you don’t mean, smiles that don’t reach the eyes. Not for you. Never for you. But for your children….you do anything.

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18h ago

Jun 3, 2026 at 2:35 AM UTC

School Playground

The school playground a basis of duality for so many people. Children playing voluntarily together…while parents are forced into proximity. Bound by name and schedule. The birthgiver of your daughter’s best friend. They are so happy together… playing tag. So you speak to the woman you would never choose to voluntary , the one trapped inside your social circle by obligation, not affinity. You exchange words you don’t mean, smiles that don’t reach the eyes. Not for you. Never for you. But for your children….you do anything.

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Light brings you to life Your form is memories of hope Shadows accentuate your newness Your auroa does not despair Casting forth your beauty The world is driven to respond This treasure must be protected You give what we have lost Your roots spread out in the earth Finding the paths anew Spiraling upward towards the sky You teach us how to grow

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May 2

May 2, 2026 at 11:26 PM UTC

Light brings you to life Your form is memories of hope Shadows accentuate your newness Your auroa does not despair Casting forth your beauty The world is driven to respond This treasure must be protected You give what we have lost Your roots spread out in the earth Finding the paths anew Spiraling upward towards the sky You teach us how to grow

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Generosity Flows from her soul Widows and orphans wrapped in quilts of care Wounded rest on her lap Because she cares The broth of sacrifice is her favorite meal She wishes she could give more! She does not see the love she had given to the world has brightened it She wants to give more! She does not mind scrubbing or loving Even when unnoticed Her father has trained her well Her mother has given so she can give I hope she trains me just the same Could my mother give herself to me?

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Apr 23

Apr 23, 2026 at 12:45 PM UTC

AmeliaRoseDylan

Generosity Flows from her soul Widows and orphans wrapped in quilts of care Wounded rest on her lap Because she cares The broth of sacrifice is her favorite meal She wishes she could give more! She does not see the love she had given to the world has brightened it She wants to give more! She does not mind scrubbing or loving Even when unnoticed Her father has trained her well Her mother has given so she can give I hope she trains me just the same Could my mother give herself to me?

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I move as I please. I speak my own words. I make my own choices. I am free. I have severed the lines that dictated my every motion, snapped them one by one. Yet one remains, taut and hidden, coiled around the rhythm in my chest. I am free to walk away, but not without my ribs collapsing, not without my heart caving inward, crushed beneath the weight of fear, of guilt, of the unshakable past. So I do nothing. I breathe around it. I walk as if I am free, but it binds the part of me that still remembers how to obey.

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Apr 7

Apr 7, 2026 at 5:06 AM UTC

- What The Heart Remembers -

I move as I please. I speak my own words. I make my own choices. I am free. I have severed the lines that dictated my every motion, snapped them one by one. Yet one remains, taut and hidden, coiled around the rhythm in my chest. I am free to walk away, but not without my ribs collapsing, not without my heart caving inward, crushed beneath the weight of fear, of guilt, of the unshakable past. So I do nothing. I breathe around it. I walk as if I am free, but it binds the part of me that still remembers how to obey.

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I found your letter under my pillow this morning. You must have slipped it there before dawn, your small hands trembling, hoping I’d find it before the day got loud. I did. And I’m writing back now, slow and careful, because you deserve a father who takes his time with you. You asked, "Dad, how do I throw a ball?" You cup it like a bird, son. Feel the seams against your palm. Let your elbow bend like a growing thing---like the branch of the oak outside your window. Then you let go. Not at someone. To them. Throwing is just giving. "Dad, why is it round?" So it can roll back to you when you’re lonely. So it has no sharp edges to cut the hands that miss it. "Dad, what do I do if I miss?" You run. Not away---after. The ball doesn’t judge you for missing. It waits in the tall grass, patient as a dog. You pick it up and try again. Missing is how the grass gets to hold something golden for a while. "Dad, where do I find a ball?" I left one in the garage, behind the paint cans. It’s scuffed and a little flat, but it still knows how to bounce. Take it. It’s yours. "Dad, when will I be better?" You’re not broken. You’re bending. Better comes when you stop measuring yourself against silence. You’ll be better the moment you believe you already are. "Dad, will you play ball with me?" I would love nothing more. I’ll stand in the yard after dinner. I’ll call your name, warmly. I’ll keep my glove open like a question. And even if you throw it wild, I’ll chase it. Every time. "Dad, how do I learn?" By watching someone who doesn’t flinch when you make a mistake. I’ll show you. I’ll never look away. "Dad, why am I here?" Because one night, your mother and I held each other and hoped for someone exactly like you. Not a better version. Not a quieter version. You. "Dad, what is good?" Good is a hand on the back of your neck that doesn’t squeeze. Good is bedtime when the voice telling the story doesn’t mock the ending. "Dad, where?" Here. Right here. I’m not going anywhere. "Dad, when will I know?" You already know. You knew when you wrote this letter. Trust the part of you that reached for paper instead of vanishing. "Dad, will you help me?" Yes. Always, yes. Fold your small self into my arms. I’ll carry the heavy things. You just breathe. "Dad, I am sad. How do I cope?" You tell me. You say, “Dad, today the sadness has teeth.” And I’ll sit on the floor with you. We’ll name the sadness like a stray cat. We won’t shoo it away. We’ll just watch it until it curls up and sleeps. "Dad, I am hurting. Why won’t it stop?" Because hurting that lives in a child’s chest doesn’t have a clock. But pain stops when someone finally says, "I see it. I believe you. You’re not too much." I’m saying it now. "Dad, I am angry. What should I do?" Draw it. Scream into a pillow next to me while I scream too. Throw the ball hard at the fence. Angry is not evil, son. Angry is just love that got lost on the way to the door. "Dad, I am lost. Where do I go?" Toward any voice that doesn’t make you smaller. Start here. I’ll leave the porch light on until you find your way back. "Dad, I am waiting. When can I stop?" Stop waiting for an apology that tastes like glass. Stop waiting for hands that don’t leave bruises shaped like “I love you.” You can stop now. Right now. You don’t need permission from the person who locked the gate. "Dad, I don’t know what to do." You put down this letter. You go to the garage and find that ball. You step into the yard---not his yard, not anymore---your yard. And you throw it as high as you can. And when it comes down, you catch it. And you say out loud: I am my own father now. Love, The Boy Who Had to Be.

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Apr 5

Apr 5, 2026 at 5:02 PM UTC

- My Dearest Boy, -

I found your letter under my pillow this morning. You must have slipped it there before dawn, your small hands trembling, hoping I’d find it before the day got loud. I did. And I’m writing back now, slow and careful, because you deserve a father who takes his time with you. You asked, "Dad, how do I throw a ball?" You cup it like a bird, son. Feel the seams against your palm. Let your elbow bend like a growing thing---like the branch of the oak outside your window. Then you let go. Not at someone. To them. Throwing is just giving. "Dad, why is it round?" So it can roll back to you when you’re lonely. So it has no sharp edges to cut the hands that miss it. "Dad, what do I do if I miss?" You run. Not away---after. The ball doesn’t judge you for missing. It waits in the tall grass, patient as a dog. You pick it up and try again. Missing is how the grass gets to hold something golden for a while. "Dad, where do I find a ball?" I left one in the garage, behind the paint cans. It’s scuffed and a little flat, but it still knows how to bounce. Take it. It’s yours. "Dad, when will I be better?" You’re not broken. You’re bending. Better comes when you stop measuring yourself against silence. You’ll be better the moment you believe you already are. "Dad, will you play ball with me?" I would love nothing more. I’ll stand in the yard after dinner. I’ll call your name, warmly. I’ll keep my glove open like a question. And even if you throw it wild, I’ll chase it. Every time. "Dad, how do I learn?" By watching someone who doesn’t flinch when you make a mistake. I’ll show you. I’ll never look away. "Dad, why am I here?" Because one night, your mother and I held each other and hoped for someone exactly like you. Not a better version. Not a quieter version. You. "Dad, what is good?" Good is a hand on the back of your neck that doesn’t squeeze. Good is bedtime when the voice telling the story doesn’t mock the ending. "Dad, where?" Here. Right here. I’m not going anywhere. "Dad, when will I know?" You already know. You knew when you wrote this letter. Trust the part of you that reached for paper instead of vanishing. "Dad, will you help me?" Yes. Always, yes. Fold your small self into my arms. I’ll carry the heavy things. You just breathe. "Dad, I am sad. How do I cope?" You tell me. You say, “Dad, today the sadness has teeth.” And I’ll sit on the floor with you. We’ll name the sadness like a stray cat. We won’t shoo it away. We’ll just watch it until it curls up and sleeps. "Dad, I am hurting. Why won’t it stop?" Because hurting that lives in a child’s chest doesn’t have a clock. But pain stops when someone finally says, "I see it. I believe you. You’re not too much." I’m saying it now. "Dad, I am angry. What should I do?" Draw it. Scream into a pillow next to me while I scream too. Throw the ball hard at the fence. Angry is not evil, son. Angry is just love that got lost on the way to the door. "Dad, I am lost. Where do I go?" Toward any voice that doesn’t make you smaller. Start here. I’ll leave the porch light on until you find your way back. "Dad, I am waiting. When can I stop?" Stop waiting for an apology that tastes like glass. Stop waiting for hands that don’t leave bruises shaped like “I love you.” You can stop now. Right now. You don’t need permission from the person who locked the gate. "Dad, I don’t know what to do." You put down this letter. You go to the garage and find that ball. You step into the yard---not his yard, not anymore---your yard. And you throw it as high as you can. And when it comes down, you catch it. And you say out loud: I am my own father now. Love, The Boy Who Had to Be.

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I never write about you. Maybe I should start. But the pages wouldn’t be big enough to hold all the important and nonchalant things that made you who you were. All the tiny, descriptive details. There will never be anybody like you. No one could love themselves that much. And still, sometimes, I catch myself doing things just the way you used to — the little things no one ever knew about you. But me. Because I saw every color and every bruise you suffered through. I weathered every hard day beside you. I listened to your mouth swear the same words over and over again. I watched you cry yourself to sleep. Every single night. I searched for the source of your hidden pain — the unbearable grief, the vast emptiness, the sharp agony, the unfortunate sorrow, the heavy burdens. You really were the strongest person I knew. But you’re gone. And now I’m the one hiding, longing for someone to find my pain, my wallowing grief, my singular misery, my guilty sorrow, my untimely burdens. History repeats itself. Except… time keeps ticking, and I never feel like I’m moving. If only you could read this. I never write about you. But maybe I should start.

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Mar 24

Mar 24, 2026 at 12:55 PM UTC

The Strongest Person I Knew

I never write about you. Maybe I should start. But the pages wouldn’t be big enough to hold all the important and nonchalant things that made you who you were. All the tiny, descriptive details. There will never be anybody like you. No one could love themselves that much. And still, sometimes, I catch myself doing things just the way you used to — the little things no one ever knew about you. But me. Because I saw every color and every bruise you suffered through. I weathered every hard day beside you. I listened to your mouth swear the same words over and over again. I watched you cry yourself to sleep. Every single night. I searched for the source of your hidden pain — the unbearable grief, the vast emptiness, the sharp agony, the unfortunate sorrow, the heavy burdens. You really were the strongest person I knew. But you’re gone. And now I’m the one hiding, longing for someone to find my pain, my wallowing grief, my singular misery, my guilty sorrow, my untimely burdens. History repeats itself. Except… time keeps ticking, and I never feel like I’m moving. If only you could read this. I never write about you. But maybe I should start.

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~oft~ when the child becomes the parent, or the parent becomes the child it is only then, the one of two, and the twofold of one, maybe newly understand the truth of just so many old things, and not necessarily their previously know and owned. <> p.s. what does “becomes” mean? why, it means the nuances, of a being, being repeatedly changed <nml>

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Feb 14

Feb 14, 2026 at 3:13 AM UTC

when child becomes the parent

~oft~ when the child becomes the parent, or the parent becomes the child it is only then, the one of two, and the twofold of one, maybe newly understand the truth of just so many old things, and not necessarily their previously know and owned. <> p.s. what does “becomes” mean? why, it means the nuances, of a being, being repeatedly changed <nml>

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A MOTHER’S PURPOSE A mother never walks in front, because she knows her child must learn to lead his own steps. She never walks behind, because she fears her footsteps might become his stumbling stones. A mother walks beside him, softly, quietly, keeping her heart hidden so he cannot hear how fiercely it beats for him. A mother dreams for two, loves for two, endures for two. She holds life like fragile glass, yet teaches her child how to break it, reshape it, and turn it into light. A mother’s purpose is not to shield from pain, but to teach how to transform it. Not to hold on, but to let go. Not to build a destiny, but to ignite the courage for her child to build his own. And even when the world feels too vast, too harsh, too dark… a mother remains there— not to show the path, but to be the place where every path can end safely and begin again. Masi Roberto © 2025

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Dec 6, 2025

Dec 6, 2025 at 10:24 AM UTC

A MOTHER’S PURPOSE

A MOTHER’S PURPOSE A mother never walks in front, because she knows her child must learn to lead his own steps. She never walks behind, because she fears her footsteps might become his stumbling stones. A mother walks beside him, softly, quietly, keeping her heart hidden so he cannot hear how fiercely it beats for him. A mother dreams for two, loves for two, endures for two. She holds life like fragile glass, yet teaches her child how to break it, reshape it, and turn it into light. A mother’s purpose is not to shield from pain, but to teach how to transform it. Not to hold on, but to let go. Not to build a destiny, but to ignite the courage for her child to build his own. And even when the world feels too vast, too harsh, too dark… a mother remains there— not to show the path, but to be the place where every path can end safely and begin again. Masi Roberto © 2025

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a man taught an octopus piano he did it in 6 months it took a little longer than getting a driver's license or becoming a cop not quite as long as a pilot and way slower than having a kid so it was hard sure it took a lot of fish and crab encouragement time 6 months amazing it must have been like having a kid getting an octopus but it took him 6 months to feel like an a octo-parent it takes a captain 3000 flight hours it takes a vote to become Sheriff and i don't know how long it'll take for you to become a good driver but it takes time and maybe after a while after a while of eating time to put effort into a job or craft it becomes a music of its own is music music to an octopus? probably but what it became at first was a gateway to food then an outlet for something that that octopus needed to understand what's the point?

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Nov 18, 2025

Nov 18, 2025 at 2:21 PM UTC

a man taught an octopus piano he did it in 6 months it took a little longer than getting a driver's license or becoming a cop not quite as long as a pilot and way slower than having a kid so it was hard sure it took a lot of fish and crab encouragement time 6 months amazing it must have been like having a kid getting an octopus but it took him 6 months to feel like an a octo-parent it takes a captain 3000 flight hours it takes a vote to become Sheriff and i don't know how long it'll take for you to become a good driver but it takes time and maybe after a while after a while of eating time to put effort into a job or craft it becomes a music of its own is music music to an octopus? probably but what it became at first was a gateway to food then an outlet for something that that octopus needed to understand what's the point?

Continue reading...

Today, my dad talked to a 25 year old about war, politics, and religion. He said people my age should read more, and not blindly watch the news, things aren't as they seem. He went on and I unconsciously nodded along Today, he dropped by a neighbour’s house. They had all sorts of dishes prepared just the way he likes it. He tells jokes and laughs, the kind that turns him red, tears coming out, and you can’t help but laugh along with him— even when it’s not funny. He would tell them stories about the old days, interesting ones, that keep your ears open Today, someone called him in a panic telling him that their child is sick they've gone to all these hospitals and clinics but they're still unsure of what to do his calm voice reassures them and after a couple questions his brain rummages through the Library of Alexandria and knows exactly what the issue is and what to do a few days later, the call comes in again and the child is completely fine He's so smart...about everything Oh! even that other day someone called him they were in a real pickle I'm talking like someone was trying to kidnap them and beat them up but my dad is a hero without a second thought he rushed to help He's so loved, admired and respected, there's not a single person out there in the world who couldn't depend on him. And today he-! No... Today I’m twenty-five years old, and full of opinions to share but no one is there to talk to. Today, I’m sick, and I don’t know what pill to take. Today, I wasn't invited to anything and I don't know what to eat and no one to laugh with. Today, I almost got kidnapped but my phone just kept ringing and no one picked up And when people say, “Your dad’s such a good man,” I nod. So when I think to myself.. “Who did my dad talk to today?” I already know. And I stopped waiting for the day the answer would be me.

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Nov 8, 2025

Nov 8, 2025 at 9:17 PM UTC

redberry_the_teddy

Who Did My Dad Talk To Today?

Today, my dad talked to a 25 year old about war, politics, and religion. He said people my age should read more, and not blindly watch the news, things aren't as they seem. He went on and I unconsciously nodded along Today, he dropped by a neighbour’s house. They had all sorts of dishes prepared just the way he likes it. He tells jokes and laughs, the kind that turns him red, tears coming out, and you can’t help but laugh along with him— even when it’s not funny. He would tell them stories about the old days, interesting ones, that keep your ears open Today, someone called him in a panic telling him that their child is sick they've gone to all these hospitals and clinics but they're still unsure of what to do his calm voice reassures them and after a couple questions his brain rummages through the Library of Alexandria and knows exactly what the issue is and what to do a few days later, the call comes in again and the child is completely fine He's so smart...about everything Oh! even that other day someone called him they were in a real pickle I'm talking like someone was trying to kidnap them and beat them up but my dad is a hero without a second thought he rushed to help He's so loved, admired and respected, there's not a single person out there in the world who couldn't depend on him. And today he-! No... Today I’m twenty-five years old, and full of opinions to share but no one is there to talk to. Today, I’m sick, and I don’t know what pill to take. Today, I wasn't invited to anything and I don't know what to eat and no one to laugh with. Today, I almost got kidnapped but my phone just kept ringing and no one picked up And when people say, “Your dad’s such a good man,” I nod. So when I think to myself.. “Who did my dad talk to today?” I already know. And I stopped waiting for the day the answer would be me.

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All I want to do Is hear the waves roll into my Tidepools Just want to Kiss the stars And shine my scars at the moon I just want to live my life Without hearing you In the back of the room And you wonder Why you've been left with a box of half finished blunders By your definition That wasnt my vision You're just an open wound In the back of the room Don't you think the sun misses Leaving warm sweet kisses But you hated every shade it painted me

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Oct 15, 2025

Oct 15, 2025 at 11:37 AM UTC

In The Back of The Room

All I want to do Is hear the waves roll into my Tidepools Just want to Kiss the stars And shine my scars at the moon I just want to live my life Without hearing you In the back of the room And you wonder Why you've been left with a box of half finished blunders By your definition That wasnt my vision You're just an open wound In the back of the room Don't you think the sun misses Leaving warm sweet kisses But you hated every shade it painted me

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The shadowy figure looms over me, incoherent rambles of love and apologies coming from his figure as the blood drips from my nose. Father promises not to do it again, but he lies, just as he does to mother. My will falters as I forgive him again because he's my father, right? Deep down, he must care; he has to. Please don't hurt me, Father? I'm sorry for making you angry. I will finish my food next time, I swear. My mother is a figment of what she used to be, for she does not hold me like she used to; the light in her eyes has left. Why do I feel sorry for him after he 'punishes' me? He does love me, of course; it was my fault anyway. Maybe my next birthday will be better; perhaps he will stop hurting me and my mother. Maybe. I love you, Father, forgive me.

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Oct 2, 2025

Oct 2, 2025 at 11:10 AM UTC

father, why does love hurt?

The shadowy figure looms over me, incoherent rambles of love and apologies coming from his figure as the blood drips from my nose. Father promises not to do it again, but he lies, just as he does to mother. My will falters as I forgive him again because he's my father, right? Deep down, he must care; he has to. Please don't hurt me, Father? I'm sorry for making you angry. I will finish my food next time, I swear. My mother is a figment of what she used to be, for she does not hold me like she used to; the light in her eyes has left. Why do I feel sorry for him after he 'punishes' me? He does love me, of course; it was my fault anyway. Maybe my next birthday will be better; perhaps he will stop hurting me and my mother. Maybe. I love you, Father, forgive me.

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i’ve been striding this street for many a days, but its grit tallowed dysthymia, for mist thick enough to stifle noise for mist thick enough to hide the Suns, the cables hang, entangled, taut! your fingers, i cannot reach o, my Creator here lies the room in wait, as clothes strewn as seiche-borne meet a meagre bed of Dionysian dreams, the wall slumps, tongue-tied, and i am yet again enduring haar that never soars. just how much of me curls toward you, and how much snaps away? this street writhes before me, smothered, sluggard, buggered, its end inferred in grueling smog this burden answers nothing *save the only question that matters, how much, am i shaped by thee, mother?

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Sep 7, 2025

Sep 7, 2025 at 7:22 AM UTC

i’ve been striding this street for many a days, but its grit tallowed dysthymia, for mist thick enough to stifle noise for mist thick enough to hide the Suns, the cables hang, entangled, taut! your fingers, i cannot reach o, my Creator here lies the room in wait, as clothes strewn as seiche-borne meet a meagre bed of Dionysian dreams, the wall slumps, tongue-tied, and i am yet again enduring haar that never soars. just how much of me curls toward you, and how much snaps away? this street writhes before me, smothered, sluggard, buggered, its end inferred in grueling smog this burden answers nothing *save the only question that matters, how much, am i shaped by thee, mother?

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Every movie I watch over again is the Love I didn't get

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Aug 27, 2025

Aug 27, 2025 at 1:59 PM UTC

learningfromlosing

Every movie I watch over again is the Love I didn't get

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THE WORLD IS AGAINST US AND WE HAVE NO ONE TO SAVE US.... If children are born of innocence why are so many found guilty, why are so many taken away at such a young age... Parents are supposed to be guardian yet they are taking away our lives with no remorse they beat on us until life eventually fails us, why do they have us just to throw us away is this what God intended for us, for us to breath our last breath at just four years old... Parent we have a message for you "if you can't protect us who the hell will. Stop taking away our lives!!!

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Aug 18, 2025

Aug 18, 2025 at 5:52 AM UTC

THE WORLD IS AGAINST US AND WE HAVE NO ONE TO SAVE US.... If children are born of innocence why are so many found guilty, why are so many taken away at such a young age... Parents are supposed to be guardian yet they are taking away our lives with no remorse they beat on us until life eventually fails us, why do they have us just to throw us away is this what God intended for us, for us to breath our last breath at just four years old... Parent we have a message for you "if you can't protect us who the hell will. Stop taking away our lives!!!

Continue reading...

Driving down the highway Stormclouds have turned to rain. Droplets splatter against the paine. Streams of possibility Gliding over the horizon I stick my hand out. It returns dry. The feeling, I’m perplexed. No rain, graces my palm. I was taken back to when my old man failed to show up or would slide away just as suddenly as he appeared. The sense that something. was off started to rise then disappeared in a flash. A big wet one hit my palm.

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Aug 16, 2025

Aug 16, 2025 at 8:07 PM UTC

Driving down the highway Stormclouds have turned to rain. Droplets splatter against the paine. Streams of possibility Gliding over the horizon I stick my hand out. It returns dry. The feeling, I’m perplexed. No rain, graces my palm. I was taken back to when my old man failed to show up or would slide away just as suddenly as he appeared. The sense that something. was off started to rise then disappeared in a flash. A big wet one hit my palm.

Continue reading...

And she takes the book waiting on the shelf, smelling of milk, toothpaste and goodnight kisses, it's pages cracked, worn thin with birthday wishes, wearing wrinkles wizened by the layers of fingerprints that traced the silk of mama's voice on every word. She turns to find him all tucked up in bed, head cushioned by a mop of curly hair, arms clutching tight a tattered teddy bear. His sleepy eyes draw her to his side and she leans in another once upon a time. Her voice kisses the curve of every word, calling to life a world she has to see, moulding reality to what it ought to be; a place with swings, slides and just five minutes more , sighs breathed to birth a need held deep inside. A land where all the games are fair, with candy houses but no cavities in sight, where all evil is banished by the light. The winds of time are soothed and still listening to the clicks of a clock that never stops ticking. Her child's eyes flutter to dance in dreams of his own and the bedtime lies shatter behind her eyes. It's not her son longing for a land where no one dies. Children are borne of pixie dust and shooting stars to a world of wonder built for each alone . Once upon a time is a prayer whispered by mama's at night to restrain the hurts and horrors of the earth with the soul wrenching fear she's felt since she gave birth. See she has to believe in forever and a day for her love for her son is growing all the while. She has to believe in love and life and laughter. She has to hold close the hope of happily ever after.

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Jun 29, 2013

Jun 29, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC

Once Upon A Time

And she takes the book waiting on the shelf, smelling of milk, toothpaste and goodnight kisses, it's pages cracked, worn thin with birthday wishes, wearing wrinkles wizened by the layers of fingerprints that traced the silk of mama's voice on every word. She turns to find him all tucked up in bed, head cushioned by a mop of curly hair, arms clutching tight a tattered teddy bear. His sleepy eyes draw her to his side and she leans in another once upon a time. Her voice kisses the curve of every word, calling to life a world she has to see, moulding reality to what it ought to be; a place with swings, slides and just five minutes more , sighs breathed to birth a need held deep inside. A land where all the games are fair, with candy houses but no cavities in sight, where all evil is banished by the light. The winds of time are soothed and still listening to the clicks of a clock that never stops ticking. Her child's eyes flutter to dance in dreams of his own and the bedtime lies shatter behind her eyes. It's not her son longing for a land where no one dies. Children are borne of pixie dust and shooting stars to a world of wonder built for each alone . Once upon a time is a prayer whispered by mama's at night to restrain the hurts and horrors of the earth with the soul wrenching fear she's felt since she gave birth. See she has to believe in forever and a day for her love for her son is growing all the while. She has to believe in love and life and laughter. She has to hold close the hope of happily ever after.

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Your beckoning finger like curling ribbon Its pained sharp edge beneath the shining binding me to a catch-22 with gnarly roots; To paternal blue pierce and maternal chin – eyes peeping over the creeping cords pinning me down to the tow-line where I fit and flinch to be free. To be me.

0

Jul 6, 2013

Jul 6, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC

Your beckoning finger like curling ribbon Its pained sharp edge beneath the shining binding me to a catch-22 with gnarly roots; To paternal blue pierce and maternal chin – eyes peeping over the creeping cords pinning me down to the tow-line where I fit and flinch to be free. To be me.

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A petal haired army saluting the call of the skies - it made my heart go to her until I hope her into being and I look into her eyes - eyes that shimmer with every shade of springtime with frolicking lambs and trumpeting daffodils with the glint of her chocolate stained Sunday dress, dancing and whirling with the matriarch blues of six generations to know our dance, but to write her own song - a song composed of notes she will fashion for herself in flower petal perfume and dirt and birthday cake tummy ache and she can write them in gummy bears or wiggly worms in any way she might choose, on bill boards or in locked diaries but it will be beautiful beyond words because its her way - her way - choosing to skim cliff edges over mama's apron strings, tearing frills on tree branches and turning back her watch to arrive home late and you can bet when she dreams him in her sleep she won't be feeling that pea. But so long as she takes her dreams to heart and cuddles them to life and knows that she is perfectly imperfectly beautiful and remembers that - that life is lived as much on cliff edges as it is in your own home that dress tears and stains speak joy every bit as much as a photograph that mama's apron strings stretch far and wide, and that though the shades of seasons change, she must sing her song and dance.

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Jun 26, 2013

Jun 26, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC

A petal haired army saluting the call of the skies - it made my heart go to her until I hope her into being and I look into her eyes - eyes that shimmer with every shade of springtime with frolicking lambs and trumpeting daffodils with the glint of her chocolate stained Sunday dress, dancing and whirling with the matriarch blues of six generations to know our dance, but to write her own song - a song composed of notes she will fashion for herself in flower petal perfume and dirt and birthday cake tummy ache and she can write them in gummy bears or wiggly worms in any way she might choose, on bill boards or in locked diaries but it will be beautiful beyond words because its her way - her way - choosing to skim cliff edges over mama's apron strings, tearing frills on tree branches and turning back her watch to arrive home late and you can bet when she dreams him in her sleep she won't be feeling that pea. But so long as she takes her dreams to heart and cuddles them to life and knows that she is perfectly imperfectly beautiful and remembers that - that life is lived as much on cliff edges as it is in your own home that dress tears and stains speak joy every bit as much as a photograph that mama's apron strings stretch far and wide, and that though the shades of seasons change, she must sing her song and dance.

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I'm obedient That's one truth But don't paint me orange Just to come And pour your darkest blue

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Jul 14, 2025

Jul 14, 2025 at 1:57 PM UTC

I'm obedient That's one truth But don't paint me orange Just to come And pour your darkest blue

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I see her The way she stands The way she smiles It angers me. Why won’t she listen Why won’t she quit She’s mine and should- Always listen, It makes her think I’m cruel I’m cold and incapable of love But I gave her all and everything I had I install her with fear, for the world- And all that’s around her I truly love her, but wished she’d disappear. She wants to make her own decisions Fine go be your own grown up And find out the world can’t take you You’re too much until you’re too little She’s the thread, and I keep pulling Why does she want to leave… They’ll eat you alive I’m just trying to help Even out of spite, So when she breaks- At least I warned her She’ll never make it alone.

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Jul 6, 2025

Jul 6, 2025 at 4:48 PM UTC

Narcissistic Beliefs

I see her The way she stands The way she smiles It angers me. Why won’t she listen Why won’t she quit She’s mine and should- Always listen, It makes her think I’m cruel I’m cold and incapable of love But I gave her all and everything I had I install her with fear, for the world- And all that’s around her I truly love her, but wished she’d disappear. She wants to make her own decisions Fine go be your own grown up And find out the world can’t take you You’re too much until you’re too little She’s the thread, and I keep pulling Why does she want to leave… They’ll eat you alive I’m just trying to help Even out of spite, So when she breaks- At least I warned her She’ll never make it alone.

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For all three of my Sons, Whom I Love and Appreciate Forever, Without End... You Dance to the Beat of a Different Drum; If you Lose your Balance, I will Always Be Here To Steady You...

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Jun 25, 2025

Jun 25, 2025 at 10:24 AM UTC

The Beat of Life

For all three of my Sons, Whom I Love and Appreciate Forever, Without End... You Dance to the Beat of a Different Drum; If you Lose your Balance, I will Always Be Here To Steady You...

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blind and naked starling chick dead on the pavement parent looks down and sings out of context i'd think it a sweet bird song is my reading of the situation incorrect ?

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May 29, 2025

May 29, 2025 at 8:45 PM UTC

notes on a bird song

blind and naked starling chick dead on the pavement parent looks down and sings out of context i'd think it a sweet bird song is my reading of the situation incorrect ?

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