"childbearing" poems
It varies from woman to woman, however
this girl will always hate giving birth
Maybe she wouldn’t even get married nor have ****** ***********
More than forty years ago those childish thoughts kept circling in my mind
It didn’t take long for her to realize that *** and babies had something in common
Nana so often said to us girls with her Island slang
*“What sweeten a goat mouth, would burn his tail end”
So girls you're worth it, don’t do it*
The after effects, the after effects so complex and powerful
Nana woke us up in the wee hours of the morning
either with her singing, or the rattling of the *** and pans
I knew at some point I would come to hate being a nurse
I probably wouldn’t be able to show Compassion
If you aren’t compassionate enough: being a Nurse isn’t for you
I hated those homebirth early morning deliveries
Not enough light, no running water in the homes,
And the list goes on in late sixties on the Island
When I finally woke up that morning
I noticed Nana’s black bag on the table:
Her lily white apron on the back of the chair
How she got her uniform to stay so white was a miracle to me
Granddad was outside fixing something under the old Wolseley bumper
Using an old flittering kerosene paraffin lamp to get the job done
Our country farm house sat the bottom of the hill
So Grandad needed the old Wolseley car to be in good condition
To pulled Porte hill and there I was about to be Nana’s Nursing Assistant
Was I up for the yelling, screaming, crying? At my age, I wasn’t,
However, being defiant wasn’t appealing, Nana played on our emotions
another one of her favorite island slangs
“Some children are to be ****** to death if they are defiant to their parents said Nana”
I was also too sleepy to sulk so I sat and quietly listen to her rambling on and on:
So I turned all my thoughts and energy to Genesis 3:16
To the woman he said, "I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you."
And that was my last words to Nana: No man shall have control over my body
and that was my last trip with Nana on her delivering baby route.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
*december 10th 1982
1am*
sleepless in the the neurotic wastelands
she has fifty two cards
each has a face none of them are mine
but the jack of hearts is there and with her childbearing hips
they could pump out a couple of rug rats
start their own little civilization
here on the backwaters
she gives me a ride to the edge of the glades
and drops me off at a truckstop in the rain
december 10th 1982 4:22am
the salt of the earth diner on route 1
with the waitress chewing gum at the counter
staring off into the distant light of highrise miami
a sheen of sweat glistens on her deep tan
but its not as sticky or deep as her mind
thats wandering out in the Catskill mountains
looking for Johnny Appleseed
december 15th 1988 10:00am
doves take flight in the
soft white afterglow of day
with a stir of wings
and her tender lips let slip
of her longing for innermost peace
her eyes seeing nothing but
the golden glow of some distant day
some half remembered day
the time i wait for
summers sweet song
has been far too long
this is a winter world
december 15th 1993 1:00pm
leaning over the balcony rail
she shouts her smiles down
to the regular faces on the rows road
petticoats of fine linen
and her hair up
shes a sea of smiles
as they all shuffle in to see the show
Broken Bernie and his girl Christa
who snowbunnys down to the neon Florida sun
round this time of year
december 13th 1996 6:00pm
desperado's gather in the setting sun
hunger in their eyes
between the rock and hard place
and with a hard eyed thought they
move into the town
she pours him a cup of coffee
and lays a hand softly upon his shoulder
urging him to stay and leave such things
to lesser men
but he knows he must rise to the call
to do less would be treason to his nature
to do less would betray everything he has stood for
today, now
the words waiting on lips as i stumble out of sleep
make little sense at least to the waking mind
but the world makes little sense when fully awake
so this dream fragment hardy seems out of place
wearing a stove pipe hat chewing on a whales tail
and chatting with Abe Lincoln
my guess would be he wanted his hat back
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
A Monorhyme for the Shower
by **** Davis
Lifting her arms to soap her hair
Her pretty ******* respond—and there
The movement of that buoyant pair
Is like a spell to make me swear
Twenty-odd years have turned to air;
Now she's the girl I didn't dare
Approach, ask out, much less declare
My love to, mired in young despair.
Childbearing, rows, domestic care—
All the prosaic wear and tear
That constitute the life we share—
Slip from her beautiful and bare
Bright body as, made half aware
Of my quick surreptitious stare,
She wrings the water from her hair
And turning smiles to see me there.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
Somehow the rest of the day
Fleeted like our fragile thoughts.
The preoccupied crustacean
Washed upon the shore,
Thanks to the high tide,
A swirl of earthly obsessions.
An old woman awoke early
In the morning to water her bonsai.
Who is that at the front door?
Who could it possibly be?
Was it the childbearing of symmetry
From a timid chamber?
Does a poet create poetry or does poetry create a poet?
Read and decide for me.
Originally written 4/10/11
Revised 10/18/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
when i was ripe. when i was ripe. under your wing.
thirteen and this jacket's too **** big.
the feathers of your wing tickle my childbearing hips.
is it sin because i like it?
or because i cannot bear child?
only in my mind did i birth one.
we called her a name i can't remember.
she was in my care for a week.
and we watched sitcoms and ate macaroni and cheese in little blue bowls.
i wasn't there when she left.
but my childbearing hips were.
oh. will you make me a bird too?
will you make me a bird too?
it kind of makes me sick, in the stomach and ovaries.
when you don't look at me while you fly.
you just look down. at my childbearing hips.
that's all.
i just wanted to know if you got your fingers ***** when you tore your baby out of me.
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 1:29 PM UTC
What remains in the aftermath of love?
As streets are built without sidewalks
As neighborhoods no longer have use for streetlights
As parks and sunsets turn into myths
As the stories of lies and deceit become the only nursery rhymes we pass on
As *** becomes as mundane as eating bread
And ****** become larger and more frequent than church communions
As ***** become cheaper than blood
As faces become so interchangeable they're impossible to remember
And names turn into secrets
What remains?
When everywhere is no man's land
When childbearing is just a rare, yet escapable punishment from God
When children migrate in swarms between families like birds escaping winter
When love is just but a militarized weapon used for enslavement
When humanity is emancipated from their emotions
Shall we celebrate our independence by clearing our contacts list and changing numbers?
Shall we start each new year by picking a new stranger to stave off our hunger for the night
When we stone those who learned each other's middle names
When we lock away anyone greedy enough to keep someone to themselves
And the married are sent to live in the madhouse
When the war of love have ended
And no one's heart returns home
What remains?
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 7:55 AM UTC
Circum/stances (slash) foregone
circumvent forebears
circus-schisms of the forefathers
circumferences foreordained . . .
Abrahamic inferences
Feminine foreclosures
Unfabulous infibulations
Equivocating equivalencies . . .
Childbearing foreborne
Preposterous paradigm
Gender agenda return to sender
Hebraic / Pharaonic / Moronic . . .
Abracadabra
Presto change-o !
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 10:08 PM UTC
'twas a time of risk
to rule the throne,
foreign skies stole his queen,
framed mischief in the shape
of her childbearing hips,
spun a web as thick as thieves,
went for broke with the catapult,
and sent his merry dreams
up in smoke.
'twas a time of risk
to wear the crown,
arrows to cleave thy heart,
jealous siblings in want of their own
ruby covered kingdom,
pushing thorny daggers
into one's side.
where kings die first
they drink from the poison cup,
tell all thee faithful villagers
only two weeks more
until the clouds lift,
and their precious queen
shall return to re-pollute their minds
with a new philosophy,
a new misogyny:
women's hatred of women,
killing her daughter's father
for a song and dance,
and the outside chance
she can ride on top.
there the lingering scent
of betray, dismay, this day,
and a closing ******
will reach over the castle wall.
on some besotted morning,
painted as the saccharine sky,
she'll wave at Jehu's returning chariot,
and he will press her handmaids
into service by having them
toss her to the dogs.
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 10:45 PM UTC
The woman’s width is claimed by God;
milk and blood mingle into love,
and the King of Kings is crowned in the birth canal.
Invite all the strangers to gawk,
their gifts garish and presented with condition -
she will, one day, be an afterthought,
not a second, but a fourth.
She will gather with those who will one day mourn
alongside her, her hands fresh salt
and the rest of her the wound.
It was never a choice that came willingly,
but from Ophelia to Monroe
she will be remembered how men wish her to be.
When her face appears in streams and mirrors,
know that only the reflection has power -
she has plucked the cord from between the mountains
and now her womb will glisten,
slick with sweat and blessèd water,
in the fifth layer of the eternal Heaven she was promised.
The woman, with her limbs and eyes and cracking bones,
is supposed to rise, but the writing stops
after the men have played their little game of execution,
and scholars pick up the pieces
of the heavenly woman of Revelation,
grasping at umbilical straws for a meaning to what she gave.
Thin bible pages are dedicated to her lithe form,
her childbearing hips that filled out with the grace of God,
for Joseph’s carpenter hands to carve and clench
and give him cuckoo-sons,
but he is Joseph, and he can shout louder than she,
and raise hell to the Heavens
if he wants to.
She, fruit-bearing mother,
is only taken ****** to Heaven
because there was an angel
who requested something to pass the time.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 7:09 PM UTC