I think my mom's a homophobe
I think this because she said broken truths when I told her about homecoming
I told her about the girl with soft lips and small hands that fit perfectly with mine
But I just called her Haley
I had new words she told me
They suspiciously matched my schools words
Freak abomination loser
I now wonder if they were talking on the sidelines
I'm supposed to love my mom
But do I still have to
If she hated me first?
She praised the all loving god onto me
Telling me his love was a lie
And I was going with the sinners
To the place where they drink fire booze
I think my mom's a homophobe
I text my religious cousin
Does God love everyone
Undoubtedly because you are perfect to Him
Then why does my mom hate me?
She made me get on my knees and pray
Pray a prayer I hope goes unanswered
By those who I think aren't even there
I think my mom's a homophobe
I know I'm supposed to love my mother
But how can I
If I don't even know how to love myself?
What is that
You're such a waste
It can be cured
Like a snake on the asphalt basking in the hate
Until the asphalt is the road and I am run over by
Self pity. Self Hatrid. Self Absorbed.
Yes fuck the terrorists
Fuck the rapists
Fuck the robbers
and the muggers
Fuck them all
Because who I love
Is more important
Me, I'm in dire need of your opinion
Mirrors don't line my eyes up anymore
I think they forgot where to put them
Because I forgot
Where to look
Looking only at the negative
Going on suicide boards
Why am I the one being subjected to evil
When I am only trying to love
Being hated for only
Mirror mirror on the wall
Who is the prettiest of them all
My lover is the one I see
Her soft lips and small hands
I think my moms a homophobe
And I don't know how to breath anymore
Tribute to stay at home moms
( from a writing by melvina germain) 10/28/11
To the stay at home moms (sahm) I must say
I honor you in every way.
I made my wife stop working when she got pregnant
Forty six years ago, and real love is what my daughter got to know.
She is there every step of the way and
my heart thanks her every day.
up in the morning at the crack of dawn
To change diapers , bathe the baby, change the clothes
And with the baby is where she belongs.
She is a woman with many hats, and for her
There is no turning back.
A mother, housekeeper , cook, and wife
Accepting all these struggles and strife.
You may not hear her complain
But when things go wrong, she is the first to blame.
We all may have a lot of food on our plates
And forget what they are going thru , but
Do you honestly think you could do her job too?
we may be the bread winners and struggle at work
But we did not have to go through the pains of giving birth.
Do any of you men think that you could hold
A child in your stomach for nine months
Of morning sickness, weird cravings, sleepless nights
And with your partner you would fight.
They could only sleep on their backs or on their sides
Would you like to give that a try?
They look at you in your sleep and thank GOD
For all that you do, but they need compensation too.
There is another hat that they may wear, when
They have to become the C.P.A. and balance
The check book so you don’t overdraft
And turn around and get on her ass.
So many hats and so little time, and when you ask
Them they say they are doing fine.
So to all the (sahm’s) out there with you this poem I share
You deserve not just a flower, a outside dinner
Or a movie, but the biggest THANK YOU
From our hearts, because in our lives
You are the greatest part.
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
To those who honor me by calling me son
I cannot think of anything to be done
To return all the love you have given me
Or all the food I have had for free
I thank God everyday for you
I know He will show you though
Any trials or bridges you may have to cross
for remember, He is the boss
The light you have given me by calling me son
Is the greatest thing you could have ever done
They carried us
Was a celebration,
Mothers are our affirmation.
When we were quiet
She made time
For school-yard tales.
The warmth of sunshine
To her prevailing arms.
They nurtured us
Til eyes dried out;
When we left
Waiting by the door,
Like a living cure.
When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection:
No need to forgive them,
We'll always grieve them;
They've loved us
The Holy Family?
In a box
with the angels upstairs
In search of their sheep
lost in newspaper
Somehow I sit on a bag...
of glass Christmas balls
“Must get my vacuum!”
That dead animal, coated by dust
and buried in laundry--
has tangled itself in its own cord
and tumbled headlong to the basement
Crooked photos of daughters
smiling (Can it be?)
from a hundred miles and years away?
Waiting for me to make
that miracle again--
What moms do at Christmas
“Jing-a-ling, are ya listening?”
It's the bill collector's recorded
“This is inexcusable!” message
Charities are legion
I say, “There is a line”
seen only by the peaceful stars...
the donkey of Bethlehem
stumbles in-- laden with groceries
dumping them on the bed/couch
...and back outside for the next load
...and back to the bed again
Why bother making it?
Not as if the cat cares
He likes his blankets niched and lumpy
Not as if some modern home magazine's
planning a photo-shoot!
The mailbox, meanwhile
is preggers with glossy catalogues
“Wouldn't your whole family enjoy a sunroom?”
Dropping the bags
searching for a light
turning up the heat--
“Tis the season for a new Toyota!”
I try to understand the point
of a Christmas card with printed signature
Can I stuff myself in with the recycling?
Then, back outside for the single-woman drama
“Hauling in the Tree”
Storm door catches the hem of my coat
Pine needles, leaves, snow and mud
mark the end of the trail
On my belly twisting screws
“Son-of-a-bitchin tree stand!”
Knocking my daughter's picture off the wall
“Serves 'er right fer laughin!”
Damn thing's crooked and dripping
with melted snow
It's 8:30 PM
The cat is hungry and crying
I hit the bottom-- and the button
for the background of a human voice
Three naked chickens are waiting on the counter
At some point, I will take off my coat...
I drink a beer while standing
To get a better view....
You were supposed to teach me how to make my coffee
so that it was sweet enough,
and how to stand up straight and look proud.
How to keep my room clean
and not procrastinate my homework.
How to tell the difference between a guy who loves me
and one who wants my body.
But mostly, aren't moms supposed to teach how to love?
All you taught me was how to cry so no one could hear,
and how to practice pain on myself
so that when my sister used me as her punching bag
I could show her that it didn't hurt.
How to turn my music up so loud I couldn't hear your insults.
How to fake a smile so that you don't get the satisfaction
of knowing you screwed me up.
And you never taught me how to forgive. So I don't.
The thing about my bio mom
Sometimes she tries
Sometimes she says things
That she knows will make me cry
I know she has a problem
But she has no right
She doesn't understand
She hasn't been in my life.
Then, there's this woman
I simply call her, "mom"
She's been with me since day one
Through everything I've done wrong
Helps me through my mistakes
Makes sure I know she's always there
She helped every day
To simply brush my hair
Sure, I want my bio mom,
But it's not worth the pain
I'll only put effort in that relationship
If she puts the drugs away
I will love my moms until the end of time,
But there's only one mom
That I am proud to call mine.