"partum" poems
I don’t have faith.
I just know that I belong to my Savior Jesus. I met her once when I was 11, at her humble single wide in a cramped trailer park and she made candied walnuts on a hotplate. I didn’t find out until years later that she paid for my scholarship. She had passed on by then; I wish I could have thanked her.
He arrived at Juvenile Hall at 7:00 pm looking like Mrs. Santa Claus, to take me into her home for a year. I made some sarcastic teenage comment about the stupid country music on her car radio, and she tolerated it with a smile; saying ‘its not stupid, its simple.’ She showed me what a caring family looks like and didn’t kick me out for being a ******** gave me chores and a curfew to show me I belonged.
When I had no family or boyfriend in my life, I lived in a maternity home until my baby would be adopted. Jesus was the stranger in the hushed hospital room holding my hand, after the medics couldn’t find the heartbeat in the ambulance, which was confirmed on the maternity floor, and I was taken to another floor so my crying wouldn’t upset the other mothers. The room was small and dark and alone, and the clock on the wall took an eternity to move two minutes, for the entire night that I was in labor, the longest night in my life. I didn’t remember someone holding my hand; I was so drugged for pain. She showed me her arms two days later, so bruised because she didn’t leave me.
Jesus was the woman from Planned Parenthood on the other end of the phone, listening to me when I called the Women’s Clinic asking how I could find a doctor. ‘ I just moved here, and I work at a minimum wage job, and I lost my baby a month ago, but how do I get a post-partum exam when I don’t have a doctor, or any money, or insurance?’ I was very matter of fact about it, I mean this was my circumstance and what to do? She arranged a birth control exam because the state would pay for that, by a doctor who would give me the post-partum. She also referred me to a support group. I had been alone but she found me people who understood and could sympathize and help me accept grief. I look back on that now; there were no sign-carrying Christians or Churches arranging the adoption who helped me, she was the only one who cared.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
A lonely island, just him and me
His wails continue, just let me be.
I'm so tired, why doesn’t he care?
He is selfish, dependent, stripping me bare
Where is the bundle of joy I was promised?
My sanity and happiness constantly compromised
I sit and cry holding you tight
You grip my finger with all your might
I love you and hate you, so ashamed to say
The time ticks by slowly, day after day
This little blue pill, promises the world
To make everything better, to stop the unfurl
They call it post partum and promise it wont last
But it's been 16 weeks, I just want my mind back
And slowly but surely, things look brighter
He is waiting for me, because he is a fighter.
My bundle of joy, so loving and forgiving
Loves me unconditionally, relying on me to continue living
I'm sorry Theodore, but mommy is better
I've fought tooth and nail for you,
And so I give you this letter.
A promise that I will always be here, no matter the cost
I love you more than air, even when I'm lost.
I'll fight this disease to be the mom you deserve
Because you are the light of my life, you're love I preserve
So rest easy and stop growing little one
For mommy loves you, because you are my sun
I love you to the moon, and more than every star in the sky
You are my one and only, you are my special little guy.
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 4:53 AM UTC
How To Dress For My Funeral
black or white, hot n'pink,
lavender always a fav,
at a fun funeral rave,
lacy or plain, your choice,
tho clean would be nice,
won't matter to me very much,
the color of your underwear.
but do not fail to recall, the dead,
their vision keen, can see all!
funeral gravity rules to be strictly observed,
snickering and giggling to commence in the
back row, when holy pomposity gets uttered,
let it wend its way forward from the aft,
until y'all better be
laughing your ***** off
anyone who chooses to speak,
must commence with words,
"Did ya hear the one about"
or be haunted by my spectral shadow
tickling both feet at midnight, or,
worse yet, reciting this awful poem
in their head, like Henry the Eighth,
I am, I am
perhaps a hora dance might be nice,
a mamba line, butts, holy rolling n'shaking,
past rows of rock n' rolling tombstones, guitar-playing
some Metallica,
while the rabbi intones somberly,
Let's get this party started, gad ******
if my untimely hour should arrive in July,
I humbly request that flip flops be the ped-modality,
if January should be my season
of absence treasoned, use some reason,
please stay home, and let the paid professionals
suffer in fine phony, professional, seasonal frigidity
at the post partum party, should that occur,
I humbly repast request, barbecue be the cuisine,
in the hopes you all recall to place
a generous helping, repeat, generous helping,
inside my sauce- proof pine wood casket,
with extra napkins for the long trip ahead
now these are all post hypnotic, post breathing,
helpful suggestions, not requirements,
but honor or disparage, cry or vent,
curse or bless my perma-absence,
don't matter to me, as long as somebody
reads this manifesto at the festivities, first and last.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
changeling
evolving
journeying
from
pre-conception
mis-conception
immaculate conception
to post-partum
afterlife
travellers
engaging with pilgrims
seeking direction
trying to understand
nuances of relationship
between themselves and humankind
spiralling through vortices
and
mirrored portals to
a life of
clouded memory moments
lions salivating
blooded claws
eager to rip the straightjacketed soul
open
to explosions of truth
and invert the inverted drawer
exposing the convenient
lies that protect us
from the self-accusing soul
knowing we are born of choice
and sin
inevitably our bodies betray
the creator's design
through his eye of perceived benign benevolance.
empty dreams and visions
of moments
before time made us grow old
dimming vision of past joy
indulged, saved, in a treasure chest
with
baubles , bangles
beads of sweat
dripping relentlessly through
our hourglass
puddling in our slowing wake
up and know that love is tainted
before it begins.
before it started
after the dream of you
was the single star
beside the morning moon
that we shared
even when apart
was lost
in the tattered vision
of
perceived beauty
love died
reduced to triviality.
history killed it.
buried it, beneath a mountain
of hallmark cards
and internet memes.
this is the stuff of nightsweat dreams
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
the titles
lay about,
filed in no order,
some a mere notion,
some a finished few,
most a line or two
that
ask fervently for
birth, commencement,
not understanding
that finished,
need not mean ripened,
ready for release, consumption
some indeed,
awful layabouts
in no hurry
to complete their
appointed rounds,
or make their
unique composed sounds
spoke out loud
content to be,
yet-to-be
but already
wanting the entitlements
of being
just a title entitled,
yet even without shape,
content to be
content-less,
poem teenagers, I guess,
they want it all
all awaiting wondering
they understand how humans are born
but see no parallel to gestation literate
they see
infiltration, fertilization, conception,
automated, tracked and formulaic
the process similar,
but the exact moment of birth
knows no schedule,
some burst, some dormant,
aging beyond aged,
struggling to believe that
those who wait also serve
if you were to sit beside
this troubled man,
whose clouds need poking by,
perhaps,
your fresh fingers
could rocket them into
partum warmth fluid bathed,
then they would belong
to you
for you
were the trigger,
that fired them into existence
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
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─▄██▀█▌─██▄▄──▐█▀▄─▐█▀
▐█▀▀▌───▄▀▌─▌─█─▌──▌─▌
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**PERINATAL POETICS:
Prelude to a post-nuptial pre-partum event**
What is meant
by this prenatal parental lament?
Can the Spare-a-Dime shaft
upgrade to paradigm shift
as buzzwords replace the new jargon?
If the new synthetic empathy
is merely the same old pathetic symphony,
should we put away the flow charts when the show starts
to prevent a casual view
of the visual cue?
I fear this will only occur
when fast-breeding Other
becomes breast-feeding mother
even if her man’s fertility
is eclipsed
by human futility.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
studied dispassion,
go about
the roundabout
of practiced ordinary living,
fully aware,
there are no open exits
currently available,
leading back to when,
all exits
led only bright forward
consensual distance
spaces tween
registered vehicles
but no longer
registering bodies,
legally maintained,
by all
outward appearances,
minor kisses
in a habitual habitat,
perfunctory
of the functionary,
"I love you's"
traded before
shutting off the
permanence of the
finale of the
now dimmed bedroom light
diminution
by the minute,
covertly clarifying
the ex-mission critical,
cutthroat ended
by consensual distances,
silent no speaking
empty spaces that
cannot be closed,
or
dispossessed disposed,
the sensual, desensitized
been down this
slow mo lazy path,
to slow ruin
before
the quick road to
The End
the questions
air hung but
unasked,
the words
unspoken,
they,
the ultimate
****** weapons
inevitably found,
getting at long last
a final hearing,
judgement reached
at the
reenacted scene
the finale resting place,
*the grave of spaces,
consensual spaces,
the gulf of no love,*
the pre-partum dénouement
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
Follow me,
Shirt-brother,
Rise from ripped,
Yellow faces.
Leave behind
This field of death,
The bloodied grass,
The wind that effaces
The wandering souls
With its chemical breath.
This moment will pass,
As you sink into clouds
Streaked with the traces
Of the brave and the proud.
The images of eyes
Burning like coals
In post-partum skies
Will guide you,
Brother,
As you search for peace
From a life you despised,
From all those wasted years.
When you hit the ceiling,
And dive like rain
Onto a landscape stained
With painted tears,
I'll be in the dirt, kneeling,
With my neck bent back,
Screaming upwards
So you hear first
The only words
That I know will work;
"I told you so,
Brother,
For what it's worth."
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 6:32 AM UTC
i must have been born twice
upside down and back to front
from the maternal matrix
and the cold institutional plastic
of a pill bottle
the afterbirth of steel
sliding across my skins
in fits and starts
contractions trying to push out
the festering sore
the infected bile that stench
close up the hole
that vile creature that slithered out
keep back its faceless compatriots
like unopened boxes of razors
calling from beyond
a heartbeat dutifully pattering on
the coagulated blood
icy
congregates in my veins and
screams incessantly for relief
for freedom
i must have been born a million times
each time the blade pierces my skin
another mute wordless infant
comes forth
unsure how to cry.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
I knew a couple, in that once upon a time
Where fecundity was a going concern in our circle of friends,
Who’d lost another child mid-pregnancy
(It may have been the third time,
As such evils, oddly enough, tend to arrive as a trinity)
They’d fiercely, defiantly given the child a dozen names,
Including each of their saints’ names
(A finger to the eye of certain relatives,
Who’d implied and occasionally outright sniped
Recreation without procreation is the darkest of sins.)
They had, after a fashion, made a certain piece with all that transpired,
God’s will or vagaries of chance or something in-between,
But some weeks down the line the distaff part of the equation
Began to experience something akin to pure madness,
Finding evil portent and intent and all and sundry
Which they’d touched upon during pregnancy:
Doctors, in-laws, her spouse,
Even the fables they’d read to her unborn child
(The tale of the Three Little Pigs singled out for particular scorn;
*We live in a ******* house made of brick, and what did that get us?*
She all but screamed at her beleaguered husband.)
This all passed after a time, the ceasing of the episodes
Due to the end of some delayed post-partum depression, perhaps,
Or the grim realization that raging against some deaf deity
Is a fruitless, pointless, fretful strut across the stage,
But, in any case, life returned to normal, more or less,
Though her husband found it somewhat disconcerting
How, in the process of doing some semi-necessary remodeling
(Keep her busy, their pediatrician had told him in an aside)
She attacked the old walls in an unused bedroom upstairs
With something very much approximating fury,
The plaster-and-lath flying hither and yon,
The dust hanging in the air everywhere you looked,
Leaving a taste like ashes in their mouths for days afterward.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
I know why we do what we do
Why we lie and hide, cover our tracks so nobody knows what we're up to
But we all find out in time
It all comes out, we all cry
And still I don't want to hurt you with my truth, but now I'll tell you,
because of what you put me through
I was 2 weeks away from giving birth to our child and you were sending **** pics to strangers on the internet
(You made me feel guilty for not folding the laundry)
I was 10 days post-partum, still bleeding barley walking, giving my body to our newborn baby
and you were
Sending **** pics to strangers on the internet
(While I hosted Christmas dinner for your family)
Your excuse is you were •lonely•
(We weren't enough for you)
I was so happy and she is so beautiful but
Still we're not good enough for you
The days of nursing Emmy were all I needed to be happy
-You-
felt left out
Blamed your deep rooted issues on me
Mentally abused for 5 years, took advantage of my depressive states
Made me think my flesh and blood was better off without me
But you know what I've learned from this horrendous discovery?
Not one bit of it was my fault
And all along, I thought it was.
My daydreams of death are long gone
Thank you, God, I'm free to live.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
Upward drift in the quiet space
Things falling into place for once
What is the capital of your heart
let's travel it
Backstreet mouthwash cobblestone wordlocks
Sterile wipes on your cut hands
Find me out in the rotten Hyacinth
Wash me clean of the metaphors of understanding
I'm a child in the darkness crying out
Ripped from the womb with no say in the matter
Cold blank homogeneous liquid
Dampness constricted and concentrated
Four square corner games in crevices
Ceviche on salty chips in the backroom
The gloom you feel post coitus
Unravel the pieces of seed pod thoughts
Untravel every destination post-partum
Under the bridge drug overdose martyrdom
The forest is burning all around us
DRIVE FASTER
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC
Little baby nothing
Momma nothing, your baby has got the blues.
These tears I weep are the only way I can speak with you.
Little empty of feelings, little crazy days in Hell,
For little baby, waiting for an angel, to help me clean myself.
Couldn’t find the words to speak,
‘Take this dummy out of my mouth.’
Pacify your little baby nothing;
Oh my Goddess, why can’t you help me out?
Silence breaks the screaming; nothing left to shout about,
Or let out.
Full of gas. A giggle laugh.
All these things which I am scheming;
Got to find a way to indulge the doubt and the dreaming.
I couldn’t face another half-truth.
I cannot tell the lies from how I should feel.
I couldn’t cover my feelings, bruised.
I’m falling into myself with no way to heal.
Another soiled ***** removes the smile from my face.
Another bib full of happy pictures.
I can only eat if I become a runway.
Flashing camera blinds my eyes, I’m lost, I need her!
The Manics blow my little ear drums.
My mood changes with every tear;
Isn’t life such fun!
I cry for I have no human language,
That I can use to explain to giants.
This is no fun, satisfaction impatience;
I have been waiting for a year!
Why does mommy not come to me?
I wish I didn’t disappear.
Little baby, nothing left to say,
Beneath the blues mid-winter.
Tired of singing lullabies,
This hobbit needs another dinner.
You love us,
But you love us,
But you love us,
But you love us.
Do you love us?
Little baby nothing doesn’t lend a hand.
Little baby nothing just can’t understand,
Post-natal, post-partum,
Post-modernism epiphanies.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC