"postpartum" poems
Postpartum depression’s
the perfect expression,
describing my current lament,
my love’s with another,
my kids with their mother,
I feel ‘though my heart’s up for rent.
My dreams’ in the gutter,
my life’s in a stutter,
how could I have been quite so blind?
Postpartum depression’s
The perfect expression
describing my blue state of mind.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
though you came out of me
you really came into me
and filled me up
with your innocent love
never did my emptiness
feel so full.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 1:56 PM UTC
Go to sleep, my love.
This ambulance is not for us.
Although, I suppose it could be,
following dark impulses.
Its sirens screaming of hell,
tearing pell-mell in a night
not tinged by blood –
no crime committed for want or violence,
only help arrived too late
to save us. It would go silent then,
as we have been silenced,
locked in a terrible tableau.
You, still, curled around my heart,
me having found for us oblivion.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 7:13 AM UTC
"There is a stillness that floods the moment"
a sky full of stars
***~~~
for you, poet, you
~~~***
*there is a stillness that floods
that exact moment,
the cutting chord moment,
that oddly has no
resounding chords
~
a stillness
that, simultaneous,
happily, sadly, accepted, lost,
all immediately,
by its very knowing
released acceptance,
for that is when
depression and joy,
a 1-2 punch of
raging quietude floods
the exactness of that moment
~
this shock of the calmness,
albeit brief,
jolt of kind,
jolt that slow mo's
pulsing prior air gasping
~
it comes when thinking*
done,
*it is done, yes done and I am undone,
having surgically cutting off
a limb, never bloodless, but
still relief waters flush the wound,
a granted, gifted joy floods,
permitting its escape tween the sutures,
in exhilarating exhalations
~
throw it down,
your extracted best,
lift up,
the fleshed out silhouette,
present it to the court and corps,
a farewell glance push,
finger caressing the send button
with ****** anticipation
for the lovely loving,
a vintage of the pre-regret
of completion
~
the poem is done, gone, ****** eliminated,
the light of eyes so peculiar to that moment,
when you have birthed a new born poem,
an acknowledgement of the stillness of a
closing loss,
the parting, the coming,
of a
peace of you
must too, be noted,
all deserving of equal rights*
~~~
July 12, 2015
NML
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-17/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-ii/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-iii/
(best read in order)
He blankets her with a mist that is fine and as pure as his postpartum soul is able to manifest. He’s sorry that she is sobbing on the dirt floor. He can’t think past the hunger that is beating upon her, which beats upon him. He is angry that his ancient predatory instincts are gaping to the fore.
For the ancient being now gently weeping on a cold dirt floor.
Why did he not recognize her? How did he get so lax in the thinking that cattle could disguise it self? A Wolf in Sheep’s clothing? Well... it’s not like he has not donned the same costume!
He had been a Protector for so long. Rising each Sunset with the challenges that bring on the most predatory beasts that hunger for pain. He, alone, has stood beside Humanity to bring the world a semblance of normality, morality, a passing moment when they thought they were King of the world… but their inflated egos were never touched by doubt.
Because of him.
But she brings him down to the basest level.
He feels…
For her
For her hunger
For her emptiness
For her utter contemptuousness
She is the creature that he has been birthed to fight. The utter savageness that she brings forth when it becomes night.
He alone, in eternity, wanders the earth to make Mortal life the one thing that is right.
She lifts her head from the cold dirt floor to stare at him. He materializes as a persona that should scare her, one that heralds Death, but his emotions are fraught with peril. She is important to him. He may have been birthed to bring Death but he was never denied that one could become his Life.
His pulse quickens, her eyes widen, her pulse quickens, he is afraid of the sight that lays bare in front of him. His fangs are buried deep in his bottom lip, he can not say a word even if his immortal soul depends on it.
She licks her lips in hesitation, maybe anticipation; she could be licking her lips because of the small droplet of blood that lingers in the corner of her mouth. He wants to touch his tongue to said lips and cheek and ear and throat and, well HELL, he’s happy to continue south… as long as his tongue is touching skin…
She looks away, briefly, and cries again. She is unable to fight past her hunger even though she has recognized the Protector.
She needs protecting too!
She’s so hungry!
But from the swelling of his body, so is he…
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
Once, when I was just a little girl,
I think it was my ankle,
I hurt it one way or another-
Kids will be kids, they say-
So I told my Daddy.
Well the best advice he had was,
“Just hurt something else- it’ll hurt less that way.”
It was never an injury
In their eyes
Unless it was a
Bleeder.
Once, when I was just a little girl,
Mommy was soo sad after having
Her little baby boys-
They call it ‘postpartum depression’
But I’ve always considered it regret and
Even now,
I still wonder,
If they ever wanted me.
I guess that’s the damage inflicted
By knowing that your siblings
Were all mistakes.
Once, when I was just a little girl,
Mommy would get these
Horrible headaches
So I choose silence-
I choose silence a long time ago-
And I haven’t found my voice since.
Once, when I was just a little girl,
Mommy and Daddy turned our house
Into a war zone-
Coming home was like an active tour of duty.
Two super powers constantly at ends-
Well, as you can imagine,
There was collateral damage,
And I can still see it in my brother’s eyes
Whenever Mommy raises her voice
Or a door slams a little too hard.
Once, when I was just a little girl,
I read a poem at school
About killing myself.
It’s funny that some other kids mom
Cared more than mine
For my wellbeing.
Because I still sport battle scars
And they’ve asked
And still did nothing
Even when I lied
Right to their faces.
Well, Once, when I was just a little girl,
My big brother died
And so did everything good
In the world.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Names are funny.
Have you ever wondered what your name would be if your parents didn't name you?
I'm one of the lucky few
that know.
If my parents didn't name me,
my name would be
Timothy.
You see, apparently,
when two people love each other,
Mommy cheats on Donny
with daddy and all three
demonize the baby.
Unfortunately,
abortion isn't an option.
Poor Donny believes
his little Johnson
made a tiny Willie
but really
it's Mike's Rick.
The trick wasn't revealed
until
Donny signed the birth certificate.
Obviously, Karen's husband abandoned their family.
Mike ripped his love from her and gave it to Dominique.
Karen,
twice-scorned,
mid-divorce,
postpartum,
decides a shelter isn't suitable for a nameless infant.
At this point, it's a little too late for abortion.
Nowhere to go,
knowing she can't stay,
Adoption became the practical option.
The noxious auction caused a nauseous reaction to her conscious. Karen picked the option, least pompus, with the most promise. An intuitively honest Christian was brought to her room so she could sign the synopsis.
As she's reviewing the terms of this blood oath, she glances at both of the parents cradling her second baby boy. They turn and ask
"What is his name?"
"I don't know. I thought he was going to be a she so I had the name Sade."
"That's ok, we have a perfect name in mind. Timothy."
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 5:26 PM UTC
The truth flowed out of me
Like a flood
And everything I've ever said
Tainted with the blood
Every shadow brooding
Silently I
Call to the sun
Open my purple eyes
Strangulation
Seared imagination
The child the child the child
Put down the child
Cast away the child
The prodigal son
Was killed by bears
Hounding sidewalks for nickels
The truth shone from my eyes
Half closed
Half asleep
Half adrift
Not alive.
Something deep within has died
Brittle bones and shaky sighs
Rattled breaths and paper hide
Put down the child
Goodbye
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Postpartum epiphanies
I'm shuddering against a stonewall
taking into myself the smoke,
snowy hills and the quiet of the
pine trees
I feel awake as the noise in my
head starts to dissipate
I go under water between thoughts
and comeback up for air once a
conscious realization dawns as
sentences
blooming in my third eye
The solitude in these mountains is
medicine for me like lighting sage
it mends the holes I possess in
my aorta
This large Earth is turning soft
I can't trace it in the swift grey clouds
or the suns hide and seek game
I'm tongue-tied on the ecliptic orbits
I trip over the luminaries movement
The trees whisper faint
stories but i am
ear-less to their memories
I wish I could close my eyes and
fall asleep to their song-tales
like a child at bedtime
I'm faceless to this circumstance
I feel like shattered glass
The future seems at once
both short-sighted and vast
I'm getting through on faith
believing my time is precious
and too rare to spend it in a cage
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC
My chest is so heavy
My eyes are blurry with strain
My back is breaking with expectations
And I can't bear all this pain
I'm treading in a lake of pressure
And I dont think anyone knows
That I'm struggling for every breath
Barely keeping water out of my nose
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
As if waking up
Natsukashii - been a while
was this lust I feel?
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:44 AM UTC
My dog died a couple of weeks ago,
I guess.
She's sitting in a small box in my mom's room now
with a small statue of a mischievous fox
and a photo of her golden snout
on top.
I didn't go to see her the last
several times I was in town
which means I didn't see her at all
for months before she died.
Maybe that's why
I haven't cried until now;
I don't deserve the consolation of sorrow.
I call her my dog because I was
the youngster that necessitated a dog in 2000,
nothing more.
But Mali was my dog.
I had to google map it to remember
where in Africa, but Mali was a good name:
A trite sound with an unusual source.
In the end it was too appropriate,
An arid name for a sandy dog
that died too weak to get water
and too alone to have it brought to her.
For days.
When we brought her home all drugged and tiny,
with Dumbo ears and lion paws,
I wouldn't leave her side for days,
eating and sleeping next to her on the floor,
until I started feeling down.
My mom told me it was like postpartum.
How stark a contrast between her coming
and her going!
She still looked like a puppy to me
the last time I saw her,
though she moved more slowly.
Whenever I see home again, months from now,
We'll take her ashes to the creek
and avail them of the wind
and the water she loved.
My dog and my Park,
both long neglected,
relegated to that past that
you can cry for but never reinvest in.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:33 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
3:52 AM
Awake once again
Embracing his small, fragile frame against my own
Distracting my mind from the darkness
That worms it's way into dreams
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 7:09 AM UTC
The joy of my baby right before me
But I can't seem to feel it.
Loving husband on my side
But I can't seem to see it.
Precious friends with a lifeline
But I can't seem to grasp it.
A mist has settled all around
I must find my way through it.
Jan 19, 2024
Jan 19, 2024 at 11:18 PM UTC
The Dragon's Egg
To understand my addiction
You have to know the
Back-story.
I was born in the dead of
Winter. Wednesday's child...
Full of woe. I was a preemie.
Mom fell on her stomach while
On a chair trying to change a
Lightbulb. As unpreposessing
A child as ever was born...
I won't go into my childhood
Difficulties too much, as they
Might prompt your judgment
Upon my parents. They were
Not really at fault. They did
The best they could based
Upon their childhoods and
Limitations....
Mom was sick.
A great deal. The victim of
Horrific migraine headaches
And an undiagnosed (therefore
Untreated) bi-polar condition.
She had aspirations of being an
Actor. She really should never
Have had three children. She
Simply couldn't handle it. I was
Born only 16 months after her
Firstborn, my sister Chris. This
Definitely didn't help matters.
Then, because my little brother
Mark was born just as her
Acting career took off, she had
Much less time for my sister
And I. She had a newborn, a
Career, a husband and
Postpartum depression. Chris
And I (and eventually Mark)
Were neglected. Not really
Mom's fault. It was what
It was...
Dad was a complex man.
A hot-tempered stoic. A hard
Worker who hated manual
Labor. A war hero who also
Became a runner (he would
Become a severe
Alcoholic - an addiction he
eventually overcame).
A generous miser.
A cultured plebian.
A spiritually minded atheist.
I don't blame him. But the
Last dichotomy was our
Downfall. We were
disallowed from church. Went
To an atheist Sunday School.
We learned about all the world
Religions save Christianity.
Or maybe I missed THAT lesson.
But as a result I had no real
Moral compass to live by. My
Parents tried to teach us
Ethical behavior, but because
Jesus and the Holy Spirit weren't
A part of the equation it was
Doomed to failure. One can't
Simply be "moral" or "ethical".
Without Jesus, we are all
Rank sinners. Sorry if this
Offends some of you. But it's
TRUE. Jesus paid the price.
Only faith in Him can make
A person right with the Father.
All else is vanity. My father
Spent his lifetime trying to be
A "good" man. He tried to
Be a "good" husband. A "good"
Father. But his efforts
Always stymied by lack
Of the essential puzzle piece....
JESUS.
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
My bronzed speech is available,
accepting the defeat of daffodils.
I will not write an elegy.
The postpartum blues are over,
I am coming out of the crib,
like a new born poem.
Floating the paper lanterns, at
night, on flowing river, to send the
message to moon. No more the beach will cry.
The triangular nuts will
speak of the hurricanes, protecting
the hairy seeds.
No resistance was needed
to stop the invading army of black
ants, ready to tear the dummies.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
Were they always a metaphor
for depression?
The green women
living always in the
ice-sluggish river,
waiting with thorn
teeth for those who
don't know better than
to approach their world?
Postpartum mothers who
pull the children back
into the quiet womb?
Every river seems
to have one:
Jenny Greenteeth,
Peg Powler,
Nelly Longarms.
Step out of the water, Jenny -
shake off the cold, cut your
hair, your nails. Toast some
cheese and bread, drink cider.
I won't ask you to smile,
or promise to save you,
but maybe just sitting
on the bench is enough
to keep your feet dry.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 11:42 AM UTC
Everything is packed away
As though you never existed
But my body knows otherwise
My empty, aching arms
A heavy throbbing at my breast
And in the shower I cry sweet, white tears
That were made especially for you
A visceral and final connection
That dries up a week later
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Life sometimes sunny, rainy or snowy
But what of those cloudy days
When we are too depressed to dress
How do we interpret that which befalls us
When it is dark above and an ill wind blows in
What do we rely upon as our barometer
There a myriad of reasons for when the weather changes
Maybe health is being a messy storm and a dichotomy of ailments
Or your relationship resembling a twisting tornado
A lost job or business failure a hurricane to the future
Droughts in our lives igniting all types of addictions
Failing grades a tsunami of disappointment
Postpartum a wall of sleet not easily navigated
Mental illness a torrent too easily dismissed
Marriage troubles a cyclone bursting forth
Loss of love resembling mesmerizing howling winds
Death a lightning rod striking into the soul
The past a swirling sandstorm blinding us
Andreas Simic©
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 6:37 AM UTC
Throughout the process
My body takes a hit
I grip my thighs, look into my eyes
I don’t recognise it one bit
I grab my loose stomach and
Flinch at the tender touch
I run my fingers slowly through my hair
It’s too fragile for a brush
Milk soaked shirts and
Blood stained shorts
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cried
Just by exploring my thoughts
They keep pestering me over and over
“How do you feel?
There are resources to make you feel okay”
I tell them “I ’m just trying to survive the day”
Throughout the process
My mind takes a hit
I grip onto my mind, my thoughts send shivers down my spine
I don’t recognise myself one bit
Jan 9, 2024
Jan 9, 2024 at 7:37 AM UTC
Where I end
And she begins
Is open for debate
There are places
We overlap
Blend together
Little between us
Is on the surface
Some are long entrenched
Others postpartum
And they will hold on
To the bitter end
Ebbing and flowing
Careening and crashing
So many create
Their own storm
Those wise enough
Allow them to drowned
Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 12:47 PM UTC
I have been myself, from
the outside looking in. The soul
a darker shade, where no blossoms
dare to bloom.
An experience of postpartum with poetry.
I yearn for ink to snuggle close, staining my arms
from the elbow down to my calloused palms.
Cradle close, soft cries-
it feeds from the paper's ******
tender flesh that leaks words.
This child hungrier than I.
But the spirit is famished for
more than my body and mind can give.
These blossoms, dreary in gray
monochrome. I pour my heart out
to this infant haiku, that must grow more.
Though, nothing worth
saying appears.
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 8:38 PM UTC
Dear “Dad”
And as I should...
I trust you...
I trust the imagination of you
Running up to my school
Protecting me saying “Don’t let nobody pick on you”
I trust the imagination
Of the strength in you
When I was 18
with my kidney
Trying to fail me...
That you lifted me to your car
And drove me to emergency
I trust at 21
You were there to guide me
And tell me...
My baby won’t have no baby
With a man who gave no ring
I trusted the phantom
Of you... at 22...
When I felt my ugliest
And postpartum
Gave me clues
To missing puzzle pieces
That unleashed
all my demons
That you’d come
And pray for me
You’d come and
Show me peace..
You’d help me find relief
I trust.. at 25...
What a time to be alive
That i’d finally search
For that man
That resembled my dad
Now at 29
I... searched... and searched
And could not find
Of course cause i
had no clue ...
A woman who knows not a father
Can’t know what a man is too...
I trusted you first...
Yet you continue to
break my heart last...
But I’m finally learning
I forgive you
Dear “Dad”
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC
Good morning in the garden
of forgetting, each of our chairs
assembled- Miss Postpartum
always sits on the outer edge
wedged against a tree and
looking up at the leaves
Botched Suicide, well,
there are several of us
we sit together in a loose
ring, Rope and Kicked Over
Step Stool sits at 3 o'clock
and I generally prefer 6
at the bottom of course
and Jumped From a
Window lingers around 9
for the third and hopefully
the last time
Slashed Wrist takes her
place near the top, at the
eleventh hour, as usual
she is as unsure as her
halfhearted cuts
Certainly no one is here
because we want to be
quite the opposite, we just
haven't mastered our exits
and it doesn't matter how
many mornings we find
ourselves here in this
circle of doom- at least
we know our places
all of us expecting to
exit soon
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 4:49 PM UTC