Cuddled

 

My baby cries,

hurt

or scared,

or just alone.

I cuddle, keep her warm, 

check what she needs.

I play, sing along to my favorite lullabies,

songs that lift and encourage and comfort,

and at last I realize

I have hidden hurts, fears,

sometimes just alone.

I need the cuddles, the warmth, the comfort.

I need her.

She needs me.

I need me.

Poem: Receive

 Gail Carson Levine challenged her blog readers to write a free verse poem about their horoscope for the day. Here's my offering:

It's not popular anymore to accept advice,

like it's a weakness,

like the offeror must be overbearing, out of touch, offensive.
Even after asking, I have to take a breath,
open my mind,
sift through their words and translate them into my voice.
Help comes,
financial, practical, emotional,
even intuition, maybe.
Complexities become clear
if I am willing to receive. 

Mother's Day Eve

I described last Saturday to a friend, and she said it sounded like a bad country song. Challenge accepted!

Note: Although it's not country, I sang it to "Piano Man". I'm not familiar enough with most country songs.

It wasn't the best day in history,
my last Mother's Day Eve.
It was only the tip of the iceberg
when our new puppy decided to leave.

Then my son soiled his pajama pants
--that's all the details you get--
Threw 'im in the tub to clean him all off.
The knob blasted off; all got wet.

Hurry! Shut off the well water
though we're stinky from shearing our sheep.
Grab your shoes and get in the car--
Got to get a part a'fore we can sleep.

Heading to town, our car broke down--
steam's bursting up through the hood.
To be fair I must mention friends happened by
To help us get back on the road.

Life gives you plenty of ups and downs.
The lesson I learned this time
was that when you look at your troubles
they always sound better in rhyme.

Unglued

My desert garden needs a touch of personality.

I'll make dinosaurs, fun for my kids to look at,

and superglue them to the rocks

or they will shatter in clumsy hands.

I take my birthday clay and shape

my first,

a megasaurus:

long tail, head sideways, claws curled.

Each time I set him to dry I must reattach

a limb.

An arm fell off, a leg, his head.

Then for shaping, peeling off the extra,

smooth with gentlest sponge.

Claws fall off.

Well, I can paint over that.

Right?

Set him to dry, two weeks this time.

Hue lightens as he ages, terra cotta to vague gray.

All in one piece,

he looks as good as my imagination.

Take him down to paint.

I'll make this a fun activity,

earn good Mommy points,

so I pull out a lesser statue for the boys.

Leave the room to retrieve the paint.

Crash.

Tattling: "My brother broke it."

Dinosaur is in pieces.

Broken.

I put him on the shelf,

say I'm sad but do not yell,

earn good Mommy points.

Later, send them outside.

Superglue his arms, a leg, his head.

Cracks remain, and pieces too small for the glue.

I can paint over that, right?

Begin to paint.

Nudge his head.

Head falls off.

Scream at the universe:

"I am having a bad day!"

Wonder, is there some Meaning,

a parable in this tale?

I am the statue trying to fit the ideal,

sometimes coming unglued
or losing my head.

I retreat, let the frustration dry.

Later I'll get the glue

and try again.

Under cover

The baby is sleeping.
The morning is aging.
I should be out of bed, but
warmth and comfort live under the covers.
My body curls around her,
my protecting arm replacement for womb and flesh.
Baby faces are angelic in sleep.
Memories awaken,
another morning just like this,
and I cannot seem to discern
which baby I hold.

My Mother Loves People

My mother loves people

the way people love chocolate

or kittens or movie theaters.

She smiles, meets their eyes, learns their names,

and speaks with sunshine in her voice.

Her easy words would be wrong on my tongue.

I love people differently.

I see a stranger. I prepare to speak

But...

What if they are offended?

What if they feel obligated to listen

when they are bored, uninterested, don't care?

Perhaps I should not risk

their happiness for my desire to connect.

Any words may give awkwardness, offense, even pain

but if I offer love

people can choose which to receive.

So I smile, meet their eyes, learn their names,

try to put Mother's sunshine in my voice.

The words are not easy but I practice, I try

because we love people,

my mother and I.

Grief

I don't know how you feel.

I have no words that will fix everything

but I can tell you how I feel.

Grief is a hole ripped out of your heart

and if you place your eye to the hole

you see yourself

staked to the center of an empty universe.

When life becomes normal it is still a minefield

of innocent words,

innocent moments

that trigger an ambush from your emotions.

They pull off scabs and leave wounds

raw, open, bleeding like brand new.

Which emotions? Good or bad?

I can't tell. I'm too busy

trying to wipe my nose unnoticed.

I used to think of Hope as a bright flame

that warms your soul and drives away the shadows.

Sometimes that is true,

but even when not, hope is a bulldog's teeth

that cling to Truth and do not let go.

In each ambush I feel storms rage

and I know I could be crushed,

torn apart by their fury,

but my teeth are still set

and I cannot be blown away.

I Was Blind

This is a poem I wrote after attending a Sunday School lesson about Jesus healing the man who was blind.

Light.

So many types.
Light and dark, bright and dull.
I have no words for these things.
Which color is blue?
So this is a sky.

Motion.

So many movements.
People hurdling, hurdling, hurdling by.
Voices question, threaten, accuse.
I hear the anger, the fear, in the voices.
Now the feelings have faces.

A face stops.

A face I could not have seen,

A face I know.
I know His voice, the man called Jesus.
The man they say feeds, heals, makes whole.
The man who mended me.
He calls himself the Christ.

I was blind.
Now I see.

Shelled

This is an untitled poem I found in my 14-year-old journal that I think still applies today. I  copied the spelling and grammar exactly.

Like a turtle, egg, or snail

I also have a shell

When I first meet people, my shell is closed

That’s why people think I’m quiet, I supose

But if people are kind and full of fun

I emerge a little, into the sun

If I’m included in activities

You’ll see how open I can be

I’m sorry it takes me a while to come out

That’s what I do when their’s strangers about.

Give me a while and I’ll come through

Ready to spend more time with you

My shell isn’t as thick as it seems

A small conversation can break through the seams

I hear and observe things when I do not speak

Though emerging scares me, I may come out with a leap.

One little warning before I stop,

I can easily come out of my shell with a pop

But I also go back inside

To a lonely place where I can hide.