My parents they did take me
when but a child
to the shores of Lake Victoria
where, after a while,
with not much more to do
but admire the view,
my Mother noticed,
patience wearing thin,
bubbles rising...
yes, you guessed,
always causing trouble, I had waded in.
“Oh, for heaven's sake,
you may want to save your son,”
was the comment she did make.
“What!” my Father he replied,
“Me, jump in the lake?”
“Afraid of Nile crocodiles?
Mum smiled and queried him.
“No, nothing of the sort,
it's just that... I can't swim!”
Dad sternly did retort.
What more can I say, words they fail,
other than,
“Mother rescued me that day
and here am I to tell the tale.”
In the wind the Holy Spirit
Has turned and twirled
He has orchestrated conception
To all the Mary's around the world
One Mary she stands alone
The mother of our Savior
Blessed among women
Still in need of saving
Another Mary stands alone
The first to the risen Christ
As we all need to witness to
The Resurrection and The Life
But we are all broken vessels
Our fractures need repair
His Way, His Truth, His Life (and kintsugi)
Will help us, to get us there
So not every Mary will birth a Messiah
Or will see Him with their eyes
But every Mary who is able
will be blessed to be with child
Sometimes it strikes me. How unaware you are.
The words you speak. The harm they inflict.
Or worse, the denial, as if truth could simply vanish.
But love…it is absent.
You call only to boast of your effort,
The concern that could keep us close is missing.
Absent from a heart whose depths you can’t reach.
And still…it hurts.
If even a sliver of hope remained to reach you.
If even a small chance existed,
I would tell you what I long for you to hear.
But hope…it is gone.
I am not doomed to bear the blame,
so your hands can be clean.
Yet, one day. Maybe. I’ll thank you.
Though…not today.
In time, I’ll be grateful you broke my spirit.
For it is through that, I found her.
Oh how I wish you could meet her.
She is…love.
And I love her. I do. Deeply.
The woman I have become.
The light inside her, how it shines.
She has…peace.
Seeing now what could have been yours.
I ache for your loss.
How can I hold my hurt when in the end,
It is you…who lost.
Shadows creep along
sunlight chases them away
moon light unites all
Oh, sweet September, I greet you with mirth,
As it’s the month of my dear mom’s birth.
Something balmy is in late September’s chill,
Hauled in through the breeze from the hill.
As the cool wind whiffs past me, defiant and free,
Mom, I feel your gentle and caring arm around me.
Every day the sun rises and sets,
dawn and dusk, really are the best,
the new lit sky a divine painting,
where the colours never dry,
they just keep mixing,
She is an artist, the greatest there be,
She paints with wonder,
She is free but She weeps,
have you ever seen the rain?
She weeps with total abandon,
She does not choke back tears,
and when she cries most bitterly,
lightning out Her ears.
She gives birth to all life,
every moment labour pangs,
and grieves for the lost ones,
as your death amounds,
you may think yourself a mother,
but She's the only one,
She gave birth to you and me,
even earth and sun,
the dawn is streaked with red and blue,
and the moon is nearly gone,
the buds and flowers open up,
to greet the morning sun,
to each is given the gift of life,
and love in every breast,
with these two eternal life,
She alone knows what's best.
they say …
you cant take it with you
but you took so many little jewels
when you left -
your smile
your pure, unqualified love
your creativity and expression
your engaging mind
your kindness, your empathy
and your extraordinarily limitless patience …
but what I miss the most is
our talks …
about anything and nothing
and everything …
there was ne’er a doubt my heart was yours
and yours, of course, was mine
the truly ironic thing is
that we conversed SO much -
for many hours on end
when not a single, solitary word …
was ever needed.
I miss you, Mom ... like a clown misses tears.
Copyright © 2025 Gregory Richard Barden
( photographic art taken by my sister Terrilynn Dubreuil and filtered copyright-free by the author at Prisma )
Every time I piss on that little plastic stick I lose something.
An archer struck down on a battlement, a coin from a rich mans pocket, not enough to really feel it but enough to know it's gone. Something is.
Every time I let him cum in me I’m waving my white flag. Even if i ask him to, beg him to, I admit defeat.
To be a mother is to lose. From the point of conception to your last breath, you lose.
Your body is theirs to live in and reap for all they need.
Your thoughts are theirs, on them, or their thoughts.
Your health is in those tiny hands of theirs
.
And your love, your careful, gentle love, now raging red like an overfed hearth, will be theirs.
Whether they want it or not. Whether they take it or not.
It will rip from you and follow them like a curse.
And still, I ask him to, beg him to and admit my defeat. I piss on that plastic stick and hope, deep down, it will be my undoing.
Life lost, she bore;
The cost of war.
Who are you?
Where were you?
What’s the connection?
Why now?
My mind ponders,
In figment of imagination, it wanders.
Seeking truths in riddles better left untold.
As I walked in alone,
What was the calling, unknown?
Masked in a cloak, perhaps a riddle to see,
Waiting for you to appear, to help untangle me.
What is pure joy?
What is elation?
An infant cradled in mothers’ arm,
The embrace, the warmth.
The laughter of a child,
All innocence, free from guile.
The maiden glance, the nascent word.
Phew…Effervescent beats surged within,
A fountain of joy bubbling unseen.
Your aura, brushed in hues of rainbow’s gleam.
Your vibes, as pleasant as the memory of a childhood dream.
And I stood smitten, shaken & stirred,
Awoken from the slumber, my vision blurred.
Sometimes, a lifetime is never enough,
Sometimes, a moment is magic in puff.
Sometimes, words vanish, unable to explain,
Sometimes, silence sings what the heart can’t contain.
Walking in, I didn’t know my calling,
Saying goodbye, my thoughts and feelings were sprawling.
Blessed I am to have experienced you,
Pending tale, yet untold, will follow.
Mama, did you know the precious amethyst shadow hours
I spent beside you, cuddled cosy-close, nestled in blankets of light,
shawled in your red-gold hair? I kissed each tear you cried;
each one a starlight pearl forged from the depths
of your fragile soul. I rocked seashell-shut to each lullaby note
and silently watched as you rocked my cold, empty cradle.
Sometimes you sensed me coiled at your breast -
a small, balled knot of grief. You felt my tiny fingers plucking at you
as tingling shivers. And sometimes I bounced sunshine-free
on your knee, a giggling orb of light.
Little one, once again I felt you here,
entombed in the womb of this eternal everywhere room,
your spirit sifting through my fingers like hourglass sand.
Pain has blanked my mind wraith-white, but I felt
your lips nip the warm rosebuds of my nipples
as I pressed a lullaby to the delicate shell of your ear
and brief blessed seconds spun out like years.
My sentient heart will always hold you, my grip will never slip
as my earthbound hands, human-warm, reach through time
and heather-shadowed ether to love and care for you.
cry baby cry
you will from your first breath till you die
breath and leave behind
what was before will meet you on the other side
Mother Nature Teaches
via
Geese
m i g r a t i t i n g
once again
intuitively
know
One = All
weak + well
vital vigor
flight soaring
long with
wings kept
tip-to-tip support
uplift motion
onward for All
By Poet "A mother's love is never ending, always with a gentle hand."
With a gentle hand,
our life starts off being held and rocked.
As we grow and learn,
life will grow with us.
With a gentle hand,
we are told no many times.
Sometimes we learn,
sometime we do not learn.
With a gentle hand,
hopefully we get straightened out.
In life one day we will need to take our baby,
with a gentle hand.
Maybe I've never been enough for you,
On the occasion you speak the truth,
My heart gets broken over and over again.
Maybe if I looked like her,
Of course we would only know if I were,
Maybe that would make it harder to leave.
My heart goes out to those like me,
Others who feel like they can't breath,
Muddled by the presence of a wicked thing.
Maybe one day I'll get out,
Out of the darkness there's no doubt,
My spirit will be free and you will have no hold on me.
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