Best Midwife Poems
T’was her ninth month and early summer,
My wife said she’d heard nothing dumber,
After she had spoken,
Her water had broken...
And me ringing up for a plumber.
The vicar surveyed her wide girth
Was scared that in church she’d give birth
He raised his eyebrows
Then rushed through their vows ...
He wasn’t adept at childbirth!
Inspired by the poem ‘Decision Needed’ by Maurice Rigoler
13TH April 2016
Babies crying in the maternity ward
Women; some calling, some thanking God
The only place, where pain meets joy
When the midwife says, it’s a girl, or it’s a boy
The midwife has the most important of jobs
There to usher and give care, when the baby pops
Persevering the cries of women in distress
Delivering babies, amid the emotional bloody mess
Life is precious, from the day it begins
A new born is a miracle, pure joy it brings
The midwife ensures the mother stays proud
By helping the baby survive, its first day in the world
The midwife knows well, the agony of birth
To bring a baby on earth, is never a smooth path
The midwife must have the best of skills
The midwife knows, a slight mistake kills
Babies don’t always come at the best of hours
The midwife works round the clock, with no allowance
Laboring endlessly for women in labor
Getting hands dirty, with no one returning the favor
The midwife puts smiles on mothers, and cleans the blood
The midwife's best reward is to see a mother glad
The midwife does it all, out of true love
The kind of love that always wants to serve
The midwife smiles when a newborn cries
And cries with the mother for the one that dies
The midwife is a mediator between life and death
The midwife is to thank, for the baby’s first breadth
When visions, elation, dreams and emotions
Expand to nearly the point of explosions
A skilled hand is needed to bring forth a life
That is the job of the Poetry Midwife.
I've no degree but this work is my passion
Bringing forth poems, turning thought into action
With each birth I feel a bit more energized
As this Poetry Midwife is legitimized.
This job isn't easy, hours sporadic
Some days are easy, and others dramatic
I get many calls in the heart of the night
Urgent for attention, there's no taking flight.
So with sterile blank screen and keyboard prepared
I plunge my hands in where the soul is left bared
And when I pull forth the creation I see
Sure a Poetry Midwife's what I'm meant to be.
5/1/2016
I woke up this morning
Something special on my mind
Today I must light a candle so that
Their Light May Always Shine.
I light it for the babies
That didn’t make this world this time
They died before or after birth, hope
Their flickering light will always shine.
So many couples wait in vain
Hoping maybe it will be their time
Suffering all the stress and pain
Please let their light always shine
So many tears today and lonely thoughts
The why and wherefores, maybe next time
They pray and hope all answers have been sought
God make their light always shine
Next year a new life might be theirs
But never will they forget the time
When hope was lost thought no one cared
Always and forever their light must shine.
Midwife
dressed in blue-black
entered labor ward
terrified of wailing pregnant ladies
vanished
The Midwife
Written: by Tom Wright
2006
The mind is the midwife that delivers
each thought of man when bidden.
The man who says he's nothing to hide
is the man with it previously hidden?
The greater hurt lies in what we know
Than in things perhaps we don't.
While Jesus sees and knows all things
To spin a yarn to others he won't.
So thoughts the midwife births today
May be decent or perchance verboten.
But either way you can rest assured
They sprout legs or soon forgotten.
Knuckles deep in a cat.
The spongy flesh pulses around my fingers
Each time I move inside.
Her stomach undulates
As if it was alive.
Wait-- it is.
I am trembling.
Her pained meows
Offset by the mewlings
Heard from within her.
The first head pokes out,
Slick and red
Staining the scratchy towel underneath.
Then more, four in all,
Pawing clueless about on the reddened fabric.
Their eyes still shut, yet they see the world.
Mame Blackwell, small light-skinned woman with harsh gray eyes.
That told a grave story of her encounters with death and hardship.
The edge of her mien was sharpened by the blade of the wicked and taken grip.
And her spirit for life was drained years ago, and her tears have long since dried up.
She had a stern manner of makeup.
She was a non-conformist with modern styles of flimsy dresses.
She wore a white scarf around her head to hide her thin gray tresses.
Her skirts were faded and worn, and drag the Carolina soil with her.
And the thin blades of grasses likewise concur.
For many years she wrapped her strong twig-like fingers around small bodies of all hues and gender and pulled them into this rigorous existence.
With tenacity and persistence.
Many rugged seasons ago, she squatted in the center of her one room shack and pushed to the floor her one and only child.
To her, at that moment in time life seemed reconciled.
She was young in years but knew not how many.
The ones that possessed her; thought little of the importance of telling her., and this insensitive act was the object of her acrimony.
copyright 2016 Looking At The Light From The Bottom of The Lake
And her beloved son grew alongside her like clinging vines.
During the capitulation of the Old South.
The era of a bitter drouth.
They lived hopefully from her skills as a midwife.
And though some days were gruesome for her they were perfect days.
When they were together in their strife.
She found joy and paradise in his existence.
In their blissful co-existence.
He grew strong and his mind was filled with invincible thoughts of mastering his own destiny.
With blazing certainty.
However treacherous winds of evil depleted his willful force.
And destroyed her soul to a living death.
A twisted sorrowful wealth.
Through the grueling time in multitude.
With a heart cold to any sane rectitude.
Many times she revisited the thinning forest.
She listens to the song of the Old South.
A tune of her son's demise spilled out.
From the elm tree in a thinning forest.
Near the Ebb Water Creek.
A sounding song of mystique.
And the mystery of his murder lay.
Cradled in the secretive nest in the deciduous forest.
Leaving her to walk in the darkness of despair and soul arrest.
In her heart, she knew the truth.
And its nefarious root.
In a raging storm of wrath.
And, so she took the wrong path.
"Mame Blackwell," he said.
A shiny Eagle in her hand he laid.
"My wife is in need."
"I beg that you do heed."
"She screams out your name."
"And boast of your fame."
The baby is twisting her inner"
And the light in her eyes grows dimmer."
"He said, " I tried to talk her out of being cared for by a Negress wench."
His face was grim, not so much as a flinch.
From the agony of his condescension, she put a plan at play.
She follows him as he leads the way.
Under the impulse and retrospection of veterinary pedagogy.
The acute stress in the room was her burden wholly.
With skillful strategy, she guided the baby into a world of many ills.
But there was no fight for air through his tiny nostrils.
No shrills.
His face was nearly purple and his chest was still.
copy 2016
I’m summoned to a baby shower
The mum to be’s flustered and dour
As her waters just broke
In front of shocked folk
Her baby arrived in an hour
I cleaned up mum and baby Ted
And lifted Ted above my head
No diaper, I'm cursed
He piddles, - nowt's worst
No wonder my face turned bright red
My web’s a lonely place to be
For no one likes to visit me
No one who comes here wants to stay
Yet neither will they go away
I really can’t imagine why
A friend (for life) will pass me by
Unless, of course, it’s indiscreet
That everyone I meet … I eat
With a deliberated ruse; she washed its tiny face with a soft washcloth.
With no resistance, she enfolded the wee infant into a swaddling cloth.
In the Autumn equinox, she placed the tiny form in the simple wooden box.
She watched them perform their antiquated burial tradition, and then she returned to the loose gray dirt.
She then headed home with a secret beneath her skirt.
Earlier during the dim of the day, while they were seeking each other for comfort.
And while superficial prayers were offered up with great effort.
She blew breath into the tiny mouth and massaged its tiny smooth chest.
And by the grace of God, the tiny infant was blessed.
Madame Blackwell by virtuous askew created a makeshift bundle and made a switch.
Her deed made unnoticed without a glitch.
No regret manifested in her heart.
No transient sorrow, in place was a spiritual upstart.
For retribution was pacified and made whole.
There was a righteous mood in her soul.
Justice was done.
For her, the sun's unsparing glory shone radiantly on her and her son.
Spread your legs now
And to further instruction bow
Or I shall phone your man
And tell him every rubbish I can.
Your two knees facing the ceiling
Or with stricter midwives be dealing
Armed with their taming cane
Sure to once again make you sane.
Your favourite lying sex position
You’d been making a nightly decision
That eventually got matters to this stage,
Opening as it were this challenging page!
And stop you must your moans;
These needless whines and annoying groans,
When flow finer sounds can from your throat
In our maternity, mother like verses quote...
Where the once heavy
Finally goes home with her baby.