Long Like a mother Poems
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The sound of breaking is late.
Thunder shatters gray clouds after
lightning strikes the damp soil.
When pieces of sky pierce flesh,
the scream is slow to rise—
The sound of breaking follows pain’s echo.
The sound of breaking is gentle.
Raindrops tiptoe on my eyelids—
each sting a secret pressed down.
Earth's unbridled tears fall for my dried irises
like a mother weeping for her daughter’s sorrow.
The sound of breaking soothes the broken.
The sound of breaking is silent.
Breaking is walking beside the light,
but too dim to cast a shadow.
I watch as the sun clears the post-rain sky,
dyes its silk blue with the arc of a rainbow—
the sound of breaking
mutes even the birdsong at dawn.
She really was created by God
to be like a Mother to us
bunch of cosmic orphanings.
A stage that cradles life expectantly,
a light shining down like a spotlight.
Our Mother beaming proud
in her continuous pregnancy.
I can see this without any polls,
without money changing hands,
or whispering adults.
Not last and not least but enough for this read.
I will use no superpowers, just sensibility.
I will ask our congresswomen and congressmen
to clear out the debris from cobblestone streets
and stony brook, from field and stream.
The toxins and spills and dioxide crooks
driven by greed reward us while they reap.
Cheap Mr. Krabs like fiends.
I will ask the grown ups, though, not to worry.
If I can clean my room.
They too can get things done, too,
after doing their homework
and addressing everyday needs.
Now all of this has made me thirsty
for a crystal clear, tall cool drink of bee...umm water.
Time to sip a think of healthy attitude
and the variety of creation's atmosphere too.
Everyday I learn more, that she,
Mother Earth, THE HUMBLE HANDMAIDEN OF MARY
she was created for me,
and in a way, I for she. As I journey and grow
and experience experiencing, wherever I go,
she's there for me, bringing me ever nearer
to the greatest of things. To Be.
Love really exists
Caring reciprocal love
Father, children, happy family...
Father of the earth, you are beautiful
created in magnificence
graciously gifted by God
to give yourself to your children in love!
Father, exemplary man, strong
husband and royal protector,
crucial support and support...
Gently but attentively,
father warns; daughter, don't play at the table!
"Father, I'm recording, I'm not playing."
Calm, transparent pond...
ducklings learn to swim!
Father duck, watch carefully...!
Every father, patiently
like a mother similarly
of his children is a teacher
As the seas carry my cargo and I to different shores I wait,
Waiting for someone to release me from my burden.
Days drift by listless in the ambience of light and dark returning,
The skies change from blue to a Smokey gray overhead.
Waves crash against me, water engulfs me, but I maintain integrity.
A myriad of hulls splash by, pushing me aside.
Why, my cargo is precious and weighs lightly?
Passengers slowly cling to me, barnacles and algae hide my glow.
Woe seeps into my gleam as I lay on my side,
If only a rest on a shore or on a deck to ease my ever weakening self.
Like a mother my burden is protected until birth,
Though with the birth goes my death, like that of my brothers.
Fear creeps in that I might break under extreme elements.
The stars change and drift as I do in a sea of black, they too must be like me
Waiting for the chance to relieve our burdens.
The sands come closer and closer, sometimes scraping against my body.
One day I will be found, hands will grasp, and carry me home.
First Steps Funerals and Nana's Hands
By Evelyn Aimarie
2 days after my Nana's funeral
My oldest son took his first steps.
She was my grandmother on my father's side, but more like a mother to me.
Palms textured like warm overwashed cotton sheets- thin but comfortable, and clothes line, spring sunshine soft.
Pastel blue intricate
barely visible veins whispered life through skin undertoned with shades of the palest tea stains and ochre,
Broken in tone only by the occasional bruise she swore she couldn't remember where she got.
Tendons like flower roots danced like the underworkings of piano keys when she wiggled her fingers.
She always wore a ring with the birthstones of all of her grandchildren on it.
There was a time before my son.
Before my Nanas hands were so tired, so delicately tired and weighted by their form from generations of holding hands
Holding babies
Holding house holds together.
Holding my heart as it strummed for a mother and she tuned into the song, danced the role beautifully and with ease.
Wore it like a cloak and draped it around my shoulders in support when I brought my son home from the hospital
As she proudly exclaimed how beautiful he was with tears in her eyes.
The time before, when I was small,
I would reach for those... less tired.. more supple hands.
With the ring tighter on the finger to the point we once had to use dish soap and string and the sheer force of panic to remove it. When the skin was not as rubbed of its youth. There was a time when I reached for her hands, too, for balance.
2 days after my Nanas funeral, the same day I inherited her ring with the birthstones of all of her grandchildren on it
The first day I had it on my finger
My oldest son took his first steps into MY outstretched hands.
I suppose, I'm keeping her cloak warm.
I suppose, I miss her.
I suppose, my Nana's hands were on my shoulders behind me that day.
2 days after my Nana's funeral,
My oldest son took his first steps
Form:
Like a branch that reaches out toward the sun
Or a leaf that gently touches the sky
steadfast and growing with roots running deep
or a robin preparing to fly
like a wing that glides on a gentle wind
seeking its way to a nest
like a wave gently rolling ashore
Searching for a place to rest
Like two hearts beating from many miles away
thumping in perfect harmony
trying to find some common ground, to set their spirits free
Like a kite that slowly dances across the sky
or the sun that chases the moon
like a rainbow arched from right to left that somehow faded much too soon
Like a dolphin leaping over a perfect wave
or a shooting star that glitters in its flight
The soft sweet whisper of a gentle sea breeze
as the daytime slowly turns into night
like a mother and child sharing time
precious moments in a gentle embrace
like the the sun that rises in the eastern sky
with a smile on its early morning face
like the golden rays reaching out to touch
the green soft earth below
like a love that seeks to find an answer
one you might already know
like a song that reaches out to find
an open and receptive ear
like the person scared to make a change, suddenly losing that fear
like a road that reaches out to nowhere, suddenly finding its place
like two people standing hand to hand, gazing into each others face
like the warmth that comes from within the heart
reaching out for each other with a love that cannot be torn apart
T. H. S ®
I never held You but I feel You
Its like cuddling with the serenity of the wind,
I never imagined You but I know You
Because a babe needs no introduction to know her mom,
I never felt a pain but I'm pregnant with You
Just like gas which comes out from the ass,
I never saw You but I believe You
Like the general consensus that there's God,
You never spoke (aloud) but I hear You;
As a telepathic reads every mute statement,
I never knew You but I love You
Like a mother whose child died at the foetus stage
Then I finally knew You and love You the more,
The feeling of a stranger turned friend becomes deeper.
I never touched You but I sensed You
Like the West wind which blows ashore.
I never introduced myself but You know me too well:
A sculpture needs no introduction to its sculptor
Because from mother's womb You formed & knew me,
I never called You but You showed up for my rescue
Because He who reside in You
And goes before You is for You!
When I doubted You, You still loved me
Because the rain of mercy showers both on them -
Both the Abrahams' and the Thomas',
When I go the wrong way You move me the right
For the leaf in the forest has no choice
But to bow to the wish of the wind,
No one sees You around me
But You amaze and amuse me
Like men who are of such sensible & nimble lungs,
That they always laugh at nothing.
You are the invisible that is visible,
You are the invincible that is insuperable,
You are not just like the wind; You're a Personality!
T. H. S (The Holy Spirit).
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©2013.
People always think one man can burn the whole world down by himself.
They see a president pacing around the Oval Office like some drunken landlord with the keys to every apartment in the building, ready to shut off the heat or smash the pipes just because he’s in a mood.
But that isn’t how this broken-down machine of a country works.
Not even close.
The truth is uglier and funnier than the fear:
this place is so tangled with rules, courts, committees, subcommittees, and men in cheap suits who love procedure more than people, that no one—saint or tyrant—gets to steer the whole thing.
You can try.
Sure.
You can grab the wheel, kick the dashboard, scream until the veins in your neck look like busted guitar strings.
But the car keeps drifting the way the engineers designed it two hundred fifty years ago.
People worry the president will torch Social Security, Medicare, the scraps of dignity we cling to.
But those old programs are built like concrete bunkers—too many locks, too many laws, too many ghosts of past congresses still rattling around in them.
He can swing a hammer, maybe loosen a few bricks, but the whole wall won’t fall.
Not in a few months.
Not with half the country watching, lawyers circling like buzzards, and judges ready to slap his hand like a mother tired of her kid poking the electrical socket.
What he can do—what any of them can do—is make noise.
Kick up dust.
Scare the hell out of people.
Write some order on fancy paper and wave it around for the cameras, knowing the next guy will tear it up like junk mail.
That’s the trick: the damage that feels permanent is usually temporary, and the damage that’s permanent usually took decades to build, long before anyone noticed.
So yeah, a president can throw a fit on his way out the door.
He can shove over chairs and slam the drawers.
But the house stays standing.
The plumbing still runs.
The old programs limp on like grizzled veterans who’ve seen worse than one man with a grudge.
If this country falls, it won’t be because of one president—it’ll be because the whole damn circus finally collapsed under the weight of its own noise.
Until then, the machine grinds on.
Have you ever stood still in silence, to watch her cadence and graceful glide,
there is an undeniable beauty, she’s exquisite from side to side.
Like a mother watching over her children, unfurled high or at half mast,
she stands tall protecting our freedom, this old girl was built to last.
She has weathered many a storm, standing watch both day and night,
a shining beacon of hope and she will never back down from a fight.
She’s been bled on, stepped on and burned by some children who just won’t behave,
but she will surely protect us all, especially the fallen, who lie in their grave.
The next time you drive by that pole, at a business or a highway rest stop,
it might be a little tattered and torn but be grateful for what you see there on top.
That flag represents our country, there are two reasons why it always will fly,
We are protected by our almighty God, and the brave who are willing to die.
For those who want war with our country and attack the red, white and blue,
someone else will raise your children, that’s a promise and a fact that is true!
What is your poison ?
Is is drugs , sex or booze?
Maybe something sinister.
Something, you hide,even from your muse.
Does the smell of blood,
Make you sigh in release?
Do their frantic cries,
Fuel your unending need?
Does the slice of a blade, excite your soul?
Leave you weak in the knees and make you soar.
Or is it the sharp edges of bones,laid broken,on the floor,that make you
complete.
Yes,they make you whole.
A mother , a daughter , a sister, a whore .
A father , a saviour, does it really matter anymore .
The faces , so seamlessly , merge into one .
And when death comes , it frees you , till the next one .
The proof they leave , your battle scars.
You wear them proud ,
Compared to you what you’ve done
Their’s is nothing at all.
Day,weeks,months.
They all go by ,
You don’t need the moon.
The numbers tell you how far you have come.
Do you feel ashamed when you look in the mirror,
Or proud and in control .
Does the madness in your eyes ,
reveal the insanity you withhold.
Does the voice in your head,
Tell you what to do?
Guide you,
Like a mother with the infant of her womb.
That voice in your head.
How sweetly it dwells.
Initially, pleasing.
The soothing sounds, it makes, when they are bleeding , your dead.
But then the sounds turn angry and vengeful
No matter what you do , there is no pleasing.
You thought you were in control ,but they played you.
Haha, all this time you were being ruled.
The doctors they tell you ,
You’re Evil , you’re doomed.
To rot in hell ,
Haunted and marooned.
So hide behind your mask,
A regular ol’ John.
While in hiding you keep,
The monster ,your true form.
Why would you want to be normal,
If normal isn’t you .
Does lying and hiding make it easier .
Or does it make, a reflection, that keeps humiliating you.
So set it free,
The killer in you.
What is your poison?
Mine is your ruin.
By
Amanda Miller
Form: