Long Weaned Poems
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Many moons ago, in my ascendancy
Males weaned themselves from dependency
At age 18, adults, full-blown on our own
No more nesting, Momma Bee, in your honeycomb
You'd bought your first car; you took care of it too
No one could tell you where to go, what to do
So many, these days, not even licensed to drive
Independence for them has yet to arrive
We checked in with our 'rents,* why maybe once a week *parents
Hi, Mom, back from the hospital; Doc set my broken cheek
These days, it seems no span of ten minutes ever's spanned
Without Little Johnny telling Mommy all of his plans
From breast milk to devices -- to Mommy, boys are forever attached
Better take her with you in your coffin, when you are dispatched
.
The blessing
for mine i
(for the most part)
eyne
for
unto
it seemed forever
i
yesss mine
(with the ever so soft)
wiped back
hern halo
But
(there is a but)
i kissed and
weaned her
unto hern
Wild
(polygraph me)
morning
noon
and nights
*]
MEMORIES OF MOTHERHOOD
Childbirth isn’t called labour for nothing, it is damned hard work but so worthwhile when the baby is finally placed in your arms. I can still recall the sound of my newborn son crying and taking his very first breath, it was a moment I will never ever forget.
Not long after my son was delivered he was placed into my waiting arms and I was able to cuddle him for the first time. I stroked his downy blonde hair and checked his fingers and toes; when I opened his white shawl it was very evident he was a little boy!
As a first time mum I was not prepared for the contents of his nappies! It became very evident when he needed changing as the smell was appalling! I found it somewhat confusing that white breast milk would produce such bright yellow poop but it was perfectly normal!
I remember when he was being weaned, his favourite food was baby rice, it looked like wallpaper paste but he would wolf down a bowl of it for breakfast. I tasted a tiny bit, it was so bland and actually tasted as bad as it looked, but thankfully he loved it
My son is now grown up and has flown the nest, but I can’t wait to see him when he comes home on a flying visit next month!
My Five Senses Contest
Sponsored by Viv Wigley
7/26/18
Written: October 12, 2023
Cinquain Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
______________________________________________________
Guile gust
I grasp your gasp
goad grafts gently glowing
the gray grove greenery growing
glean grace
Skies Straight
I snared your sight
Schizoid swing of Steward
sewn souls spewing as oxblood stems
stark stance
Wince, wight
I've weaned your whiff
the world-wedged wink was wrapped
while not washing down the wild waft
when whet
Froth flow
your frisk frame flits
follow fall foliage
freshly framed flimsy fruity field
faint flame.
Sand stake
of smog steam sieve
you stride in silence steps
by slamming a skulker-shaped slope
spread string.
"She's eight weeks old and weaned," the farmer said,
then placed the trembling Pup within Meg’s arms.
"It’s time to go and find a home away
from home where she can romp and learn and grow."
Her friskiness, bright eyes, and timid bark
quick warmed Meg’s heart; Pup found herself a home.
That night Pup looked for mother as she whined
and chewed the edges of her cardboard box.
The ticking clock Meg put beneath the rags
replaced the sound of mother's beating heart.
A little more secure, Pup fell asleep…
Meg wondered if the mother missed her pup…
Two weeks have passed, and all is going well.
Pup's found a niche within the household walls
and learned the rules; no jumping on the couch
or bed. The hours she spent in wooded yard,
with kitty and the spaniel from next door,
have opened up her sheltered puppy-world.
How well Pup has adjusted in a life
away from mother's warmth and primal love.
She found herself a home away from home.
Meg thought this while she stroked Pup’s silky fur
and waited by the phone for her dear call—
Her child at school three hundred miles away,
who just began her freshman year today.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Structured Forms - Iambic Verse
Sketch a Fictitious Character II
Sponsor: Giorgio A.V.
Judged: 01/17/2015
I recall by chance the astuteness of rain
When the thin smoke from charged pulses of cold haze
Befriended the weeded way . . .
Leering further into the viscera of the village,
Clouds of old beginnings heaved potent sighs,
Loud, frenetic and full of powder.
I revelled in the warmth of acid lightning,
Quick to mirror the village in its own image.
The grey breath was intense,
Fusing teethed mirth with grim spheres.
Then came the vitrined harmony of fleeing spectres!
Tricks were revealed.
Tenebrous paths came to light.
And the rumps of sensuous fowls stood stark
Before the reality of weaned souls.
I recall lighting up a cigarette.
Adding to the atmospheric smoke,
I held on to the banter of coyness, flat,
Resolute, and with rummaged blessedness of initial stages
Blending well with the greed of May.
Under the moonlight, the voices chant.
Young voices, and nearby, the old men rant
Over kegs of fresh palm wine and kola nuts
Spitting out proverbs and some, with coconuts.
The locust chirps purifies the atmosphere
Mingling with the scent of fresh brewed corn beer
For which my pals and I salivate while skipping
On the "Tabala" conscious, there was none for tasting.
The Village "ngong" beats it's music,
As the maidens shake their waists and tunic
Exciting the lads who gaped in ecstasy
Rubbing their hands in frenzy
Grandpa, in solemnity poured libation,
With proverbs, rumbled out incantation
While creating a link with our ancestors
Who sat side by side with our predecessors.
As the Moon weaned, we scampered homeward.
Accompanied by drums beating skyward,
Jostling lads, professing feelings with gifts of groundnuts
Many of them shy and without guts.
A score later,
With bowed head under the moon I sit.
The yard void of kids with just a seat,
Reminiscing the good all days
Now so altered in many ways.
The "ngong" shed lay besieged by dust
The drums reside in frost,
And while from afar, Don Moen does chant,
I realised our kids no longer play "tabala" and rant.
Such longing for the past brought into me, fear
while down, I let go a tear.
© Temajung Michael T.
Poet’s Note : [Sapphic Stanza is normally four lines. This poem is a Sapphic Stanza Multiple ]
________________________________
In Dark Womb of God it is tender and warm
we receive Turkish Delight chocolate stormed
cut it in half with our fingers circled in white
receiving….bite, right
Laughter is not false sounds coming from masked stings
only pure rings from bellies, see death basked
Bestower told us to rest awhile, spirit style
yin-yang__opposite dials
They cannot bother us here with insert stares
a whirlwind majestic lifted us up high
done as much as we could before new missions
delivered … requests
Below stuck in muck, we need not to be bothered
for time being was a delicious smother
walking down our Akashic Aisle for miles, miles
reading _____ our beguiles
Roman temple structures, ruptures and arrows Dark Nights of Souls we watched as movies narrow
fascinating debates in vacant spaces, weaned
mirrors galore gleaned …
Murky waters where stale grief slithered in blood
fun to see so many facets falling in flood
armour and daggers of all sorts with flowers
serpents in bowers _____
Still you wanted to stuff your pockets, in case angels laughed at your haste around corners chaste
past present future all one we understood
Eternity’s good …
In nowhere could we weep, it mattered little
could sing any hymn though they sounded brittle
chose to peruse any life for reaping thrills
talents ____ on frills
Gilded manuscripts, sigils, bells, shells, totems
we could keep what we wanted, Power honoured
Faith with abundance laws aligned, for sure more
shore doors gaping wide…..
/________________________________\
I had to make a decision that nearly destroyed me.
The decision was painful and it was Tragic Irony.
Mom gave me life and I had to make the decision that ended hers.
She was one of the greatest women in the world, that's for sure.
When the doctors attempted to wean her off the respirator, they had to put her back on it to keep her from dying.
They saw that she couldn't be weaned after three or four times trying.
I didn't make the decision alone, my brother had to make it as well.
After she passed, life became so intolerable that it was pure Hell.
She was suffering so much and my brother and I couldn't allow that to continue.
I would've rather lost my own life than to see hers end and that is certainly true.
The decision to take her off the respirator was ironic and it made our hearts break.
I hope and pray that the decision we made is one that you'll never have to make.
[Dedicated to Agnes Johnson (1948-2013) who passed away on March 6, 2013.]
The revelations of winter pass now,
the captured moments of vertical strife,
the stanchion of paper white birch forests
rigid on the black scratch board of rocky hillock
soon, these markers of winter will be hidden.
The milky froth of frozen ground water with its
watery tresses falling in a downward slashes
passing over grey granite cliffs will disappear.
Brave bits green will spring,
rising succulent and sucking, hungry
as the red tipped maples tonguing the foggy air.
Winter weaned from the austerity of fast.
The still white tombstones marking the hill
will be hidden behind verdant forests of poplar,
beech, maple and rampant evergreen.
Each structural element, each under pinning
pining for the cloak of spring,
craving an end to the cracked and chapped existence,
longing for the robin’s song, and the worm’s rise.
Dreaming of golden dandelions
as the rain tinkles down.