Winter babies are carried
in small wombs over stark ground,
they have eyes and mouths by now,
almost human paws.
The snuffle of small rodents
awakens more of the yet unborn,
they watch the world come to them,
blind whiskers uncurling.
Not all are born in Spring
not all tumble and play
in the green dray
nest or den,
many must too soon
pass away.
The yet to come
have see-through faces,
they have long soft nails
to scrabble over
tomorrow's hard killing fields.
Dawn, like a stripper,
takes off her black stockings,
arrives in white thighs;
she too is a working mother.
My own inner child
opens its ancient eyes,
calls out just once.
Roaring thunder booms
Inky shadow looms
Soft rain
Angry lightning fumes
Smoky vapour plumes
Wet lane
Heaven's water wombs
Harsh downpour assumes
Throb strain
Pit a pat refrain
I hear the campaign
Of sky
Pounding on my pane
Drenching dry terrain
Clouds cry
Nature's water reign
Petrichor again
Pleased sigh
Refreshing supply
Sure does gratify
Clears glooms
Raindrops moisten my
Earth and purify
Her rooms
Showers signify
Blessings poured from high
Hope blooms
It's not just young couples making a choice
I am for life please have your baby, okay
It's a farce about the tissue inside, mother has no voice
Having an abortion Dr. makes an incision
It's gets much darker, still to this day
Incest, rape, not her decision
Fundamentalists look away
after unwanted baby is born
Assuming the poor can afford
Self-kit abortion leaves her torn
Aretha Franklin, raped by her father's inside men
Save the baby? Mother dies? They'll decide
No choice of hers, pregnant at ten
Spent her youth trying to hide
More stories like these will unfold in the end
They don't hate Gays—they hate what Gays do
It's sodomy, old laws make a come back
Couples shouldn't do that, yes them too!
Healthcare, abortion Mills under attack
In your own home, behind closed doors
Blaming women for wanting pro-choice
The ignorant call you heathens and whores!
Winter babies are carried
in small wombs over stark ground,
they have eyes and mouths by now,
almost human paws.
The snuffle of small rodents
awakens yet more unborn.
Adults still cry in motherless wombs,
struggling to be delivered
from a million cyclic still-births.
A new dawn, like a stripper,
takes off her long black gloves,
arrives in white thighs,
remembers that she also
is a working mother,
the labor of the world
her endless tryst.
Barren women in the arena of Sylvia Plath
Weep for a baby
To bless their progenital path
With a lilting lullaby
Sung at night
Rocking baby in maternal arms
Imbued with love delight
In urban hamlets or on farms
Where baby comforts mum
Worn out by house chores
Despite nibbling a plum
On maternal shores
With fonder love
Mum derives from nurturing
Baby on wings of the dove
That needs no external culturing
As mum and baby bond
Despite pains the childless
Suffer from the infertility vagabond
Who certain wombs refuses to bless
And who robs childless women of joy
When scorn and sarcasm on them rain
As detractors and subtractors enjoy
Heightening the strain
Barren women bear
At home and in society
Where they dare
To walk tall with piety
They deserve
With or without children
In tone or in reserve
Along soothing words and hugs from brethren.
time heals all wombs
at
your funeral
the priest babbles on
while you
lie
there
motionless
I watch your
tiny headstone
weep
in the rain
7/15/11
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