Mother

Warm, yielding, loving

Caring, protective, gentle

Claws at the ready

Haiku Challenge

Day 2 – February 2nd – Theme or Word: Mother

Eat This

Little girls like

little birds

open pink mouths

and peep

because we need to eat

We need

someone's hands to feed us

to keep us and

You have to believe

the ones who feed you

and so you believe

You believe

what they feed

and they feed

and they squeeze

and they tease

You remember all the names

They say you're fat

and stupid

and worthless

They criticize

and minimize

they feed you lies

and you swallow their words

even though they burn

even though they hurt

And is it any wonder

that girls are dying

from eating disorders

that we stick our fingers

down our pink throats

and vomit up

the poison

that makes our stomachs churn

that we clamp our mouths closed

and finally say no

This body belongs to me

and I'd rather see it starve

than swallow the shit

that you give me

I'm hungry

but I can't eat from your hands

anymore

My mouth is sore

from trying to lick an empty spoon

to find sustenance

and getting a hand slapped

across my face

Scolded

Told you're too needy

Too greedy

When really all I wanted

was someone to

feed me.

submitted for Poetry Jam, The Sound of Music

This is how it should be: Corrine Bailey Rae-Put Your Records On

Lullaby for the Lost

No funeral

No flowers

Put it out with medical waste

No tears

No prayers

Sympathy is for the chaste

No one's bringing you a casserole

No one's sending you a card

You caused yourself this grief, this sadness

Now no one cares if it is hard.

No right to mourn

Carry the scorn

Your choice, so you said

Time to move on

Glad that it's gone

Flush it away, it's dead

Your dirty little secret

You kept it sterile, clean

No name for your lost baby

The one that could've been.

submitted for dVerse Poetics, Taboo Subjects, at dVerse Poets Pub

Family Photo

Image Credit: M. R. M. :http://my.opera.com/

Every year it's always the same

"Never again!" I swear

Perhaps someone different but someone to blame

Why do I bother to care?

I just want to have a little memento

Of our happy family days

But taking the picture brings me such torment-oh!

It puts me right into a craze!

First the weather looks fine with the sun in the sky

Then suddenly it starts to rain

As soon as it clears and we've all gotten dry

The little one's shirt has a stain!

Then there's the wiggly, fidgety ones

The ones who will never sit still

As soon as one sits down, another one runs

These brats are a test of my will.

And you just must see the facial contortions

That I have to view through my lens

Silly behavior beyond all proportions

And two of them baring rear ends!

A nice family photo is all that I seek

A picture of those I hold dear

But all that I have is frustration and pique

Perhaps I'll have more luck next year!

submitted for Short Story Slam, Week 10, at Bluebell Books

Imagine

image source

Imagine your child

The teasing he'd hear

Attacked and harassed

Taunts of "faggot" and "queer"

The teachers all know

but they'd just turn away

They'd say it's a problem

that he acts so gay

Imagine your daughter

won't wear a dress

short hair and no make-up

Is her beauty worth less?

Her choices are different

Which many don't like

Because they feel threatened

they call her a dyke

Imagine being hated

rejected, reviled

Would you still accept it

if this were your child?

submitted for Poetry Jam, Will Write For...

Strokes

image courtesy of Magpie Tales

If I could paint over

all of your hurt

whitewash your wounds

that still smart even after so

many years

when rubbed the wrong way

where would I start?

With the empty spaces 

left in your spirit from

cutting words?

What color would fill them in?

With the mistrust from

lies

told straight to your eyes?

What hue would do for that?

And what brush

would ever be soft enough to

stroke the cheek that's been stung

by too many harsh slaps?

your very walls stained

with splatters of shame

Would I ever have enough paint

to erase the damage 

inflicted by a critic 

who was blind to

your beauty?

submitted for Magpie Tales 78

Not Quite Still Life

Little Girl In a Blue Armchair by Mary Cassatt

This is Miss Cassatt, Child
She has brought her paints
She's here to do your portrait so
There best be no complaints

Sit upon this wooden stool
Do not make a fuss
Be a little angel and
Do not embarrass us

But Mother, dear, this stool, I fear
Is really much too hard
I'm tired and I'm bored
I want to go play in the yard

Don't be so fresh! You listen now
Or else I'm going to scold
Get yourself up on that stool
And do just what you're told

Perhaps that big, blue armchair

Might be a better fit

I'll even let my doggie come

To be in your portrait

Okay, I'll try to sit still but
This dress, it makes me itch
It's stiff and hot and pokes me
I can feel its every stitch

Stop slouching, Child, you've wrinkled
Your lovely little dress
And get that pout off of your face
This portrait's such a mess!

submitted for Poetry Potluck 44, Painting Whispers, at Jingle Poetry

Fly

photo courtesy of Magpie Tales

Baby Girl wear her butterfly wings for Halloween

She soar 'round the house pretending to fly

Baby Girl say, "I'ma fly for real one day!"

Baby Girl's Daddy laugh real loud. Say,

"You too precious to fly, Sugar

You Daddy's little doll
Fly too high,
you break
like a fine
china
plate."

Baby Girl
 pout her lips
and scrunch up her face

Baby Girl go tell her Mama
"I'ma fly for real one day, Mama!"

Mama grin but look like she smell somethin' off
She say, "Don't be talking crazy. You too fat to fly
even if you had wings. Imagine, a butterball like you!"
Mama's words stung like steppin' ona nest a yella jackets

Baby Girl blink her eyes buncha times then but she don't cry

She be thinking'

She be schemin'

Baby Girl go 'bout her business but she always on the lookout

She be collectin' what she need for her potion:

first mornin' dewdrops

hurricane winds and

dragonfly wings

angel trumpet blooms

tears from a broken hearted girl and

stardust

silk from a spider's web

a sigh from the laziest afternoon in June

and in a glass cannin' jar, 'stead of pole beans,

the perfect note

from the love song

of a white throated sparra'

Take Baby Girl long time to collect everthing
But Baby Girl, she long on patience 'cause
You got to fix a potion jus' right and

 Baby Girl, she wanna be jus' right

Then one clear summer night
when the moon be bright
and the sky be dark
as molasses

Baby Girl
know.

Next
morning
she be gone

Her Daddy don't say
nothin' but make tight fists
with his big hands. Her Mama
cry and cry. Say, "How could she
leave like this?" Slip a paper on Baby Girl's
pillow.  It read, "You don't need wings to fly."

submitted for Magpie Tales, 70

$1.99

image courtesy of Magpie Tales

Welcome to the estate sale!

Come on in and look around

See anything you like?

Oh yes, it's all yours, isn't it?

Or rather, it was.

Now it's fodder 

For the Saturday morning junk hunters.

Table and chairs--$100

Floor lamp--$25

Potted plant--$2.50

Like you, it's not alive.

The sofa with its arm covers

Barely even used

The cut glass chandelier

Still casts a harsh glare

Also like you

But it's never felt so warm here

Now that you're cold.

And look! Here's your photo!

In a lovely gilded frame

Million dollar smile?

Yours, $1.99.

submitted for Magpie Tales 70

The Bootmaker

photo courtesy of Rob Hanson

Who will fill his shoes when he is gone?

His dye stained hands are leathery as the hide

The hammering fills the hours from dusk til dawn

He has no one with whom to share his pride.

His daughter left his home in rage and tears

He never even knew that she was wed

Never met his grandson of three years

She tells the kid his grandfather is dead.

The older sons both went to fancy schools

Now they shun the work he does by hand

They have no use for all his simple tools

He does his best to try to understand.

His youngest son is practically a ghost

He's heard some folks refer to him as trash

But he's the one who favors her the most

So when he asks, he always gives him cash.

Who will fill his shoes when he is gone?

Who will tan the leather, cut the size?

The bootmaker keeps working on and on

No one to replace him when he dies.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

The Duke

image courtesy of Bluebell Books

The visit began just like last week's. "See if you can find a John Wayne movie on the TV. I can't figure out how to work it anymore."

"Okay, Dad." Of course, I found one. Seems that John Wayne movies are always on.

"Yeah. The Duke. Now, he was a real man. Don't see too many of his kind anymore. So, you find a job yet?"

"I've told you, Dad. I have a job. I'm a writer. That is my job." I wished I could blame this conversation on senility, but it was just his stubborn refusal to accept my vocation.

"No, I mean a real job. Oh, I know you got a couple of stories published in some magazines, and that's great and all, but you can't really expect to be able to support a wife and a couple of kids some day living like that."

I let that comment drift off into the whir of the box fan he had sitting by his Lazy Boy. If we began that conversation, not even the Duke would be able to save me.

submitted for Short Story Slam-Week 2, Bluebell Books

Who's Gonna Save Them?

Stole the cash from Mama's purse

To buy the test after school

Along with a candy bar, nail polish, and lip gloss

To look casual, you know, like she did this all the time

Cut her morning classes to pee in peace

After Mama went off to work

Who's gonna save them

Now that they're here?

Wrapped the bad news in toilet paper

Hid it in the trash

Passed her boyfriend a note

He hung his head and slammed the dirty cafeteria table

Later he offered to marry her

If she wanted

Or give her the money

To do something else

Who's gonna save them

Now that they're here?

She tried to keep her head up and walk tall

They called her "whore" and "baby killer"

Pushed pamphlets at her with pictures she didn't want to see

She told herself she'd come back another day

But she never did

The sting of Mama's hand across her face hurt the worst

Who's gonna save them

Now that they're here?

submitted for WD Poetic Form Challenge, The Bop, at Poetic Asides

The Bop is a poetic form created by Afaa Michael Weaver. It is a poetic argument made up of 3 stanzas, each stanza followed by a refrain. The first stanza (6 lines) states a problem, the second stanza (8 lines) explores or expands upon the problem, and the third stanza (6 lines) presents a resolution to the problem or tells of the failure to resolve the problem.