Posts Tagged ‘mother’

small berries

The stillness made from waves of emotion,

the remembrance of who I were

bagged by placenta

mesmerized in a comfort of bleeding heart

and all the joys n sorrows of a woman we’d never

forget to love.



This baby began in Fluid

bathing in Blood.

This baby did cry,


after enduring such unbearable pain of separation

from the Holy Rhythm she come to depend on

Get smacked and cold,

trading familiarity of breath for metal

(essence 4


bottom breasts for paper,

strapped to a strangers face,

his gloved hands even covered in skin

made to be False.


These lights don’t fool a child

, child no fool.


My Mother

was Strong woman. in nine month exact,

she placed her hands below her navel.

She’d stretched and allowed,

made room for this growth.

She’d felt and she moved as she worked by sunlight

laid by moonlight

n’absorbed AlLight.


with fluid dripping down,

a path to follow root

she walked slow n tall out in the even-ing.


Blood and God

comp any nough.


Bearing down and squatting up,

taking hold of tree and leaf for coverage

My Mother saw blackness in her prepare

her fire hand outstretched,

water bursting to join it

making boil

in this moment

so well

for Letting.


an with the sky for cover,

red earth drinking its tone in body;

the sickness draining out in pain

electric shock wasting someone feeble

My mother Yelled like no one could perceive

a howling far beyond wind

and caught in twinkling horizon.


She sang  .


never blinked but to save room.

To her palms bled another body as hers doubled

and this child cried

but her Mother

kissed unspeakable depths off the lids of her eyes

and gave strokes to precious stones, her cheeks,

like subtle Does. In a way not even aware of itself.

2 hearts ne’er disconnected.


They rested from the toils

the earth beneath some warm cradle


n at next dawn,

all the bushes that encompassed

grew taller and more flourished

for the Terrible Triumph

had taken place unto this midst.


We Celebrated


as we shall under the next ceremony

a new kind of passing for all life,


Come to the Funeral.

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crooked bends.

how twining limbs make like a dancer;

this art not far from torment.

outstretched hands of grace scene bii twisting bows;

the flagellation

hanging on an edge of awkward;

soup and flailing noodle.

Whip myself poison in fire ants;

the red of their backs melting prickles

stinging sensitivities and hoarding some flesh otherwise covered.

Blankets are hot and wooly

kill with fever,

they steam to fog

but I prefer them to the sharp of bitter angulation

which makes me a girl rather than woman.

(“slanty’s sad.”

“because slanty’s a woman. she’s not a girl.”)

do you know how broken eye m?

how guilt pools like stagnation, makn almonds or ulcers

but the soft equine step of burden

shall come unto me from above

and i clean it out this center.

I don’t want to be um mother on a bed in a bathrobe

her tears for the pain of loss

her loss not that of innocence

but, to meyes a timidry.

a step always too soft;     her cell.

Bees making beds of flower petals

the breathmaking soil of true romantic

(the highest fashion).

Did you ever know about my guilt?

The omni-makin possible

r nights in dark, cast by the shadow of phallus and Fear

n carried out in fist.

Or the need I ate with? Proof to show I didn’t care   (?

any case, Bless I ze hand

of slowly pushing planting

wit all da moon forces gracing neath

da help of bine fungus

Divine r the fingers

bring I n I 2 1

and the wine we drank; made sorts of wood or fruit, coursely pebbles

all such tastes branding the wind suckling laughing forms

learning how to crawl.

I fed from vines

Sunlight fed I

I fed the deep eternal feeling;

a rotten to-the corps

like never we are enough.

Those waters in-gaged I

en-gorged and filled I wit blood

.    Collect-ing


only alchemy. intention. and the best use of resources.

Senselessness Surround

how bout perfection within any circumstance


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Metu Neter

A depiction of the Mother Goddess. Thought to have been carved between 24,000-22,000 BC. Source of this image: http://andrewgough.co.uk/


Our mistake is an age of rebellion against the divine feminine. But the dark side of the moon

is the darkest light we know.

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And twice during a routine, feeling some thread of weakness flutter up through my sacrum and overtake me

for a brief.

(not needing to qualify that.)

Knowing and uttering out loud that something was coming for me.

And this blasé man of work to my left quipping:

“Don’t say that. You say: I’m not going to get sick because I’m going to fight this.”

Is that what I say? Well I took to heart and my mind repeated those words. I thought of my strength but knew these efforts were resigned.

And the pedal over the bridge that night felt like effort for once

felt like work.

I was done with being worked for the night.

Over the course of the next day the sickness slowly settled in with timid barking symptoms, affecting me like hiccups

doll waves of flickering whiteness

minor threatening interruptions.

So I prepared myself to rest and to fast and I turned my ears just inside out, multiplied them, and placed them too in my stomach and the aching portions of my back.

Morning I woke and coaxed myself out into the world

So separate. Measuring each step.

Stomach thin from one meal early the day prior I cozied into a bubbling café chair and read of shamans and altered mind states, of early life before humans knew what humans were (at what point did we specifically become humans, anyway?)

I cozied and I sank

Each time someone walked in the front door I checked my peripherals for Yona’s deliberate pace.

No one mocked it.

I alternated liquids and temps until the buzz of customers around me began to grow invasive and I was nodding.

Bought some vegetables to make soup for later and tenderly made it home,

a plaid autumnal smoking jacket, unwashed hair loose and a bag of broccoli in each hand.

Walking through the alley I never avoid, a man in a curling mustache darted past on a bicycle

tails of his long woolen peacoat fluttering in his wake.

Smile to myself.

At times it pleases me to remain this contained (move so undetected) inside a community. At times this “community” is enough

But more often I long for the love of a true one, honestly knit together and bound to last for many seasons.

Weakness nearly prevented me from completing the stairs to my apartment’s front door. I dropped the groceries and made a can of soup and two eggs that I flipped with a spoon.

It occurred to me that I wanted to nest in a warm bed of blankets and

there was nothing more I could have wished for at that moment than two perfect arms of someone with love, encasing me and completing that nest.

Yona came.

And that night still seems a dream.

Him there in the darkness with me (but not like before).

Little icicle spiders overtaking my body and slowly, quietly drenching the sick tendrils of my hair made oily with manufactured visions

My own fevered imaginings, held in by lids too heavy to remain open

weighted down by utter resignation

the give way to enjoying these altered states of consciousness

these fantastic tales weaving themselves in a premise unable to be accessed by any other human no matter the closeness no matter the want

this spatial realm of just mine and just mine body’s and only shared with this some force which holds and teaches me throughout time, this


I am reminded of my first psilocybin experience

lasting for hours.

When I melted into this blanketed comfortered mess middling the wide space of my old apartment and became a young girl I’d surely seen on television years before

one of those young characters in The Crucible

the women of lore wearing long tatty hair and white nightgowns lined with molded lace

the ones who amassed themselves in a bed or on the floor, ripped at themselves and screamed with lungs that never wanted to close, only might bellow and moan,

and threw about wild glances looking at nothing anyone else could see

these girls of old puritan times – the “hysterical” women no one could seem to cure or control

their fits of madness either put to spells of witchcraft or fever sickness

the fact that they were swimming in another realm entirely purely scaring their authorities.

He kept bringing me back, bobbing like a buoy between the fevered mind and the space in reality we shared

My lids quietly shuttering centimeters and my mouth breathing raspy drying air which must have been saved over from before

surely I was barely breathing new air

but my talent was pushing it out with force

and these images, these worlds I was coming to when lent myself completely to the sickness

how entirely I was able to feel what my body craved

how deliciously it led me to ice and water


and a memory of being sick as a girl

sheltered away in my darkened grey childhood bedroom, my bed pressed into a corner just across from the door [how many times that bedroom’s since changed]

Suffering fevered but kept safe and let to rest in that whole uncharted space.

Waking in that room at the wrong time of day, the sun having already touched down and the heat of cooking softly filling the hallway

Gingerly, I’d swing my weightless legs over the side of the bed and let the sounds of silver clanking in the kitchen warm me

I’d open the door and step, blinking, into the light

face pink with fever and eyes glossy

And there they’d be, the three of them sat at their respective spaces with a full dish in front of them each

and a fixed plate holding my own place

just me not in the chair

“You made it just in time for dinner!”

My throat washing down with love and concentrated nourishment she’d made specifically for me


I never take my temperature anymore.

And usually, when I get sick, I deal with it alone.


It’s the only time I feel loneliness and bite down regret for this self-contained life I like to lead. My pieces-of-people life.

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