Thoughts on Mary's Mother

Where was Mary's mother

In all this birthing?

Was there only cousin Elizabeth,

Old and inexperienced,

To give comfort and advice?

Was there no Jewish mother

To make chicken soup,

Check how the baby lay,

As if she felt Jesus

Moving in the womb?

Was there gossip

In the neighborhood?

Did her mother

Want Mary and her bulging belly

Out of sight?

         In all this birthing.

         Where was Mary's mother?

© Peggy Latham, 2013

Detail of a pregnant Mary in a Provencal creche
Photo by Guillaume Piolle
from Wikimedia Commons

Forgotten Names

That reminds me of...

that film!

You know, 

the one we watched,

that black and white

French film we saw...

with the man who has brain cancer,

and there's that beautiful scene

with him lying down in the back of a taxi

driving to the hospital

and he passes all of the people

that show up over the course of the film.

There was a young man involved in gang violence,

a broken marriage,

a young kid's first day at school,

a married couple moving to a new city.

Each in their own black and white story,

all moving towards "the end."

© Scott Stark, 2013

Parisian taxi
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Catch and Release

iron cuff eyes clinging to uniform

curtails weigh anchor on cruise line confusion.

confrontations of emotional upset commence once battleships sink.

ornamental gratitude decorates hungry hearts breathing

vitality suffocates in doberman demands.

Grass roots honesty spews forth from innocence,

strip lotus nectar from sticky cookie jar fists.

exhausted earth turned servant caves in to pastry cravings

contenders playing 18 questions

asked by kitten curiosity sequential numbers forgotten

as sunshine day dreamers wrap infant arms around poltergeist fathers.

plead Poseidon for safe return from salty coconut travels across the mango flavored ocean.

were i a dolphin, i would loose stranded sailors from deep sea grips

vengeance splits storm protected decks

were i a ship i would hold tight to the nails

hammer together the pieces of vessel i call family

i am instead a raging tidal wave come to crash upon splintered trust and unconditional love.

i am a treasure chest.

unleash your padlocked soul give charitably the wealth of your qi, your love, your fantasies...

please, captain, on this day... share with me

© Sarah Bordeau-Rigertink, 2013

The 'Great Western' riding a tidal wave
Painting by Joseph Walter
from Wikimedia Commons

Heritage

I am nothing to claim. 

White skin and dark hair;

I can’t call myself anything. 

I envy those who have heritage, 

rich and proud, 

black brown and loud. 

Me, I come from a history of nothingness: 

my father born Jewish, 

my mother born Caucasian 

(the word for the occasion 

when they don’t have anything to say 

except you’re white). 

White like ghosts 

you're taught to be afraid of. 

White like cotton 

slaves were forced to pick. 

Had my mother too been Jewish, 

at least I could have possessed that as what I am. 

Yes, I know from where my ancestors came, 

and I have to laugh to this day 

that some people say 

I am privileged to be this color. 

And to those I say, fuck no! 

‘Cause I have to risk skin cancer to 

look as healthy as you,

and I have to wear makeup that clogs my pores 

to make me look alive, not dead. 

And when people speak of the color of snow, 

let’s not forget dirt is brown, 

and in it is where things grow. 

You may read this 

and call it self-hate. 

But my intention’s not that. 

This is just a message 

to which some of us relate.

© Suzanne Saxon, 2013

White and Brown
Photo by Tony Russell

A Hand to Hold

A nurse named Jeffrey who smelled of cigarettes, the one who wrapped his arms around me and tucked my face into his stubbly neck as the spike of lidocaine entered my spine, the one who peered nervously into my eyes after the shot of ephedrine jerked me back to consciousness, the one who moved in and out of view as doctors barked and rushed, as I felt the jumbling and tugging of my organs and saw my blood-washed baby girl rising out of me, spinning out and shivering...

That nurse Jeffrey winked at me as I emerged from drug-induced amnesia squeezing his hand. He said, "Everything goes better if you have a hand to hold, right?" Then all the doctors lost their straight faces, laugh lines appeared above their masks, and the room got warmer at my expense. I'll never know just what I did, but now I consciously ask for a hand and I have never been denied. 

© Laura Seale, 2013

Hold My Hand
Photo by Elizabeth Ann Colette
from Wikimedia Commons

Pieces of My Soul

carelessly strewn about

life’s sticky kitchen floor

unwanted

unrecognizable

moments of distant glory

forgotten triumphs

hollow victories

paragraphs and chapters

of once-read pulp fiction

mismatched socks and dirty underwear

not very neatly folded away

into endless bottom drawers

haunting relics 

stacked in barely lit crawl spaces

and cobwebby corners of the psyche

refuse of the soul

shattered and scattered

pieces of then

nervously awaiting

some gentle caretaker’s

healing broom

© Bill Vollrath, 2013

Pulp fiction cover
from Wikimedia commons

I-88

The long shadows of winter,

of bright, white birches;

their gnarled and arthritic fingers stroke the sky,

reaching for a sun that barely rises before it sets.

Other trees, gray and patient, stand waiting. 

Their gentle sway suggests no hurry.

They trust that new buds will come soon.

But the white birches have an anxious gleam.

Creeks are frozen into miniature glaciers –

rocks and fallen limbs scattered in silence,

like the limbs of drowning men.

In another season, the precocious creeks 

are kinetic in the still woods.

In another season, they are renewal,

carrying the tired and broken bits of these mountains away.

But even the creeks are silent.

Only the white birches refuse to accept the patience of winter.

Only the white birches reach for the coming spring.

© Jeff DeBellis, 2013

Birches in Winter
Photo by Axel Kristinsson
from Wikimedia Commons