Emergence

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Emergence,

resurgence,

umbilical stretch,

ascending,

unbending,

her labour pains’ catch.

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Mother’s Song

I cannot promise perfect days

Or from your circles, constant praise;

I cannot banish rainy storms

Or pledge that love will keep you warm;

To guarantee the stars will shine

Steps out of bounds that are not mine –

But I can hold you when you grieve,

When breakers dash what you believe,

And life’s false grandeur grinds hope down;

I won’t let your sorrow drown

Your vision or your grip on grace  –

My daughter child, there is a place

Inside my soul where you belong,

You draw from me this Mother’s Song…

Just Like Mama

She wants to be just like Mama.

She dabs on perfume

and purses her lips to receive fresh coat

just like Mama.

She dreams of carrying a purse full of wonders

and strutting in heels higher than the moon.

She tosses her hair and holds chubby fists to her hips

and wags her finger at her dolls,

exerting her own measure of control over her smaller domain.

She will grow up to fear failure,

hold her tension in her shoulders,

spit angry words under pressure,

just like Mama.

And when she has daughters of her own,

they will dream of stepping into her dress shoes,

growing up to be

just like Mama.

*

Some things we pass on to the next generation are so beautiful – faith, courage, grace, dignity.  Some can be tossed into the recycling bin, to be lovingly reworked for new use.  Others need to be thrown out completely.  What chains of generational heritage are YOU breaking?

Sirens

She doesn’t know how much longer she can last.

Neglected, forsaken, abandoned, rejected,

Trampled upon,

Hers is a lonely trek up impossible cliffs

And across deserts of broken glass

Where her feet are bruised and torn

And her heart leaches ice.

How many times can one get up after being

Kicked in the teeth?

Married to calamity,

Joined at the hip to lightning strikes,

She wonders when she signed a pact with grief…

She would scratch her name off the dotted lines with her fingernails if she could

But she knows she couldn’t spare the energy it would take.

Giving up is the siren call she has been able to ignore.

Until now…

The call comes, a delicious offering,

A temptation that the towel thrower can’t decline.

It clamors in her breast,

Chews on her resolve,

And spits out her mettle.

“Mommy? I’m hungry!”

The sirens melt into the mist.

Slowly she stands up,

on feet of clay,

and leaves a trail of dust on her way to the kitchen…