With love from Mom

My sweet mom sent this poem she wrote for me today to help with one of my current internal battles.  Maybe it will help some of you with yours too.  Thanks mom!

Letting Go- A Mother’s Journey:

I must find a way thru the tears and regret

It doesn’t feel right; Please not just yet

They can’t be all grown… I’m really not ready

Wasn’t it yesterday they still needed Teddy

It doesn’t feel right but I know that I must

Give my family wings, find my faith and trust

that all will be well after all these years

I must find a way thru the worry and fear

It doesn’t feel right but I know that I should

let go.  

They are strong, they are grown, and they’re good

My peace and joy are forever intertwined with theirs

and I must let them go to climb those stairs

to find their way and send their prayers


One Hundred Percent of Nothin’s–Still Nothing

Right. Write. Rite. Richard Wright.
Was a Black Boy.
Mother made him fight.
When he came home crying
they beat him up that day.

White woman.
Soft hands, soft feet, thin skin.
White as a sheet.
Has never even seen a fight.
Must be her eye sight. Site. Sigh h h t.

He faces
family, religion, communism, racism, poverty,
meritocracy, stereotypes, critics, hunger, elements, the
CIA and the FBI
he fights for rights with write

She faces
a wall, a clock, herself
her privilege.  She battles only her fear
of nothing
in a fight for the right to write

His battle won
and the right will say the war too, but
if he were here
Wright would write what she knows 
about their wrong

there is a vibration in the peace
where the men in this land promised
to right the wrongs
where there is still no stillness from the drums
of war

He gave one hundred percent and won
They gave one hundred percent of none
She writes of her heart, not a percent
and rights no wrongs in the new silent


Response to 2012 PAD Challenge Day 4 on Poetic Asides: I’m behind on these prompts, but I’ll pick and choose them as I see them. 

Every sign pointing West

In the two a.m. darkness between
white walls
on a twin bed too small for a grown woman
a whisper of him
touched the hair next to her ear, “that feels like love”
she finally closed her eyes

trick of the lucky card in a worn Taro pack
this message pulling her back to the place
she didn’t want to return
a place where the sun always shines
the smell of rain is a wish blown on a dandelion

he called to her
this man she didn’t yet know
in a language not her own
Ven, mi amor!  Ven, mi vida!

like a string on kite, she tried to stay grounded
but lifted airborne at the slightest breeze
every sign pointing West
in the shape of a life with two more happy babies
pet cats and a dog, all of them leaving paw prints on the heart

all because when finally they met
his mouth tasted good every morning, like rain during the drought
when she rested her head on his shoulder
his smell was what she wanted to wear everyday
until they grew old



Response to Sunday Whirl Wordle #50

When we were lions

for Fakhra Younus

I dreamt that we were the stronger of the pride
all of us
a tidal wave of lionesses cresting with open jaws
at the top of the wave to descend upon him
as he stood over you

just in time
before the acid melted your face, your body
we rubbed your supple brow with ours
licked your tender dancer skin with healing
juices of our saliva and protected you from any evil
man could craft

he imagined himself an alchemist
with acumen to transform worthless human flesh
into guiltless pleasure then to sewage flowing
through him, the hollow insides of a gutter

not in this dream Fakhra
the only flying that you do
is across the plain in chase of prey
heat that you feel is only the afternoon sun
warming your back while you pounce a playful dance
in the wild amber


Poem response to Sunday Whirl wordle #49