It Should Be

It should be the dreamt blue

But the river is brown and still.

Not moved by tide

Nor flooded by rain
 

But stopped and thick

And muddied.
 

There should be a rising moon

But the sky is dark, unfilled

Not sacred night

Nor starlight’s reign
 

But stopped and thick

And emptied.

 

 

It should be blowing through
But the air's condensed, distilled.
 

No breath supplied

Nor lungful gained
 

But stopped and hot

And sullied.

 

I should be moving too

But I cannot find the will.


Not held by pride
Nor bound by name


But stopped and thick
And buried.

 

Confessions of a Bad Mother

Single parent.  A phrase that defines or redefines parenthood in monumental ways. It takes more work, more strength, more conviction in all that you do, more of you. There is no automatic backup. No tag-teaming.  No bench strength.  I am the spokesperson for my family unit.  There is no checking with anyone or worrying if a decision will be questioned or disapproved of.  It’s just me. And everything the little devils throw my way.  Did I say devils?  Of course not.  My children are perfect.  Just like everyone else’s.  I’m the imperfect one.  Here’s the proof:

-Sometimes I let my kids go to bed without brushing their teeth. (They are just going to fall out anyway, right?)

-Sometimes I let them stay in their pajamas all day.

-Once I let my children have frozen yogurt for dinner. Or maybe twice.

-I sometimes tell them that Disney Jr. is broken.  And Netflix.  And Youtube.  And my iPhone.  Then I marvel at the things they know.

-I have convinced them that “Naptime” is an awesome game.  That’s where I lay on the couch and “pretend” to sleep while they cover me with blankets and stuffed animals.

-When they whine for something in a store I tell them “Maybe for your birthday!” even if their birthday is 9 months away.  And even if they are asking for gum.

-I make them pay for snacks with hugs and kisses.  But everyone wins in that one.

-I am in no rush to teach them how to tell time.

-My two year old says damn it. So does my four year old. That’s all on me.

-I have told them that no one will ever love them as much as their mom.  Good luck to their future spouses.

 

Happy Mother’s Day!

Implanted

A bulb, not of light, but of seed,

rich with fertility and grainy un-grown potential. 
Dirty, rounded, stone-like, staining fingertips.
A weighted heaviness in the palm of the hand.
Its denseness like bone, like thick, hardened clay,
like iron boldness.
Buried far beneath a thin surface of grass, beneath.
Four inches maybe.
Six inches maybe.
Ten miles.  Maybe that too.
The mass of black earth smothering,
blocking the air from reaching such depths,
thick and moist and oppressive.
Entombed for the wait,
the long hibernation of now.
There is small chance for early exposure,
not when the cold grip of wind still whips above,
whips the grass, scourges the top layer of soil,
forbids something so fragile from exposure.
There is no opportunity for full articulation in winter.
 
The potential on hold, the possibility still buried.
Stems, leaves, berries, petals,
sunk in the ground, unborn, as yet unready,
concealed in the extreme.  Patient, still.
Still under.
Waiting while other things freeze and rain falls,
and skies fall and things fall down.
That unborn seedling, the unseen greenness,
the undiscovered newness inching upward.
Its strength unknown, heart untested.
Up it moves.  Closer it travels,
until bravery overcomes density,
through the darkness of earth and dirt and
ancient deposited layer upon layer of sediment,
toward its destined realization.
Up. Out. Until finally,
Lightbulb.