I am ripped open
But it’s weeks
Before I realize
My mind has been
Ripped open too.
Diapers and bottles
Keep me rushing about
But after I have
Some time to reflect
I realize how different
Not just the house
Not just my routines
My reaction to movies
I’ve seen a dozen times
To crying children
To grown men
Going to jail for life
Nothing is simple anymore
And I can see
The child in every person
I can see mistakes
It’s as if the scales
Have fallen from
Badges of Honor
Badges of honor streak my side,
A physical battle taken in stride.
Marks of mothering plain to see,
Months of carrying life show on me.
Hours of laboring to bring forth a soul,
Mark the motherhood that I now hold.
Of which some would be grateful to have,
I wear that notion like a healing salve.
I wrote this a long time ago. I was going to wait to share a lot of my poems until I could write a book, but I don’t see a book of motherhood poetry selling well (I don’t want to self-publish, I want a company to do it.). Also, I will not be done writing my mommy poetry for probably another 20 years.
seeing flowers bloom
son needs longer pants
Written in January of 2016.
Life isn’t about finding yourself, its about creating yourself.
– George Bernard Shaw
I found this quote when I was 18, and it has profoundly impacted me. I set out to create myself, and while I found out that it is an ongoing process, at least I know that I am responsible for myself and my actions.
Friday Fictioneers is a group of bloggers who write 100-word stories after being inspired by a photo posted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. It is not a closed group, you can join! We are allowed to use the photo in our post (the photographer’s name is always in the caption of my photo) and encouraged to leave each other comments. I always appreciate anyone who takes the time to leave me a comment. I write my story before I read any of the other writers’ creations, although I do often read Rochelle’s post before I write mine since it is right under the photo. This week’s story is 101 words and I didn’t have to cut out that much!
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
Pearl shifted on the hard wood. When would that train get here?
* * *
“Promise you won’t be like other girls who forget about their fella after two weeks?” Tommy asked.
“I promise. Now you promise you’ll come back and not die like Mrs. Kramer’s son!”
* * *
With those promises, they thought it okay to consummate the marriage their parents wouldn’t allow. Pearl never dreamed she would get pregnant from the first time.
She raised their son by herself. She hoped Tommy would still want her after three years of foreign countries filled with pretty women.
the sun rises
dianthus stars are open
night falls, they’re still open
The dianthus open and stay open despite the conditions around them. In fact, they may even stand up better at night. I know they look better after a light rain.
Friday Fictioneers is a group of bloggers who write 100-word stories after being inspired by a photo posted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We are allowed to use the photo in our post and encouraged to leave each other comments. I always appreciate anyone who takes the time to leave me a comment. I write my story before I read any of the other writers’ creations.
I know that I haven’t posted much this week. I probably won’t post much this month. This month is fun and exciting but it drains me as so much is required of me. I will make sure to post a new haiku every Monday. I have managed to write 2 Friday Fictioneers stories so far for May. This week’s story is 101 words. It is my first draft, and I decided to share it anyway.
PHOTO PROMPT © CEAYR
Ah, the city lights.
They were beautiful against the black water. It made the water shimmer and look like glass. Sue wondered if she was a little closer to those lights if she would shine too.
She had left Ma with 2 youngins on her hip, and Pa with a row needin’ hoed.
She had snapped and walked up the dirt road until it became pavement. Then she had walked the pavement until she reached the bus station.
Sue was sure she was meant for more than working in the dirt, but so far, the spotlight had failed to find her.
The art of progress is to preserve order amid change and to preserve change amid order. -Alfred North Whitehead
I hope you all have an orderly weekend!
grass grows long
flowers spread across flowerbed
school will be out soon
I wrote this 13 months ago.
Also, something really weird happened on my computer. I take a lot of photos specifically for my blog. I organize them in folders, such as flowers, people, animals, et Cetera. Well, a couple of weeks ago while I was organizing new photos into my folders, my people folder just disappeared. I tried hitting “undo” but it still didn’t show up. When I was creating this post last week I noticed there were photos in my folders that I have already used on my blog. Usually, when I use a photo, I put it in the “already used” folder so that you guys never see the same photo twice. Well, things are all mixed up now, and I literally do not have the time to sort them, or to take more photos. So you might see familiar photos for a month or so. I will try to pick pretty ones, I hope you all aren’t too bored and continue to take the time to read my work.
Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.
We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth, at least the truth that is given to us to understand. -Pablo Picasso (Spanish Artist and Painter. 1881-1973)
Art is complicated, and wonderful, and confusing, and necessary!
Friday Fictioneers is a group of bloggers who write 100-word stories after being inspired by a photo posted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. We are allowed to use the photo in our post and encouraged to leave each other comments. I always appreciate anyone who takes the time to leave me a comment. I write my story before I read any of the other writers’ creations. I know that I haven’t posted much this week. I probably won’t post much this month, I have a lot going on. I will make sure to post a new haiku every Monday though.
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
The birds gathered to watch. They were our only support and they were as quiet as the vases of flowers that lined the window sill. I should have felt thankful for the flowers. They made Momma happy in her last month of life.
Momma told me over and over that sitting amongst flowers was a preview of heaven. “Why would God create so many plants for earth and have none in heaven?” she would often argue.
As I carried the last box of her belongings to the car, I looked skyward and whispered, “Pick a bouquet for me, Momma.”
mist softens the earth
the earth lets grass spring up
recognizing the season
Recognize the season that you’re in, then embrace it.