Doing my part to disrupt the space-time continuum.

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Her Belly Cried Hungry

Many years ago, I was introduced to the poetry of musician, author and poet, Joy Harjo. Her words are brilliant and her insight, astounding.

The poem I’ve posted here springs directly from the stirrings I felt after reading Harjo’s She Had Some Horses. While my poetry finds itself a mere ‘wannabe’ by comparison, I love to play and some of the best toys are words, as my mother once told me. So in the style of Joy Harjo, I present this work in progress:

Her Belly Cried Hungry

Her belly cried hungry after eating crow
Her belly cried hungry at feasts of self-indulgence on
shiny, silver platters
Her belly cried hungry devouring self-help books and
the splintered shelves that house them
Her belly cried hungry consuming the bounty
of a creek bejeweled with pebbles
Her belly cried hungry purging rage on skin-soft pillows
Her belly cried hungry ingesting pills from palms of torn, pink flesh
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly cried hungry when she swallowed her tears
Her belly cried hungry chewing fat-marbled promises
Her belly cried hungry savoring promises that she kept
Her belly cried hungry as she licked the wounds
of the child inside her
Her belly cried hungry as she gorged at the table of sin
Her belly cried hungry at pristine banquets with bleach, white linen
Her belly cried hungry, full of swallowed pride
Her belly cried hungry relishing a strength she didn’t know she had
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly cried hungry sipping holy wine and fresh, blessed bread
Her belly cried hungry rolling idle prattle on her tongue
Her belly cried hungry stuffed full of anger
Her belly cried hungry as she bit the hand that feeds her
Her belly cried hungry while eating her words
Her belly cried hungry, growing fat while growing thin
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly always cried hungry though never truly empty …
And her belly always cried hungry, though never really full.


Scary Poem for Halloween – In The Style Of Edgar Allan Poe

The Gremlin In The Chair

A face within the pattern of the fabric of the chair
whispers threats through woven threads amidst a raven’s glare
Shadows from the window twist the creature’s icy stare
Fearing movement might disturb him, blink or breathe?
I shall not dare!

Darkness seeping in my room from underneath the door
Dreams are nightmare’s furnace, burning demons of the lore
Fabric from the chair has hissed a wretched night’s in store
My sanity has left me with the chair and nothing more

Grayness gives to pitch, as luminescence leaves no trace
Every shift of shadow will transform that ghoulish face
The clock is slowly ticking at an agonizing pace
The gremlin eyes are glaring as my heart begins to race

Agonizing minutes flit and flutter through the air
Like demon puppets they will heed their master in the chair
The silence from the gremlin cracks the drum within my ear
His screaming, screeching silence marries madness to my fear

In a moment weakened, sleep will call and I’ll protest
My weary mind rewinds the night, replays the Gremlin’s quest
Sweat soaked sheets and frozen air, repel my hope to rest
Should this Gremlin hell prevail, he’ll beckon me his guest

With any hope the minutes then the hours will bring the dawn
The light will turn my stillness and my fear into a yawn
Patterns from the fabric of the chair will be redrawn
Taciturn, the gremlin, will for certain, have withdrawn.

On Being A Mom


Giving all of me until
almost none of me was left
Inconceivable it seems
to know not
was it gift
or theft

Me and my youngest when he was 3. He's 10 now!

I wrote this poem over a decade ago when my two oldest children were around 8 and 7 and before my youngest was born.

I LOVE being a mom with its many extremes of emotion. Nothing else in my life has the power to consume me like the love I have for my babies. This love has pushed me to the very edge of who I am, tapping into the raw parts of my soul, demanding I play many roles that have stretched, stressed and challenged my strengths and weaknesses.

Momma Bear defends – Doctor Mommy heals – Parent Mother disciplines –  Therapist Mom supports. Homework Mom just says, “Go ask Dad.”  Every year of development has demanded I step up and play a new role. And what worked for one child didn’t always work for the other!  Where was that freakin’ parenting manual when I needed it???

Anyway, over the last 2 decades I’ve often surprised myself by doing pretty damned okay. But there are also a few  dismal failures I can barely face all these years later.  My kids will undoubtedly face those  same failures on a therapists couch somewhere in their 30’s.

Fact is, giving everything for my kids has been both gift AND theft. I freely gave of myself and sometimes it was probably more than I should have …  AND parts of me were stolen when I wasn’t paying attention. There are so many gains and so many losses in life and mothering has been no exception for me.

And I wouldn’t trade it for the entire world.