The Poetry Marathon

Played sweetly, wrap tucked tight
Noise dimmed
But sound present
Long gaze of mother’s eye.
Short flash of a fire flicker
Warming the room
Breathing hot life.

Same looks. Same wrap.
Same soft sound from tiny body.
Flickers from a screen
Blue light flooding
To otherwise dark spaces
Tempting mother’s eye
To creak open
Fighting back the gnaw of sleep
The dull ache
Not yet
Bit while baby rests
In her arms.

Across the centuries the picture varies
Only in small fractiles.
Light sources.
Sounds like sirens rather than beastly howls.

The picture the same.

But I wonder, future mother, great great granddaughter
Daughter in law
Woman yet to be.

As you rock and soothe
Surrounded by fake light and white noise
And endless talking screens
Woman
Will you have scraped past the trauma
I carry now and attempt to beat down
And toss for scrap
Devoured by any hungry passer-by.

Woman I fought, armed with therapy
Books
Meditation
Scented candles
Self care
All of it to keep the anxiety in my breast.
Not yours.

But I worry future woman.
That anxiety snuck
Crib to bed
Generation to generation
Sneaking and nibbling
Bits of confidence and joy.

I hope you sit.
Baby tucked
Having eloped from these fears. But if not,
Dear woman
Please.
Keep fighting.
Fight until the anxiety is tucked up tighter than the baby.
Fast asleep.

They say when atomic bombs detonate
It is all flash and no bang.

When six children scream
Cry
Whine
Over YouTube ads and stolen toys
Rumbling bellies
Wet diapers
Bitten digits chomped by the dinosaurs
Roaming my living room
It is machine gun blasts and pipe bombs

They don’t destroy and vanish though
They build
A cachopony of stimulation
Blanking out my mind
And numbing my soul
Like steel wool scrubbing away my spirit
To decimation

Around then is the transition
From symphony of screech
To physical experience
The sounds can’t be distinguished.
They almost aren’t even heard
They are felt
Until you can’t feel

Every
Single
Day

It’s a balancing act
Both motherhood and the stairs.
We teeter
Tiny fingers wrapped around grime
Covered metal bars.

You don’t touch those
You touch the rail
But the rails eludes her,
Even on her tippiest toes.
Also, the choice:
Grime or germs.

My hand grips hers
My other arm lugs.
Used to lug a red wagon
Canvas and steel frame
30 pounds of steel shooting messages
Through my arm muscles
Straight to my brain
“Are you stupid?”
“No really, how stupid?”
Message received.
Better knock it off before that arm is off limits for a week.

Now it is some food up number
11 pounds.
Ok.

You guys got this.

Don’t fall backwards.
Yeah, thanks brain.
No really, if you slip back you are dragging her with you.
I go upstairs dozens of times a day.

Sludging
Slogging
Sighing.

I never fall back.
But the fear makes me obsessed.
God, her hands need a wipe.
She must be obsessed too
With the possibility
Of the worst.

Swipe and repeat.
More stairs
Everywhere.
Every station
At my house.

At times I walk miles.
Half a mile sure.
1 mile ok.
Hell, up to three.

Sweat glazing my face.
Blisters staking claim on my big toes.
Worn area skin where sandal strap eats flesh.
Blurry eyes from saline drips.
All that
To avoid another damn climb.

Flapping arms and buried feet
Tide in
Tidal recession.
Are they going to chase it?
Solar paneled hair
All black and charged up
Baked by the sun.
They rush to meet the foam
The cold laps at their faces this time.

I try to pull them back.
They run against
My intervention.

They love the swirl
They cold nip
Bringing back to present sensation.
My adult sensibility can hold no sway here.

I know it’s beautiful

But don’t go so deep you drown

I know it’s beautiful

There is no holding you back.
The more I try
The more you and the water
Both locked in your dance of resistance
Push.

When I feel my skin
All firm and fresh
Able to brave the sun and wind
Is in my home.

My home is my solitude.
So it is any land
Time or space.

My home is on a crowded street
As long as I drink my coffee alone
My home is a quiet pond
As long as no one is along.

I like my thoughts
Quiet in my head.
No need to speak.
Relate
Overthink.

My home could be a wheat field.
A cafe in Milan.
What matters is if it is my home
No one comes along.

Melted, running off the plate
Satiate
Hurry kids
Run in quick before it is too late.

grilled up slapped on bread.
On a pizza for my cheese head.
Feta mozarella and some blend.
They eat up til the end.

Cheese on watermelon? Getting weird!
Cheese strawberries worse than feared.
Throw some of the cheese into a cake
Mix it all up and watch it bake.

Cheese you’re piled in our our ice box.
More cheese than we have tiny socks.
My littles never tire of you
Munching down the whole day through.

Canadian Bacon past the sizzle
Jumpin round my pa
Going to scorch my tongue
Before it is all done.

Coffee hot and burning up my cup. Soaking in darken stained rings
Gotta drink that up. Kids screaming running
Bursting from their pods. Searching for pancakes
Buttered up
Still steaming.
In and out.

Breakfast time my house so alive.
Dancing to a jam

Morning hour
Those jumping hopping kids
They gotta be contagious.

Ah sleep

You know me so well. The lines I enjoy
From the creases of satin pillow.
Oh sleep
How I love the feel of you pulling me from screens
Deep into my blanket fort world.
Oh sleep.
My muse. Bringer of dreams. Bringer of the
End of sore muscle cramps.
At leat a few hours.
Sweet sleep
Sometimes I evade you
Drinking swirls of black coffee- just a dash of milk.
I stay up
Writing poems

Ack!

But gentle sleep will embrace my return.
Wrap me in a blanket.
Cushion my head
Lull my heavy eyes to sleep.
I miss you my mistress. My sleep.

Once I was a bit witchy
I wrote 8 on papers
Chanted dreams in mirrors.
Held my 8’s on scraps of paper up to the moon.
I burnt them up
And wished more.

As a witch I strolled under the moon
Needing it on my skin
Like I need the sun today.
The streets were empty
Sidewalks empty
Weeds on full alert
Tall as soldiers

I lost my magic
Ex witch
Now I sit inside or slave under the sun
Sweating
Breathing hard
Pulse on fire
And wishes?
They no longer come true.

I am a mom of 6
Triplets
A singleton
Twins
1 2 3 it:s easy you see
Actually
It is never easy.

My marriages are like my kids
1 2 2
Also
Never easy

Back in school
Student again.
Was a therapist
Was an unlicensed teacher
Now a Harvard Degree candidate.

I barely remember me
Pre kid me
I traveled a bit.
Ate out a lot.

I miss memory me.
I miss when my name was more than mom.