Do not be what you think you should be.

Be who you really are.

blossoms: a poem about motherhood

Posted on Thursday, June 12, 2014

blossoms: a poem about motherhood

today i harvest cilantro from my garden

kale and basil too

these flowering vegetables, herbs, just weeks ago

buried beneath the earth

 

i think of the soil

the nurturing required to care for such miracles

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tear me open: a poem about birth

Posted on Friday, May 30, 2014

tear me open: a poem about birth

They felt a final push. Ours ended

with the sharp cut of a blade.

Their baby felt the constriction

of their mother’s deepening canal.

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some keep the sabbath going to church (emily dickinson)

Posted on Wednesday, April 16, 2014

some keep the sabbath going to church (emily dickinson)

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister
And an Orchard, for a Dome –

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i am sky (laurie helgoe)

Posted on Tuesday, March 25, 2014

i am sky (laurie helgoe)

It’s cluttered.  It’s cramped.  It’s noisy.  Buzzing, chattering, piles fill this world.

I was raised in this place.  I had a hard time following the rules.  I got tired of buzzing.

One day, when I was carrying my daily load of clutter, I heard a voice from beyond.  Now with piles so high, I’d never heard the beyond.  But Beyond called, “I am sky.  I am wide.”

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from love notes to bacon: how my husband shows his love now that i’m a mother

Posted on Sunday, March 9, 2014

from love notes to bacon: how my husband shows his love now that i’m a mother

My husband used to leave me notes on the table each morning before he left for work – sometimes sentimental and sometimes not, sometimes informative, but mostly just a gentle reminder of his thoughts for me. He’d find an old notepad already covered in far too many doodles and would squeeze his tiny words onto a page – a Where’s Waldo of sentences for me to explore as I ate breakfast. He’d slide multi-colored images with Dry Erase markers across the mirror, decorating the letter I with an image of an eye, followed by a heart and complete his artwork with the typical upside down arch. On Fridays, he’d write, “I can’t wait to spend the weekend with you,” and on Mondays, “I miss you already.”

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f. scott fitzgerald was never pregnant

Posted on Thursday, February 27, 2014

f. scott fitzgerald was never pregnant

“She was a blonde by natural pigment, and she wore no paint on the streets at high noon.  Outside of that she was no better than most women…” I’m well into the scene of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story, Head and Shoulders, gaining needed inspiration and momentum for my morning writing. He’s just introduced me to Marcia Meadow. “Marcia Meadow had to talk her songs, but her speaking voice was like byplay on a harp.” Among the choir of chirps just outside my window, I close my eyes and allow myself to hear a harp playing.

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