The Between

He brings her a bracelet and a bunch of roses
For the fifteen years they’ve been together
She reads the card and the bracelet’s engraving
And something gut deep in her looses its tether
Conclusions once jumped to became solid proof
As Dinah reads his words of love to a Heather

She smiles sweetly handing him a poisoned plate
It’s a slippery slide between love and hate

She’s always been ‘such a good little girl‘
But she was never up to snuff among the pseudo rich
All she wants is to have what all of them have
For kids are cruel to those not matching their niche
Just once she cries, her fingers touch the jewelry case
Filled with a longing so deep her eyes start to twitch

She lets go of the ring and walks away from the site
It’s a slippery slide between wrong and right

A mother gently rocks her new-born babe
The first to come home after many tries
A stray bullet sails through the pastel drapes
And the newborn babe, quickly dies
The husband knows he’s lost more than his child
By the hollow blank stare of his wife’s eyes

And all he’s ever loved leaves this proud man bereft
It’s a slippery slide between life and death

Machines click, whoosh and beep their sounds
His sister copes by force of sheer will they say
But without a transplant, her body deteriorates
And all wonder if she’ll make it another day
They found a match! There’s a thread of a chance
And for the first time in years he kneels to pray

That she makes it as the organ flies through the air
It’s a slippery slide between hope and despair

When he was young it was always “not me”
Even when he was caught red-handed
As he got older the fibs were more creative
Going with whatever the need demanded
All but one he could lie straight in their faces
His truth and lies mixed as he commanded

He said he loved her, but walked away with a sigh
It’s a slippery slide between white and blatant lies

He kisses her cheek, ready to take her home
But he can’t seem to get his thoughts in sync
She feels so good as she leans in oh so close
Knowing she’s had far too much drink
But the scent of her thrills him and she can’t say no
They’re both naked and done before he can think

She never talked, but his own bullet put his guilt to rest
It’s a slippery slide between his love and incest

Hadn’t seen each other since grad school
Where animosities brought love’s ugly rend
Now global businesses made them partners
But will their past uphold or upend?
Their eyes lock as she comes off the passageway
Somehow knowing they’ve regained more than a friend

Two shy smiles first start to grin, then burst into laughter
It’s a slippery slide between good-bye and happily ever after

The between is that space that we hold dear
The whispers of hope in our ear
That susurrus haunting our deepest fear
It can save you from a life of crime
One step further from a life that’s prime
Or straight into the end of your earth’s time

It’s the slippery slides that no one can eschew
But how you handle them? Well that’s up you


Hyde Park – Poets Rally Week 69 (June 7-June 13, 2012)

Easy Does It

Easy does it! How time has slipped away…
Both sons now call other places home
Each making his own mark in this world
And soon another state may claim one as son
Easy does it! How time has slipped away…

Easy does it! How time has slipped away…
My heart feels that it was just what? Last week?
I kissed a boo-boo and made it all well
Or, explained why a girl may act like that
Easy does it! How time has slipped away…

Easy does it! How time has slipped away…
The nest for has emptied for quite some time
And I mark the times when I now see their faces.
For the times between seem ever longer
Easy does it! How time has slipped away…

Easy does it! How time has slipped away…
The pictures in my heart still feel brand new
And yet marks the years that have gone by
Fresh lines upon my face tell equal truths
Easy does it! How time has slipped away…

Easy does it! How time has slipped away…
Did I not just give birth unto these men?
Who wince when I call them my babies
But my babies, just aren’t babies anymore
Easy does it! How time has slipped away…


It’s been an interesting few days of marking time for me. I’m still working it out.

In the interim I’ll visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012 


One Score and a Decade Ago

One score and a decade ago today, I held this little squirming bundle in my arms. This chubby little bundle had magically transformed me from wild child to mother.  The enormity of such, boggled me then and in all seriousness the amazement has not left me. Seeing him earlier week reminded me of that initial, love, joy and yes, panic. I may not have always gotten it right, but I always tried to do my best. All things considered, I didn’t do half bad, if I do say so myself. 😉

Happy 30th Birthday Son #1


Visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012


Always Ready To Open

Here is the only important thing I know about closets…

When you’re the one who has trapped yourself inside,
there are only two ways out…

Having the door ripped from the handle
exposing all which you’ve tried contain
whether it’s ready to be seen or not
by the world.


By placing your hand on the handle
taking a deep breath and coming out
on your own terms, letting the world in
at your own pace

Because, whether you realize it or not,
the door is always ready to open
all you have to do is
handle it.

Mama x 3

The woman I refer to as my mother did not give birth to me. The person who gave birth to me, though I spent a very short part of my life with her did not mother me; thus, when I say and think “mother” it is for the woman who tried to adapt me, as I adapted her (that’s not a typo).

My maternal grandmother died when my mother was six years old. As such she was raised by her father and five brothers. Four older and one younger. Six over protective men and one female in the semi-rural south. I imagine it was not fun. Still, my mother grew up to be petite, willowy with naturally long, easy to manage haired, prim and proper and a neat freak. Regrettably (for her), we were soon to figure out I was head and tails my paternal grandmother’s child. The little girl she chose to adapt was a tall, big-boned, thick, nappy-haired, rough and tumble tomboy. From the word go it was struggle.

I tried to be the good daughter, as most daughters, do.  Did we love each other – of course.  We had our good days, but by the time I was in my mid teens my house was at war. The essence of the problem between my father and I was one thing.  If you’ve read some of my poetry, some of the story is there. I’m not rehashing it here. The essence of problem between my mother and I was that she never understood why I wasn’t grateful to have a mother and simply be obedient and everything a mother would want because after all she hadn’t had one and if she had, that was the kind of daughter she would have been.  I never understood, even before I was old enough to put it into words, why she could never understand that “I” was not her. Regrettably, it took my mother becoming fatally ill before things would change between us. Systemic sclerosis is a slow, but inevitably fatal bitch at its best and my mother was struck with the worst kind that took her away in a few short years. It was only in those last the last few years of her life that we became friends. Before she became so ill that she spent most of her remaining days in ICU, it was the closest to having a true loving mother-daughter relationship we had come.

In the interim, I met the man who would become my late-husband and in turn met his extended family. Family that was chosen by heart, if not technically by blood, but cousins nonetheless. I met one set of cousins in particular led by the family matriarch. Trust me, there is no other word that suits her. Still, upon getting to know her and seeing her relationship with her children, and they with her, and the extended family from there, I finally knew what that could feel like. I won’t lie, a part of me was a little envious at first, but you can’t feel envy when pulled into that much love. I told her secrets I had not told my own mother and was there with my cousins of heart when she finally went Home. I was blessed to have her in my life if for nothing but finally having that gift of Mother.

When I was young, I used to ask about the woman who gave birth to me. The subject was quickly changed, or I was suddenly punished for something. I learned without being told, I was never allowed to ask questions about her as a child, but I knew she existed. I had memories of her. When I was old enough to know to ask without caring about potential penalty, the one person who would have told me (my –skipped a couple of generations twin– paternal grandmother), was no longer around.  By my early teens I had decided, if I knew she existed, she in turn, had to know I did. If she were dead, I would have been told such. That I never saw her again was either because she could not get to me or did not want to. The latter option made no sense to me as even before I had children, I could not imagine a scenario other that death in which I would not be a presence at least in their young lives, so it had to be the first option.  By then and I was simply too busy living my own life to give much thought on what happened to hers.  And now, if she was/is alive and wanted to find me, I am so removed from my roots, it is a moot point.

But every now and then around Mother’s Day, this year being one of them, I think of all three mothers:The one I never knew, the one I got to know almost too late and the one by knowing gave me a little understanding on the other two.

Happy Mother’s Day Ladies.


Got Milf? by Sarah Maizes
Got MILF? by Sarah Maizes

Got Milf?: The Modern Mom’s Guide to Feeling Fabulous, Looking Great, and Rocking A Minivan.

According to the Product description:


For thousands of years, women have been expected to hang up their “hotness” once they had kids. They disappeared behind their families and the dashboards of minivans…Until now! Whether sporting a cardigan and jeans, sweats or a business suit, today’s Mom is a shining example of confidence, poise, and age-defying beauty. Even as she juggles carpool, PTA, and the demands of the office, or shrieks, “GET IN THE TUB, NOOOWWW!”, she’s pretty darn hot.

Really? No, REALLY?!?!?

In all fairness, I do get the point Ms. Maizes is attempting to make. That a woman should not feel that she is somehow less attractive just because she became a mother. She’s still a beautiful woman (can’t you all but hear the regardless inserted there), and she should never lose sight of it. I get that. What annoys the hell out of me is her so subtle title choice to get her point across.

To be or not to be a MILF? Ain’t that a question!  Because, yes, if there is one descriptive above all others that I want my accomplishments to be expounded upon, it’s via the use one of the most objectifying adjectives for a female, straight out of internet porn.

I’m guessing referring to a female parent as a Mother I’d Like to Love is far too hard to change into an acronym and pronounce, but I digress.  American Pie brought the lovely phrase MILF (acronym for Mother I’d Like to Fuck for those who truly don’t know), to the mainstream lexicon, but the phrase, as well as mothers worthy of garnering sexual attraction have existed long before then. Stacy’s mom (80’s song reference), was definitely one. Mrs. Robinson (The Graduate) was one. Hell, if you go by the bible (and Cecil B. DeMille’s), depiction, so was Nefretiri. But I bet you wouldn’t have called any of them a MILF to their faces without immediately receiving a backhand to yours. Nowadays, a woman is not a decent mom if she does not wear her MILF t-shirt proudly. Oh wait, no decent MILF worth her cardigan would be caught dead wearing one.

And here’s the kicker… If you think about it, this book is aimed at mothers of children middle school age and younger. So, where does that place us mothers of college graduates? What about the mothers of very adult children? Are we suddenly relieved of the pressures of looking sex worthy once the kiddies are safely past adolescence? Wait, I think there is a term, what does it say above? Oh yeah… Milf-duds. Aaaah, don’t we feel so much better about our station in life now? I guess we can go back to using our brains to get by as we won’t have much of anything else going for us in the looks by then.

As if what the average mother needs -after her teenager has compared her to Satan for insisting that homework get done, as the middle-child brings in a very feral looking stray for pet potential, just as the little one swipes the cell phone and presses the end call button on her boss – is something telling her she also needs to look like a Hollywood starlet while doing it.

Take your PHDs down and put your FMPs on, it’s all about the hawtness baby.

/rant – sarcasm drip – major eye rolling

Knowing Sometimes My Best Won’t Be Enough

I have two children, sons, though at 26 and 28 they can hardly be called children anymore. Like any mother of more than one child I love them differently, but equally and completely. Despite being surrounded by gangs and drugs, my late husband and I somehow managed to raise two healthy males into adulthood, who avoided both, with only one major broken bone between them and the usual assortment of teenage boy issues. Maybe we didn’t quite raise them with a deep enough fear of God; but I absolutely raised them to not only respect Him, but anyone’s Him/Her/Them. I damn sure put the fear of Mom in them; tempered with a lot of humor, tenderness, and discipline in as proportionate amounts as I deemed needed for them together and individually. I did the best I could then and now always knowing, sometimes my best won’t be enough.

This is one of those times.

While this is my blog, please understand, I feel the details of my son’s lives are not mine to freely broadcast here and hopefully you can forgive my choice to be to cryptic, even as I try to talk about it. My oldest is going through a tough time right now and I know it’s going to get worse for him, for a long while, before it gets better. No, he’s not in jail; and those who know me well know just how ridiculous a notion that is, but it’s really not a good time for him right now. And I can’t do a damn thing about it; not I won’t I CAN’T.

I do not have the means to help him. I do not have to means to even ease some of the minor discomforts for him, to help make dealing with the major shit he’s going through a little better. This is killing me, because I am his mother and even though I know he knows, I am doing everything I absolutely can under the circumstances. I know it isn’t going to be anywhere near enough.

I war with myself. Were we too hard, too soft? Where did things fail as we raised him that his situation has come to this? The tough love part of me (he’s a grown man, he made this hard bed of his, and now he must lay in it), battles with the part of me who only sees that my child hurting in a bad way and all I want to do is throw my arms around him, and comfort him, and make it better now, and that’s where I feel like I’m failing him most. After all, I’m Mom. I’m the person my sons should be able to come to when things truly get fucked and I should be able to at least be able to help ease the burden, if I can’t (or shouldn’t) out right fix the problem.

All I can really do right now is be his emotional support; his personal rah-rah team. Even as I truthfully tell him on one hand how hard this is going to be for him for a long while, while on the other hand reminding him, as fucked as things are for him right now, he can and will get through this. That with prayers and luck, a year from now this will be a very unpleasant memory in his past, but it will be his past. The words sound empty and trite even to my own ears as I say them to him, but I have to say them. I have to keep his spirits up, keep showing him that silver lining ahead even as the Fates monsoon on him right now. As he walked out of my door, the resignation on his face as he continues to face the bullshit he’s going to have to be dealing with for God know how long before it gets even a little better, just broke my heart. For the first time since my sons were teenagers, I cried over one of my children.

This is one boo-boo Mom can’t instantly fix with a simple kiss and some ice-cream.


(in the folds of lasts week’s)
(or maybe last year’s laundry)
the person
(when I’m not a mother)
who wrote poetry
(or being a lover )
drew still life
(balancing the checkbook)
designed clothes
(scrubbing a dirty collar)
and painted murals
(while vacuuming the carpets, again)
that did embroidery
(after the button is sewed on the shirt, again)
is in the mirror
(that needs to be cleaned, again)
trying to find herself
(after working overtime, again)
because she got lost
(showing someone else how)
(in the folds of last week’s)
(or maybe last years’ laundry)…


This poem is actually a little over 12 years old.  We were in the process of packing to move into our house and my then fiance, now late-husband, had found my composition book from high school with poetry. We had living together over thirteen years and he had never known that about me. He asked one thing: What happened? I did not have an answer for him. Nor did I know how to pick-up my pen again.  One day I was looking at my reflection in the mirror, asking myself the same question.  I was depressed to realize, though it been a of couple years since he had asked, I still did not have an answer.

Whenever I was upset I would write my feelings to sort them out. Usually, I would write it, read it and toss it.  This time I did not toss it because something in those words had reached me.  What reached me became the first three/last three lines of the above poem. It was perhaps only the third poem I had written in a nearly twenty year span at that point.  Granted, it was one small sad little poem, but it was the first big crack in the wall of the dam blocking my creativity. A dam I was only just beginning to realize I had built and now needed to tear it down.

dVerse Poets Pub |  Poetics – Poetically Evolving