mothers

Mother and Child Meditation

 

 

Visualize the bond between Mother and Child.

Do you imagine it broken by

internal jealousies, shyness against intimacy,

cringing before angry gods of tribal culture,

dying of a thousand casual wounds, volleys

of will and grievance cast into fragile frays?

Or do you see a pageantry of unfailing matriarchs.

Strong sons and daughters waltz in attendance.

Flowers bloom from every slip of finery into

fertile mud.

Mothers of our species tend toward

adaptability, bear challenge of balance.

Trying out touted trends, begging for guidance

when their own experience ill fits today's

terror and tantalization.  Always someone must

be blamed; sentiments must be appeased.

Where is the ease, the joy, the sharing up and down,

familial care and comfort?  Where is that not our fair

Command?

A child is a gift to the future; a mother is a gift

of nature and nurture.  Each brings, receives

all imaginable possibilities.  Each is a present day.

 

 

 

 

Mother of shadows

 

 

Nyx:

Dark encircling

womb,

Goddess of Night

from sacred eternity

feeds dreamers

the potency of stars'

cosmic light.

Concave, maternal protective sea 

reflecting

myth's shadow.

 

 

 

 

Mother Night

 

 

Darkness is not defined by

absence of light.

Shadow cavorts unbound to substance.

Darkness is a place of germination.

Mixing water, air and earth

to create the fire of life renewed.

 

Quiet here,

enclosed in silence.

A tiny heartbeat starts,

sends out waves,

reverberations

rippling through deep ground.

Under water caves

feel the pulse, the beat, the becoming.

Interval, space, and impulse converge.

Innocent and ancient

take up the tune,

play riffs,

sing the structure of images.

Eerie progress through the night.

Counterpoint,

pure essence

strains through.

 

A thousand petals open,

reveal the heart of the lotus.

Luminescent

mother of pearls.

 

 

 

 

Mothers' Night

 

 

cascading shards

ripping

echoes falling

"It's our calling."

 

Rape of Earth,

hot spurts, invective words,

savage knives.

Abiding Mothers,

sacred and mundane

twist into harridan

cold stars

 

wailing, hurtling waves.

Sad, old, crust of ages

sliced, screwed, carved up for profit

"It's not the color of the skin,

the culture of the smile"

 

the scent of danger,

the inborn stranger --

all excuses for Us (superior)

and Them (inferior)

"They are not our breed,

but lower curs."

We may kill with unfettered glee.

 

Cursed, clubbed, cut to our requirement.

Borders clear.

"Heretic fear fences in

our livelihood and wives.

Leave THEM to putrid pits

cunning jabs,

our pleasure.”

 

Stunning, treasure that might regale,

heal, exemplify true worth,

sustain humanity and Earth,

sold for pittance of potash

to wage a weary jig.

 

 

 

 

Mother Divine

 

 

Goddess, adore us.

We all want to be loved.

Children cast upon the world

unprepared.

Times past, we would pack together

exploring our abilities,

safe in numbers

small enough to give us each

room to grow.

Isolated in responsibilities,

playing grown-up

so easy to smother

in over-breathed air.

Come to each me, Goddess,

in quietly desperate hours

with praise and adoration.

Tell the stories of our lives

in radiant glory.

Mother, Queen, perfect Being,

gift us grace we need

to grow, embrace resurgence

of your love.

 

 

 

 

Mother Love

 

 

Manifestation, brilliant and

gratefully desired

Yet streaked with disappointment

Nothing is perfectly rendered

I prayed for you;

sent missives of tears heavenward

and wished upon a magick toadstool,

leaving nothing to the vagaries,

divine agendas so noblesse.

Yet, when presented with my

prayer's request fulfilled,

I am not.

You are not what I bargained for

when all my virtue

was on the line.

You are hideous, hateful, spiteful

a devilish sprite sans remorse.

How dare you mock me?

Have I not bestowed upon you

the very gift of life?

Have I not become your idolic

Goddess incarnate?

Worship!  I command you!

Yet you cry, turning red and blue

unwilling to grant me my due

Satan's child --

an answer to hormone raging

prayers,

sinful thoughts -- "Oh, Father,

forgive me."

Nobody should suffer as I do.

Thankless teething serpent,

yowling at your fairytale Moon.

What must I do for your eyes

to shine on me?

 

 

 

 

Mother Says

 

 

Enjoy the Sun

Enjoy the rain

Enjoy the love

Enjoy the pain

Enjoy the fear

Enjoy the rage

 

Listen intimately

to your broken heart.

Feel its words; inhale its art.

 

Dance, sing, self-embrace

and swing.

Enjoy surprise, the changing tides,

this space in time while you’re alive.

 

 

 

 

sacrifice

 

 

Why would a woman risk

death or other bodily terrors,

social exposure to all the slings and arrows

of frenzied hate,

to end her unborn’s fate?

She is protecting her child, like a good mother does,

despite her own suffering,

protecting her innocent from this horrid world,

from people like you.

 

 

 

 

I remember

 

 

Mother mine

I tried to mother you

what did you do?

You lashed me from behind,

expected more from anger

than from kind eyes and smiles.

Claimed I endanger your real child,

the one who followed, the one

resembling you.

Resentful of my resemblance to

unfaithful promises before my time.

No regrets.  No graveside confession

of apology.  I have learned to be

creation of my own obsessive mind.

 

 

 

 

What if teen suicide is just self-completion of a very late term abortion

when the mother was dissuaded from what she knew was right?

 

 

Children thoughtlessly conceived, grudgingly borne helpless,

let loose into the world without a friend. 

All these people who

trust death much more than life.

A streak of compassion grasps my pondering mind,

takes thought

into a whirl of streams. 

I am drawn to wondering about mothers,

archetypes of loving protection. 

How do beleaguered women

conscious of their inability to give what they lack, of their bleakness,

allow their children birth into

useless suffering, into brutality?

Inculcated or innate, maternal imperative,

moral responsibility to love and protect,

ought sound strong warning against prolonging

unfortunate gestation. 

Certainly women have always shared knowledge,

means of ending what ought not have begun. 

Or do they feel need for

outward manifestation of their sins of pleasure,

of weakness, of

worthlessness? 

Do they bear not blessings but images to punish,

a chain of blood and thorns as reminder and retribution?

 

 

Do potential mothers,

pregnant with potential children

who have no interest in being born,

disfigured or

precognizant of earthly depredations,

do they as

sympathetic hosts feel this horror of gestation’s

consequences? 

Are these unborn the true instigators

of abortive maternal acts? 

If their mothers are not able,

or sufficiently sympathetic, to comply,

is suicide

rectification, a severely late-term abortion?

What was my mother’s motivation in carrying and

birthing me, so much an abomination? 

How long would I have suffered my life

had fate not intervened?