This is lovely and evocative. I am hopeless at poetry, but I think any parent can feel the pull of their children while they try to take a little time to feed their own needs.
There is a constant conflict for me between housework, work, grocery shopping, my blog, and the need to write creatively. So many times, nothing wins, and everything is half done, or not done at all (like today). Thank you for this poem.
I like these lines: "here is son, his wild hair easily a mustang revolt, his intelligent brow and mouth creased in disapproval: why must i insist on this private life? these hours to myself?"
When I pick up my son from school today, he will ask me, yet again, did you create my tunic for the Renaissance Fair? Next week, I'll have to tell him. Today, I've been writing, and reading, and posting a poem for an online critique. How can I equate the two?
what i thought love was is so much less than what it is
Our Pack: Dakota Wolf, Lola Moon, Ian Oliver and our baby, Ever Elizabeth
Someone may have stolen your dream when it was young and fresh and you were innocent. Anger is natural. Grief is appropriate. Healing is mandatory. Restoration is possible. -Jane Rubietta
you can stand under my umbrella
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"Poetry has nothing to do with poetry. Poetry is how the air goes green before thunder. Is the sound you make when you come, and why you live and how you bleed, and The sound you make or don't make when you die."- Gwendolyn MacEwen
the light is on for you
These Words are Sweet Vodka to my Brain
vodka gimlet
tulip
toulouse
toss
toothsome
tenderhooks
swan
starlings
spritz
slut
scotch
saffron
radish
primrose
poppy and her cousins, poppet & and poppy-cock
plum
owlet
mint julep
magnolia
lux
lola
linden
lament
juniper
jazz
imogene
gossamer
foxglove, fret
forensic
flux
feverfew
eyelet
elixer
crocus
clover
champagne
bramble
bluet
bandersnatch
apple
agitate
nobody's perfect
"Her looks fading, the vain Lispector became increasingly reclusive and demanding. Addicted to cigarettes and sleeping pills, she exhibited erratic and sometimes imperious behavior. She would call friends in the middle of the night and flee dinner parties for little apparent reason. She had a reputation for being a liar."-<em>NYT on Clarice Lispector
My dear child, who can tell? One can only tell that, by remembering something which happened where we lived before; and as we remember nothing, we know nothing about it; and no book, and no man, can ever tell us certainly.
Some couples don’t ask much of one another after they’ve worked out the fundamentals of jobs and children. Some live separate intellectual and cultural lives, and survive, but the most intense, most fulfilling marriages need, I think, to struggle toward some kind of ideological convergence. Norman Rush
Gisele is one of my favourites too. But Miroslava Duma is such an obsession right now - so lovely and stylish!
xx
Thousand Cloud Sky is my favorite line. I got a new blog!
http://scribbledout.wordpress is nowwwww http://violetroom.wordpress.com I missed you!
I always wished I could rock poetry. You have quite a talent, I really enjoyed this one.
I couldn't write a poem if somebody put a gun to my head. Which translates to I'm amazed by what you do.
thanks guys, i so appreciate the reading. seriously.
This is lovely and evocative. I am hopeless at poetry, but I think any parent can feel the pull of their children while they try to take a little time to feed their own needs.
I discovered you through Tiff.
Your words are real and musical.
...and the main reason I came, I have a dog named Maggie Mae
I'm with the Captain. I couldn't write a poem if locked me in a room for a week!
I sure enjoy reading yours, though.
:D i certainly get you, or part of you anyway. fine mom. whatever.
I love this, Maggie!
thank you!
There is a constant conflict for me between housework, work, grocery shopping, my blog, and the need to write creatively. So many times, nothing wins, and everything is half done, or not done at all (like today). Thank you for this poem.
I like these lines: "here is son, his wild hair easily a mustang revolt, his intelligent brow and mouth creased in disapproval: why must i insist on this private life? these hours to myself?"
When I pick up my son from school today, he will ask me, yet again, did you create my tunic for the Renaissance Fair? Next week, I'll have to tell him. Today, I've been writing, and reading, and posting a poem for an online critique. How can I equate the two?
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