As you are reading this, my husband and I are hopefully somewhere holding our baby boy. (That’s assuming this kid doesn’t decide to make a late appearance!) Either way, today, the 26th of May, is my official due date. The day our entire world is destined to change in the most beautiful way. But today represents something else as well: it is my sweet, funny, fiercely missed grandfather’s birthday, and we have all been keeping fingers and toes crossed that he’s told my son how cool it would be to share a birthday with his great grandpa.
I’ve scheduled this post ahead of time to let everyone know that while I may be disappearing for a bit, I won’t be gone permanently. I’ll just be taking some time to learn how to care for a very tiny human being and soaking up every precious moment as a new mother. So, thank you so much to those of you who have been following my blog; I am grateful for every single like, comment, and share. I’ll be back soon to read more of your beautiful work, and will likely be bursting at the seams with poems about my son and every small new thing I’ll be in awe of.
Until then, be well, my friends.
If you’re coming across my page for the first time, thank you for visiting! While I’m away, here are some pieces I hope you might enjoy:
a poet to her son
My Grandfather Who Lingers Still
This is How You Grieve Him
I am having trouble
imagining you outside of
outside of my own skin,
you are still so much a part of me
that there is no explanation
for the waves that move
without routine between my bones
your eyes are still all
clouds and smoke –
I dream of your mouth
that will bow,
that will open
and call out for me
this foreign, self-defining thing
I’ve put up on the mantel
and dusted like some
undeserving prize is
something too surreal to
take down, to examine too
closely for detail, I am
so afraid it will slip smoothly
between my fingertips
for now you are still
the loveliest figment
nestled between who
I am and who I will be,
this small thing, this
awkward fleeting girl
with the readjusting
heart for you, my son.
Originally posted on The SisterWives:
In the wake of a news week where we hear yet another story of abuse and violence in the form of molestation against young girls, words were written that stopped a whole lot of people in their tracks. A friend and fellow blogger wrote a post that brought people to their feet, asking us to shout with our virtual voices to #CallHimOut – because enough its enough.
It’s time for us to stop being quiet and let the world know that THIS IS NOT OKAY. It is also not okay to protect the perpetrators and abusers. The victims have no reason to be ashamed, and they should never feel as though they have to protect the monster that stole their innocence and violated their bodies.
Today, it is our honor to have Nikki, another brave young woman coming forward to tell her story. It is hard to read. It will make you feel a…
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matters of the heart
smoked up rooms
where you lay down your bones
when you’re feeling
I sport wallpaper skin
you nail photographs
to my chest
around our shortcomings
I’ve never been one for interpretive dance –
all elbows, you are
whole body, I am
I steer my grief
so much like a ship’s sails
around your ambiguity
that is haunting me
Originally posted on Words for the Year:
Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods. You don’t see
its name in the flower books, and
nobody you tell believes
in its odd color or the way
its leaves grow in splayed rows
down the whole length of the page. In fact
the very page smells of spilled
red wine and the mustiness of the sea
on a foggy day – the odor of truth
and of lying.
And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only
in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.
from Heroes In Disguise, 1991
W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY
Copyright 1991 by Linda Pastan
one hundred and eight days later your voice will
not stop pouring from my fingertips in shapes that only
faintly resemble your kindness, there is no possible way I could
ever lasso all of you and have anyone understand how strongly
I can feel your hands as they rest on my shoulders
it is still new as any passing season to me, the
intricate bindings in my chest that spell out your name
sometimes I wait for your call –
cruel, but a trick of the mind I guess
I welcome anything to make me forget for minutes, seconds
you string me up
like paper flowers
your hard work makes territory
of my skin and still I turn my mouth
upwards in slow motion.
I read my future
by the soft light of you.
recognition pours from your bones
and uncurls me like paper fires in reverse;
I’d spent years digging through the ashes of my
childhood only to find my voice in your chest
that splintered, vulnerable thing
that lets me thank you every morning
when we are nothing more than a
confusion of limbs and braille lips
barely ever necessities we are,
but I won’t bother with words when
I can read you with my eyes closed.
“And when he practices courtesy he honours the soul of another human being. And that of his very own soul.” Absolutely amazing post – please give it a read.
Originally posted on A Leaf in Springtime:
Don’t call me a good mother.
For being good somehow means doing all the “right things”. And to be honest, I’m not necessarily all that concerned about doing the “right things”.
I’m more concerned about doing the brave thing. The thing that is needed to be done even when nobody understands. The thing that might raise a few eyebrows. Or even shock some folks. The thing that is contrary to what is popular or trendy. Contrary to opinions, charts and reports. Contrary to what everyone says is right.
For I am more concerned about the man my child will become one day. Even more than my own concern for being rated good.
For you see, I am not merely raising a child. I am raising a new race of man. A father. A husband. A friend. A team mate. A son. A seeker. A world citizen.
And because of that…
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I’m guest-posting over at Laura A. Lord’s blog today! Please jump on over and give her page some love. :-)
Originally posted on Laura A. Lord:
Meeting Nicole was like finding my poetic soul-mate. This woman is seriously talented. I hope you all will show her some love today!
I made the very loose decision at the age of ten that I wanted to be a writer of some kind. I kept journals, wrote poems about boys (and tumbleweeds) and maintained straight A’s in all of my English classes. Since then I have wanted to go into Forensics, Theater, even Dentistry, but I always came back to my first love.
After attending community college for 2 and a half years and taking every English and Writing course I could fit into my schedule, I transferred to Rowan University where I received a Bachelor’s in Writing Arts (with a Creative Writing concentration) in May 2011.
I am Contest Coordinator and Assistant Poetry Editor for non-profit magazine Philadelphia Stories by day, and by night (and, sometimes day) I…
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