PoetMoms

To Do. Hannah Gerber

2006-12-16T09:51:00.000-08:00

You will now attempt,

(No, you will do more than try, you will

just do)

You will, in fact, summon what little maturity

you have garnered over the years

and you will

create stability.

And even though the cacophonous circus

may never cease, not entirely,

no matter.

You are not ambitious enough as to care

and that is very very good.

That’s very human and sweet and fallible;

your lack of ambition to be a Buddha,

to be the best,

or at least one of the ones

who can sit in mindless bliss.

You are forgiving, of widened heart

and spacious outlook.

The time has drawn near.

So. Now.

Don’t try.

Do.

The mantra is your own to compose

so please try not to make it

‘Shut The Fuck Up’ though it feels most natural.

‘Fully Conscious’ is perhaps the Way to go

or you can be as candid with yourself

as possible and repeat the only truth,

the one that’s impossible

to wholly grasp and impossible

to lightly ignore

which is

‘Now.’

PoetMoms seeking new works!

2006-12-02T12:03:00.000-08:00

We are back to publishing and collecting for the forthcoming hardcover book, The Diabolical Poetics of Motherhood.
Please send your work to hannah@bukowski.net for the time being.

My next personal collection will be released and for sale through Amazon.com etc, by mid January.

The first day of pre-school by Hannah Gerber

2006-09-15T14:02:00.000-07:00

I don't think I've ever been as happy as I am today, right now.

A few hours ago I was kind of

psychotically ecstatic, thats worn off, thank goodness

but this is a really spectacular day

and I'm so grateful for everyone involved in it.

The decent hearted drivers,

the teacher's with their welcoming grins,

the gal at the thrift store register,

whoever made this cranberry juice.

The smell of the brisket cooking,

whoever invented the crock-pot,

the chilled wine waiting,

the people who created Sesame Street,

and of course you, for giving me this day

and all my days, my mother.

It's my mom whom I thank

with every breath today

for helping me see

the beauty in absolutely everything,

for even though she thinks

she doesn't even like poetry,

what she doesn't seem to know

is that she is poetry

and that makes her even prettier

and my day even more perfect

as it draws to its rather satisfying end.

Wonderful new work from Nikki, click image to see larger.

2006-09-12T10:04:00.000-07:00

By Nancy Lerman

2006-09-12T05:56:00.000-07:00

Most days he’s there in the coffee shop

Most days he smiles hello

And I smile back.

One day he introduced himself

And held my hand just a bit longer

Than necessary.

The next day I looked away

But not without wondering,

Just for a moment . . . .

The next day I walked past

Without looking at him

But I held my stomach in.

The wild woman I was

Would have slept with him by now.

I felt the wildness bubbling up –

And so, the next day,

I gathered up my children

And using them as shields

I walked past

Flashing the talisman of my ring

Willing him to let me be

For the sake of the ring

And the children.

Poem by Carmen Tracy

2006-09-10T09:55:00.000-07:00

When the falling leaves
sound like water
in the wind
and you can feel
the hollow sounds
of ocean waves

change is coming

Fear Not by Carmen Tracey

2006-09-10T09:44:00.000-07:00

Out of the Nothing
the dark
unknown

Comes form
and definition
vision

Without the invisable
the unseen
unheard

We would not smell
or see
music

The bag I carry by Hannah Gerber

2006-09-05T20:04:00.000-07:00

The bag I carry

No metaphor here,

I’m actually talking about the bag I carry;

far heavier than it needs to be,

terribly large, making my shoulders throb.

The bag I carry all over town

has the word ‘poetry’ on it,

and an image of a Pegasus,

and you must know

how much I like that.

Plenty of dimes and nickels

but no real cash,

a bottle of water for me

and a sippy cup for you,

three notebooks, gum wrappers,

hand sanitizers, crayons,

happy meal toys,

lip balms, sunglasses

and bags upon bags

stuffed full of cheddar goldfish

and vanilla wafers.

I also carry all that empty space

heavy with cumbersome wishes,

the absence of objects

we could pick up on beaches,

the heady possibility of mountains.

These things,

like invisible elephants

in the universe of my tote,

like play-dough cut-outs

of things we cannot yet touch.

Candy Land Photo and Poem by Hannah Gerber

2006-08-11T06:26:00.000-07:00

I can hear the tap tap tap

of the tiny Dora and Boots
as they walk
over the Candy Land board.

The rainbow path
from start to finish
must be travailed
like life itself

and as they move

from square to square

I can hear Boots whisper to Dora
through the mouth of my child

to watch out for deceitful foxes
lurking behind trees
and trolls with no sense of humor
or love for children
under bridges, scowling at laughter and song.

And don’t forget big red chickens
as large as houses
who might crush you
with their thoughtless heft
before even learning
your name.

Photo and poem by Beth Freeman

2006-08-11T01:04:00.000-07:00

I lean on you

You absorb my weight and I am safe

I trust you

You will never betray me

I tell you my dreams

You listen and believe in me

When you are old

You will lean on me

I will absorb your weight and you will be safe

And together we will watch the setting sun

Looking Up Haiku By Hannah Gerber

2006-07-21T12:38:00.000-07:00

My daughter looks up.
Always looking, always up.
'See?' she says, 'twilight.'

PURCHASE THIS VOLUME OF POETRY ABOUT LIFE WITH A TODDLER AT WWW.LULU.COM/GERBERGIRLS

Unending Love By Nancy Lerman

2006-07-13T06:52:00.000-07:00

I found out the other day that a former lover had died

And this affected me in a strange way:

Not sadness, not sorrow.

After all, I hadn’t seen the man in, what, 10 or 15 years?

But it was strange, this feeling I had;

He had broken my heart

(Though not badly; it healed quickly enough).

I didn’t wish him ill;

I certainly didn’t want him back.

Then I realized what it was I was feeling:

An odd mix of relief and gratitude.

(Guilt at relief – after all, someone had died!)

Relief, because I never had to worry about bumping into him again

(At least not in this life)

And gratitude

For breaking my heart;

For leaving me

And allowing me therefore to

Become the mommy I am today,

Each day filled with

Smiles, tears, tantrums, explorations and discoveries

And unending Love.

Poem and Art By Nikki

2006-05-18T11:30:00.000-07:00

It remains

when things are gone

and people

passed and roads

and paths and places

we belong

the essence.

Haiku 'Bathtime' By Kim Osada

2006-05-16T13:30:00.000-07:00

Water fills the tub
Bath toys and bubbles now float
Please don't poop in it.

Writing your lifes moments!

2006-05-14T13:53:00.000-07:00

Let's address the following questions which have been coming to me as I have asked my mom friends to contribute.....

"What Should I Write About?"

Write about what you know about: your work, your yard, your shadows.....Write fast, write slow, keep your eye on the subject, write without worrying what anyone thinks, write honestly, not charmingly or seductively. Trust your instinct to find you an audience, not your audience to find you an instinct, even if you are the only audience.

So the rule is: write what you yourself really want to write (which might actually be something you know very little about) and when you've found what you want to write, do it again and again. Write a whole series of poems on one subject and let each poem go more deeply, more bravely down into it than the last.

"How Can I Say What I Really Mean?"

Poems, like dreams, have a visible subject and an invisible one. The invisible one is the one you can't choose, the one that writes itself. Not a message that comes at the end of the poem, more like a pathological condition that forms every word - a resonance, a manner of speaking, a nervous tic, a pressure. And this invisible subject only shows up when you're speaking the language you speak when no one is there to correct or applaud you. Remember that language is the whole skill of writing well.

How hard is it to sit under a tree on a beautiful day and pretend not to be happy? Or to break your heart and pretend that you haven't broken your heart? Well, it's particularly hard for writers, we who have so many sophisticated and deceptive words at our fingertips; which is why children and non-writers and folk poets will often come up with the best poems.

The secret is to find some strategy for quieting down the ego. Ted Hughes taught people to approach their poems as if stalking an animal - utterly patient and focused and swift. My own practice is different - something I've developed over the years and now do automatically whenever I sit down to write. It's a primitive kind of echo-location, I feel it, hope I’m right and it isn’t a stomach flu, sit down and just start typing.

(This is from a workshop manual that I am developing for doing workshops with seniors next year.)

Write!
Hannah

NEWS!

2006-04-28T10:53:00.000-07:00

Poet Moms will soon have it's own domain at www.poetmoms.com where we can be seen all over the world, and will strive to become a poetry review worthy of your thoughts, talents and words!

The site is now under construction, more info will be given here up until the time of the 'move'.

Keep living large, and write about it once inawhile! Your voice is a DYNAMIC that makes the world a more bearable place!

I will leave you with this bit of wisdom... well, huh. That didnt work out right. So look above for that bit o' wisdom, its the Bokonon (Vonnegut) quote, in case you needed a hint.

By Hannah Gerber

2006-04-09T08:59:00.000-07:00

Give me the booger.

Please don’t run away with it.

It is not a chunk of gold,

nor a game to be played;

me chasing you,

the dog nipping our heels.

It’s a booger and I must insist

you give it to me.

We can trade it in

like a sticky golden ticket

for a fortune cookie

I found in my bag,

or the dinosaur

revealed in a sandbox

that you unearthed

with your little

archeologists hands.

Aimee By Nancy Lerman

2006-04-09T08:54:00.000-07:00

I'm 4 and in a hurry as only a 4 year old can be.

My grandmother stops to put on her lipstick.

"Come on, Grandma!" I say, "No one cares!"

"I care," she says.

I'm 9 and in a hurry again, of course.

"Brush your hair before we go," she says.

"But I don't care how it looks!"

"Perhaps not," she says, "but I care."

At 14, the teenage world taking its toll, I wail:

"No one cares about me!"

She holds me, whispering, "I care."

I leave for college;

I marry;

I give birth;

She is there.

Now I sit by her hospital bed,

The end is near.

The DNR order is in place.

I watch her face - it's quiet, calm -

but pale.

I put lipstick on her dry lips, because I know:

she cares.

Dear Audrey By Hannah Gerber

2006-03-27T20:32:00.000-08:00

If you can make a lion out of a paper plate

and construction paper

and I can conjure up

food in the shapes of cartoon characters

then maybe together

we can fly.

If your right, and dogs can talk

if they want to, and ducks can

live on American cheese and

bathwater,

if it is indeed true

that over the wall there lives a tiger

and an elephant both diminutive enough

to fit in the small of our hands,

well, maybe you and I together

can be invisible and follow

daddy where he goes.

Move his french fries out of reach,

tug on his tie

and whisper kitty sounds into

his ears,

And then maybe Tuesday

we can go to the zoo.

Time By Dana Beth

2006-03-22T20:26:00.000-08:00

I looked at you today and wondered, what will you be when you grow up?

Will you be a doctor, a lawyer, a musician, a writer, a poet?

I gazed at your blue-green eyes and searched for answers.

I found none.

Instead you reached your little hand to my face and smiled.

In that gesture I found all the answers that matter.

I am yours and you are mine.

Thoughts of the future melted away into the moment and time stood still.

Poem and Art by Nikki

2006-03-18T05:44:00.000-08:00

Keeping the mind clear

and calm.

Breathing.

The body is immersed

in today

but relaxed.

Letting go,

all opinions fall away.

All is taken care of.

Acceptance.

Trust.

When. By Dana Beth

2006-03-17T14:31:00.000-08:00

When you were a baby I though you were so small

When you were one I thought you were no longer a baby at all

When you were two I thought all the baby in you was gone

When you were three I thought my little boy was so big and strong

When you were four I thought you were so wise for your age

When you were five I thought you had become a school kid in a day

When you were six I thought I’d cry when you went to 1^st grade

When you were seven I thought you were too big to hug me every day

When you were eight I thought you were my little man

When you were nine I thought you would never again hold my hand

When you were ten I thought you would never sit and talk heart to heart

When you were eleven I thought how did you ever get to be this smart

When you were twelve I thought you were embarrassed by me

When you were thirteen I thought you were too big to climb a tree

When you were fourteen I thought you were crazy about girls

When you were fifteen I thought you were living in your own world

When you were sixteen I thought you were going to kill yourself driving

When you were seventeen I thought you were just getting by, just simply surviving

When you were eighteen I thought you were never going to ask for advice

When you were nineteen I thought at “quarters” you were very precise

When you were twenty I thought to ask “How does it feel to have grown out of your mothers grasp?”

When you were twenty-one you gave me your answer when you held my hand, kissed my cheek,
and asked “Mother what should I do? I think I love her, she is so much like you.”

A more or less usual afternoon By Hannah Gerber

2006-03-16T14:34:00.000-08:00

Today I am my childs hero.
And all because she asked for a joke and I had one.

Question: Why can't an antelope elope with a cantaloupe?
Answer: Because an antelope can't elope with a cantaloupe.

And for this I have been festooned with kisses
and she laughed so hard
she peed in her big girl underwear.
Then she asked me if I wanted a beer.
I tossed her the car keys and said,
'No, but be a peach and go to Wiggy's on the corner of Sixth
and Congress and get me a pint of Jack, would you, darling?'

Now I have about twenty minutes to myself.
I think I'll write something.

The Punch Line By Hannah Gerber

2006-03-14T21:39:00.000-08:00

My daughter, almost three

and already an absurdist has this joke.

Actually she has a ‘million of ‘em’

as the old vaudevillians say.

It’s just hers all have the same punch line.

Ready?

My favorite goes like this.

What happens when you eat a pineapple on the beach?

And the punch line is her screaming

at the top of her lungs,

The Phone Rings!

If she gets a laugh out of you, please understand

you are in trouble,

for then you will need to hear

more startling scenarios in

which The Phone Rings.

What happens when your eating a cookie in the bath tub?

What happens when your yelling and your mommy is yelling too?

What happens when the giraffe is at the Zoo and his name is Noodle-head?

What happens? What happens? What happens?

Something Light. By J. Braun

2006-02-16T18:35:00.000-08:00

I think I’ll have a little something light,

smooth and creamy,

and puffed with air.

I’m there,

for a small sweet morsel,

an existential snack

after a long hard day,

with aching legs, neck and back.

I want something whipped up,

like clouds floating above the earth,

balloons bouncing in the sky

where I wish I was.

I’m in the mood for a

soft, fluffy nibble,

sugar dusted pillows,

of thick, luxuriant delight

at the end of my night,

something silky, satiny enough

to lay my head upon

and find rest.

Something light for me is best,

to ease my doubts,

boost my ego,

and salve my wounds,

to round off the sharp edges of my life.

I need a light, soft place to fall,

to stand tall,

and have strength for all the hard days and nights.

I choose something delectably, confectionably,

especially, deliciously, comfortingly, undeniably,

light.

From a daughter. By Anonomous

2006-02-10T10:46:00.000-08:00

So much of my life is lost in fog
Remembrance is a commodity, like rare spun silk
That I long to touch
I remember instead the feeling of silk,
the taste of things she baked me
And the way I always wanted her approval, the warmth of her eyes that
Could fill a soul, could make sure you knew
That no matter what, you were still beloved.
She speaks to me now as one woman to another,
Her words are languid, she takes her time,
She enjoys the exchange
We share like a fine meal.
We take our time, my mother and I
We luxuriate in the peace between us,
The lack of strife and longing at our table
That has made us the best of companions.

She remembers details and I just the sensations.
She remembers standing in that group of strangers
And speaking her heart, speaking her fear, her
Faith, her love and her hopes for us all.
I remember no words, only that I stood beside her more proud than I
have ever felt since,
And marveled that I came from her body,
That aside from all the things this woman before me was, she was also
a Creator of life.

She speaks to me now and I listen.
She aches and I feel dull numbing pain also.
She laughs and I rejoice silently,
She asks and I answer with all my heart.
This is the love without conditions that makes each breath I pass
sublime,
The secret elixir of life that allows my body to continue to move
Through days of confusion and learning,
Bringing me closer to her, and more understanding
Of her life with each morning I awake.

Anon.

With apologies to Dylan Thomas. By N. Lerman

2006-02-10T10:39:00.000-08:00

Do not go gentle into that good night

No! No! she wails

Against bedtime I must fight!

And in the quiet hours of the early morn,

Mommy! Daddy! she wails

From restful sleep I am again torn.

Seven years they say,

Till quiet nights will come your way.

Six to go - God help me!

I know for sure I don't want three.

N. Lerman, mom of two toddlers ages 3 and 1.

Not from a local mom, but from our wonderful Billy Collins.

2006-02-10T06:51:00.000-08:00

The Lanyard

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Her tightrope. By H. Gerber

2006-02-07T16:42:00.000-08:00

‘The tightrope’ she walks

‘between euphoria and resentment’

is how she puts it.

Euphoria perhaps too strong a word

but it is a poem,

and it’s the opposite of resentment

which I do not doubt.

I had this odd tugging in my

chest when I read that;

the ‘tightrope’ line,

I must glimpse a different life

for myself

had I chosen to give myself to a child

at 30 instead of 40.

Had I taken less trips, lovers, late nights,

drunken afternoons in bed watching rain.

Certainly I would feel it too

that ache of wonder

of what might be Now had I not;

and the ache of wonderment at

what I did choose,

that small pale hand

clasping.

Those cheeks flushed with life

and rage

and all that frustration

the small ones have at

knowing the potential of everything

yet not having the grasp

to take what

is so rightfully theirs.

I walk no tightrope with her

though I can sometimes identify

those who walk it

and my ache for them is real

but fleeting

for I know

in my less than infinite wisdom,

that what they hold today,

is what we will all ache for in the years that

are to follow.

Second chance. By H. Gerber

2006-02-07T15:28:00.000-08:00

There are days

the best days

when I get dizzy

with the realization

that I am not still married;

trapped like a mouse in glue

to that gentle failure

and can I even begin to write about 360 pounds of sad

and need

and defiance for not being

fully accepted as he was,

every heavy fold of brown skin

the two moles that sprung from above each eyebrow making him

devilish in a way no woman would fall for,

except me

because if he was the beast,

I for once

got to be the beauty.

There are days

the best ones

where I look at my child

and don’t know how I got so lucky,

perhaps a dream

and I am still in that big new house

alone waiting

for my happy drunk to wander in

2am, 3

and I am thin and carry a big rock

like a weapon on my finger

my hair in tendrils that don’t yet

need for paint to hide the brittle white.

Youth was leaving me in any case, and now

though I cling to it

more than I should

I also taste no ruin

on my tongue

and no shame

for what I did to get away.

Tightrope. By Anonymous

2006-02-07T11:58:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was sublime.
Today I am shattered.
My son's sweet disposition
has been vanquished
by his relentless objection
to my every suggestion.

"Would you like breakfast?"
No.
"How about some fruit?"
No.
"Let's read a book."
No.

...and then the tears begin
and there is no end.
There are only more tears,
and snot, and screams.

Is it any surprise when
a voice from my past
whispers seduction
that I eagerly lap it up?
Do I secretly hate my life?

I love the warmth of my son's face,
how his head fits perfectly in the
curve of my neck,
while he reaches his small hand
up to touch my hair.

Yet I am constrained by my role as mother,
caregiver, and comforter.
I walk a tightrope between
euphoria and resentment.

Do you wonder why
I crave an escape?