Mother and Child Meditation
 
 
Think back to 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
fecund 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.
 
 
 
another road song
 
 
Not all mothers are loving.
Not all grandmas are kind.
DNA can marry hate, terror.
People arrive shamed in error,
in need of mentors, friends that share
connection,
release rejection, reverse lessons from
blighted start.
Transformance art merged with concentration,
consecration to a sane desire —
What would we require?
 
 
 
 
I remember
 
 
Mother mine,
I tried to mother you.
What did you do?
You lashed me from behind,
expected more from anger
than kind eyes, caressing smiles.
Intimated I endangered your true child,
who followed, the one
resembling you.
Scapegoat for resent to represent your robbery,
unfaithful promises not of my time.
 
No regrets.  No graveside confession
of apology.  I have learned to be
a creation of my own obsessive mind.
 
 
 
Eternal Chao
 
 
Eternal rumination through
tangled elaboration.
Taking respite a nonce
to enjoy the adventure,
or stationed to caverns of woe
for a decade or so.
No dragons nor maidens have I,
no trade in answers.
Conveyed by sky,
falling as I yearn to
through luminous translucence,
layers gorgeously etched.
Glorious.
Feathered and free.
Reassurance, Earth’s embrace; firm, gentle.
I tell the ache of ages:
break out, grow
angelic arms.  Malleable,
able to reach each troubled
artery.  Ease the anger,
dissipate insanity.
I am Mother, Daughter, Holy Crone.
I am eternally
my own.

 

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