of birth, she rendered tender turmoil, cleaned
when hurts to fall, heal kissed, the trick and go
off homegrown jam, hot plates, linens we’re weaned
alone amidst men’s cruel creation, sad
throughout the search of warmth of womb, we’re doin’
i’ve found myself a girl to wed, she cute
it’s moms who rebuild what kings have ruined.
Written in New Orleans, LA 2012
Author’s Thought: Poetry is harder than it seems. Free form poetry is quick, easy, and. . . free. (That’s what I find myself doing the most of.) Formed poems take much more time and thought and energy than free form poetry. This is my first poem (except for simple haiku) written with a specific form in mind– iambic pentameter with the rhyming scheme ABCB. It’s not quite perfect in form, especially the last line, but it’s that important line that manifested this poem.
It’s for my own perfect mother, and all mother’s on this lovely Sunday. I love you, momma.