Bad Poetry…

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Today is the final day of National Poetry Month.  I had big hopes of sharing a poem a day, but alas, I sucked.  Didn’t even make it a week… But I did do a bit of reading and an even smaller bit of writing. They seemed pretty decent when I wrote them, but upon review I think I might have been a bit generous.  A bit too angsty (?) or self-righteous (?).  I don’t know.  Still have that angsty teen living inside me somewhere, I guess.
But, as promised, I will share with you two of the poems I wrote.  I know that I say that I like feedback, but if it’s in the form of boos or hate mail, well you can keep those. I realize these are pretty amatuer.


I step forward
and shake from me
this role like an
     ugly christmas sweater
given to me
     itchy and unflattering.
Or rather shed it like the skin
a snakelet has outgrown
     tight and constricting
painful and burdensome in its stricture.

Naked, I feel free
nearly buoyant
but under all of that
the old smattering of fear and doubt
as this old skin was all I’ve ever worn
and cannot be donned again.

Is choosing my family
a choice 
     or rather
the lack there of?
Is this role as noble?
Certainly it is less glorified.
No one acknowledges its wonder
or asks questions about its rewards
as it’s assumed there are few of notoriety.

Perhaps that is my own cynicism,
that part of me that feels a 
to my feminist roots.
Do I need to turn in my badge?
Have I forfeited my right
to dream of 
now that I have 
slithered back to my den?

Is there redemption in raising
               better men & women?
In raising a fortified
improved generation?
Is there not a need for soldiers
on the home front also?
Is there not glory in that sort of
desk job?
Is there not honor and respect
found in simply wearing the general’s uniform?

So I continue to feed 
off the love, adoration, and fear
of my troops.
I raise them 
     nutritionally balanced
ready to stand up and fight.
I grow and stretch this
new skin
until the day I will shed this too
along with 
all the doubts and fears
it is colored with. 


And for the third time 
those tears rush forward
those crocodile tears, they call them.
And what is it now,
this time?
Who’s to say, my dear.
     My dear, you are much too fragile
for this world, I fear.
     I fear
no tag will ever be soft enough against
your creamy white skin
and no shoe will fit your foot
“just right”.
No Goldilocks moments for you,
No mattress free of lumps
  for the princess & the pea, my dear.
     My dear,
how do I not worry
every day
that the world will not
crush you?
That frustrations and impatience
will not tear you down?
So I breathe deep,
breathe deep,
close my eyes
and breathe deep
and hug you hard and firm.
It’s the only answer I have 
     but apparently
the right one.

  1. Anonymous

    I relate to SKIN. Got a little misty-eyed, as the role of mom, and a SAHM at that, is practically spit on at times. Its frustrating and overwhelming at times, and many times in a good, stretching sort of way.
    ADDIE, I guess I can say that its okay to not worry too much. Trust that she’ll find her place. I’m really “particular” in similar ways. I still have meltdowns over sensory things, but I’ve got a man that seems to know how to work through it with me, and a God that knows just what I need in the moment to get me through.