New Mother

This poem is a recovered memory from a past-life regression therapy session I had a few years ago.  It is about an indigenous woman from North America at a time long before Europeans explorers came here.  I still dream about this frequently.

The baby lasted but an hour.
So small, so cold; no comfort here.
Too young I was, my womb unripe,
and Winter’s not the time for birth.
I’ll have another when it’s Spring.

The rain beats down, my hide is soaked,
and chafes upon my thin, sore frame.
So great a distance we have come,
Much more to tread before we rest.

Babies need a warm, soft sun,
with fragrant grasses to lie upon.
And mothers who have much to eat
for strength- and thick sweet milk to drink.
I’ll have another when it’s Spring.

The food is scarce; small leaves and seeds,
my mother, worried, shares with me.
I see far mountains up ahead,
these we must reach to find a home.

A cave, a fire, small game to eat,
a place without the beating wet.
With thick fur hides to rest upon,
to gather strength and mourn my loss.
I’ll have another when it’s Spring.

I stumble, shaking, and fall into
a small mud hollow beneath a rock.
The rain secludes me from our group.
For me there will not be a Spring.

http://cynthiashort.blogspot.com/2009/09/new-mother.html

This Can't Be Healthy!

I’m melting…melting…
The Wicked Witch of the West
has nothing on me.
Sweat pours off every inch,
stinging my eyes, rivulets
pooling into every nook and cranny,
soaking my clothes.
What was I thinking?
A desert rat hiking today,
slogging through half-set gelatin,
warm, thick and slimy.
Humidity rising up
in steamy vents from the
damp desert sand.
I plug along grumbling, while
quail, the only other creature
stupid enough to be out in this mess
laughs, calling me “Koo koo”.
The last push uphill to home,
dreaming of a long cool shower
and a tall iced tea.
(I’d rather have stoli straight
from the freezer…)

Self- Centered

While coming out of my business yesterday, I noticed this scene being played out in front of Starbucks. It hit a nerve and I had to write it down.

Fake fingernails,
impossible breasts.
A non fat half caff latte
in one hand,
Blackberry in another,
conceitedly tweeting.
Designer jeans,
diamond rings,
expensive weave
lacquered to perfection.
She hurries quickly
to the Beemer.
In a constant rush,
new friends to meet,
new things to buy.
Oblivious to the child-
a pesky fly -
a barnacle-
struggling to keep up
in cheap rubber thongs
Matted hair flying.
Just another accessory
Like her last cell phone,
Out of style,
bored with it.

Street Performer (RWP Prompt #90)

My offering for "Read Write Poem's" weekly prompt #90

Glazed eyes streaming- trembling
through plumes of smoke
his offering drifts heavenward.
Burnt flesh a written
declaration of sacrifice.
Praying it will be great enough
to bring forgiveness.

Mesmerized and mystified
onlookers toss offerings of
grimy coins and crumpled notes.
A smattering of applause-
Murmured voices of encouragement,
“Such talent, balance and resolve,
a true performer.”

He doesn’t even notice them.

Thoughts on a Pond

We are fortunate to have a koi pond in our backyard. Makes living in this dry place more bearable...These are some recent thoughts that came to me while spending some peaceful time pond-side.

Day

Koi glide through a liquid universe
each a satellite unto themselves.

Sparkling diamonds of sunlight
broadcast secret codes to infinity.

Wasps float upon an invisible skim
splayed legs stuck to the honeylike fluid.

Dragonflies flit and dip downward
dragging heavy tails along a golden surface.

Mourning doves bathe within green shallows
preening dusty feathers, a daily ritual.

Night

Sunset hued tropical blossoms
spew forth a heady, ancient fragrance.

Small desert toads poised on lily pads
trill their harmonious mating call.

Bats aerial maneuvers swoop and dive
vacuuming the air of mosquitoes.

Koi sleep silently among the rocks
submarines resting and recharging.

Swathes of moonlight paint each corner
With a silvery, fluorescent glow.