A Mother’s Mother

In orbit, she is motherly, touched by a bit of supremacy.

No matter how many times I am seated…

in her presence I am still.

And, I am bowed down…at her feet.

She wears a tone that covets my needs.

Adorning a preface to a story.


In the open air, a deceiver.

Maternal winds distort, stutter…

still the memory follows me.

Soon, so soon, I will be made worthy to take a seat at the table.

Traversing untamed brooks.

‘Who am I to discover a Mother’s Mother that could be.

In the vast loneliness of self preservation…had I once performed very bad things?

Where was I when first mother took my mind?

Where had I gone when the nurturer offered time?

Wounds of fire and rubbish replaced by winds for sailing, light to guide me home.

A luminous aura left behind…leaving a manner in which to dine.


the Rocking

She gave birth to me…having already believed in rickety chairs.

Having diluted her secrets like a paperback mystery.

Her book and dismembered seat have been passed down.

Her small moments of rocking back and forth…provided few victories.

Every now and again,

I will set myself to rocking…

it appears to soothe me.

the Catholic Woman

She had no oxygen…so I brought the metal devil to her.

Just a tourniquet for a blistered soul.

She never fared well, hot.

She never fared well, cold.

Quiet were her ways.

A tsunami were the words…she did not say.

One sinner could cling to her devotion.

Just as I, began to sink slowly in her god-fearing lifeboat.

Out and out, by myself, in a turbulent ocean.

Every Sunday metal tank set at ease.

No longer was she…to kneel before the hosanna.

Wheeled, forefront and center, beside other elders…

strands of rosaries, strung together like christmas lights.

A hymn all their own.

One Sunday with all the prayers of faith and health.

One Sunday…when the oxygen ran out.


Canterbury Confessions

Would the matter make any difference if we could turn back time, together or apart?

Remove our granite love letter?

Wear sandals for the steps it took to get us here?

Instead of leaden wear steel- toed shoes…


The anonymity becomes unmasked from time to time.

Transgressions…etched forever in stone.

But with every stride…grave indecision, blindfolds my mind.

Conflicted…there is no joy in the ride.

And, no matter the journeys I take…Canterbury Confessions have nowhere to hide.

How remarkable the steps it takes to bury pride.


Saturday’s Worship: the Chair

I choose to resist her because I cannot change her.

No stormy epiphany.

Just a maze of textures…unrelenting.

Provoking my soul.

Mother’s visceral encampment absorbs all that is bold.

And, so, she and I go.imageedit_8_2203620117

I resist her akin to my worshiping her.

Awaiting another tale to unfold.


I wandered into the woods today.  To see if I could get a better picture of the ‘chair’.  Though I had many photographs of the chair…none satisfied me.  Walking out of the woods I discovered no…better picture of the chair.  Yet, my spirit felt much improved.