Featured Post: I Remember the Mother – Deanna Raymond

I remember my Mother
As I knew her, I a child of the 70’s
She- Mother Wild, Mother Earth
I remember her digging and planting
In a deep squat
Hovering over rich turned earth
Creating garden beds resplendent
With vibrant colors, textures, tumbles of flowers
And scents that to this day
Speak of home
I remember my sister and I traipsing after her
A cat or two, and a dog in tow
Learning all the things that the cool woods
Open field, under brush, briars and pond’s edge
Could yield as food or medicine
Mullen oil for ear aches, jewel weed for poison ivy
Fiddle heads, blueberries, mulberries
Elderberry and sumac made into jam- the most brilliant
Jewel taste on the tongue
Blackberries staining our fingers and mouths
Boiling them to make dark amethyst jams
Or baked into pies that taste like mother’s love
She was my Mother Wolf
My Wildling Woman
My true North and connection to the divine

But time passed
And some things have changed
Age heralds in fear where fearless once stood
Pain becomes the slippery slope to sedentary, to insular
The Mother Goddess glimmers through some times
And her eyes sparkle remembering
But her days in a squat
Turning the earth
Or wandering forests stalking the wild sustenance
Are past.
I feel that as daughters
We find ourselves in search our Mother’s gardens again as we age
Where her fingernails were crescent mooned with rich soil
And spider webs and morning dew clung to her long hair
Where her bosom smelled of roses when you snuggled into her
As she sang in birdsong to teach you the language of flight
Where for a time you had common ground literally and figuratively
Where she taught you to stand tall and ferocious
Among the jasmine and false indigo
And HOWL in all your glorious female child divine
At the rising full moon.


I a single Mom of two teenage boys, a massage therapist and physical therapy assistant living in New England. I have been writing poetry and journaling stream of thought since I was a young girl. Writing has always been therapeutic and at times life-saving for me. Bleeding ink onto paper has been as natural and important as breathing. In my late 40’s I begin to consider sharing my writing and publishing. I have always been so grateful for other authors and being able to see that I am not alone in my struggles along my path in this world. I hope my writing can give others the same lift, hope, sense of belonging.

Find me on Facebook at: Darker Rooms and DeeRay

Summer is Over-Stacey’s Mum- K. Barratt

Staceys Mom KB

When Summer was at its heights,

And my life was still mine,

I had a name, I had a voice, I was

A girl with a plan.

With bridges to build and castles to conquer.

But Summer is over and I’m just

Stacey’s mum.

I am dear, I am babe,

I am Mrs Whoever, Lady X.

I am the invisible woman in the second

Lane, at the front of the queue, catching

A glimpse of herself

In the reflection of the vending machine.

And I know why the caged bird sings,

And the lonely teenager rips her skin

With a razor, and the town’s weirdo

Put his life at risk doing an impossible feat,

And the cat lady screams in the middle

of the night, like crazy.

They do it to feel.

To convince ourselves that we are real, here, still,

Ugly, fat, slim, old, grey, faded, strange,

Still here, our beating hearts still playing

The summer song that gave us flight,

That made us reckless, that made us dance

And dance, until that dance and we were one,

The dance still dancing inside of Stacey’s mum.

Summer shines in me, summer rises in me,

Flowers bloom in me, working their way up

To the cracks of my casing, to break the

Cloak of venerability, like dandelions

Pushing pavements apart,

The cement of the years, of Lady X and little dear,

Of the names given, imposed, baptized,

The mask I am told to wear, ripping at the sides.

But inside, I’m getting high, darling; stoned darling;

Intoxicated darling, with guitars and moonshine and life.

Singing in a red dress on the top of the bar,

In a smoky club to the notes of jazz, blues, a few

Suede shoes twisting and tapping in my heart.

And I’m not over yet.

I’m not done yet.

I’m not broken nor wrecked nor cracked nor shattered, yet.

I am older,  wiser, perhaps, but not obsolete,

There are still rainbows forming beneath

My cape of invisibility.

Summer is over, true, and outside autumn has

Painted the world red. But strawberries roll

Down my throat, and mead, and cheese on bread,

The green grass growing inside my oxford pumps,

Not just Stacey’s mum, but me, the me who had

A name, who had a plan, who had a game,

The me who held the sun in her hands and made it shine.

In aisle three I may walk, Lady X, looking for butter and eggs,

But inside I am surfing, writing my name on the sand,

Listening to the sea trapped in a shell, my shell,

This what you see, a fraction of myself.

Outside, the breeze is chilly, the autumn leaves

Whirling in the air, like a dreaming dervish waiting for death.

And I sit still, stand still, make myself still, in this role, still,

Pretending summer has come and gone,

And I’m just babe, dear, woman in aisle one.

Stacey’s mum. Still. Non-person with no name. Still.

But it’s fake news, darling, because in this half-world

I have been put in, like a mute extra in a play,

There is another side yet, another place yet, a time behind yet

Where Summer neve ever ends and the roses know my name

And on my motor bike I ride and I ride and ride, a bit of wild of

Sex on the side. A few blues, a little jazz. The crackling

Song of bonfires calling the early morning light.

And me. And I. Still breathing. Still being. Still alive. Here.

Ready to take flight, darling; to be, darling.

To birth a second summer from the depth of my heart,

My inner fire much more than meets the eye,

A person with a name, a woman with a game,

Stacey’s mum piling away all the crap, and making it burn.


I can’t say I follow any particular tendency or style. I pretty much let my heart sings and copy the notes into the computer, and then play with the sounds and meanings until I feel the poem, idea or musing have taken their own shape and personality. I am originally from Venezuela and have been in the UK for 14 years. I am a writer, poet, blogger, life coach, interfaith-minister, celebrant, language teacher, Domestic Goddess with an edge,  Tarot reader, mother to a girl (light of my eyes), a dog, a Guinea pig and five plants, and wife to the most patient man in the world, who sometimes appears in my poetry. I feel very lucky to be multi-racial: Spanish, Nigerian, Native American, Jewish, Italian, Arabic and Finnish. Somehow I think that influences my eclectic style, which flourishes in almost everything I do, from my writing to my cooking. Like everyone I have had my ups and downs. I have experience domestic violence (first hubby) and ridiculously sweet loving (second hubby). I am immigrant and right now I am witnessing the loss of my country (long story) and yet I have been very much welcomed in the UK and have grown to love it very much. I am bipolar, psychotic, suicidal and suffer from psychosomatic epilepsy, which can make life a challenge at times, and, at others, weirdly fun.

I blog at Singing Heart

 

Papi’s Loud Silence- Gladys Hidalgo

newses

[Poem by Gladys Hidalgo, photo by Georgia Park]

my father is a very Religious man

that is to say

he was raised holy

to be above the masses

to be more than

he was always being

more than

my father has conversations with god

whispers in his sleep

convey the what is to comes

of the fUture

he cries with joy

wheN he Relegates the content

of his holy meetings to me

exclaims with great faith

that he has been chosen

has been saved

wants me to write down his prophesies

so his failing memory

doesn’t disrespect his lord with forgetfUlness

he would Never want to fail his god

i want to believe him

i want with eveRy inch of greedy hUmaN in me

for my fatheR

to be speaking in langUage of truths

but my memory is disrespectful

my memory does Not fail

my memoRy is open pastUre

sowN with the seeds of his past

i am living pRoof that he is lying

he is false prophet

his words are sprinkled

with the actions my mUscles react to automatically

i think he knows

i caN’t believe him

my calves twitch

with the uRge to move in the opposite direction

bUt it will take 5 more red lights

before i am close to home

my father is a very religious maN

he has conveRsations with god

he is saved

he is holy

i repeat this

like an oUr father iN my head

synapses lighting up

in hopes of making it past the next 5 Red lights

alive

my disbelief coUld kill me

and I love my father

but he is religious

and he speaks to god

and history

has showN what kind of destRUctioN

can be wRoUght wheN man believes

he can speak only

in the language of truths

Gladys Hidalgo is a spoken word artist deeply involved in her home community of Lynn as a teaching artist at Raw Art Works. Her poetry is rooted in her Latinx ancestry. She has performed at some amazing events such as World Aids Day Boston, The American Voice 2015, Wheaton College’s iSpeak, Femme Nouveau Women’s Empowerment, Co-hosted LTAB Crossing the Street Open Mic 2015 as well as The Massachusetts Promise Fellowship and Northeastern University’s MLK Day Event.

Papi’s Loud Silence-Introducing Gladys Hidalgo

newses

[Poem by Gladys Hidalgo, photo by Georgia Park]

my father is a very Religious man

that is to say

he was raised holy

to be above the masses

to be more than

he was always being

more than

my father has conversations with god

whispers in his sleep

convey the what is to comes

of the fUture

he cries with joy

wheN he Relegates the content

of his holy meetings to me

exclaims with great faith

that he has been chosen

has been saved

wants me to write down his prophesies

so his failing memory

doesn’t disrespect his lord with forgetfUlness

he would Never want to fail his god

i want to believe him

i want with eveRy inch of greedy hUmaN in me

for my fatheR

to be speaking in langUage of truths

but my memory is disrespectful

my memory does Not fail

my memoRy is open pastUre

sowN with the seeds of his past

i am living pRoof that he is lying

he is false prophet

his words are sprinkled

with the actions my mUscles react to automatically

i think he knows

i caN’t believe him

my calves twitch

with the uRge to move in the opposite direction

bUt it will take 5 more red lights

before i am close to home

my father is a very religious maN

he has conveRsations with god

he is saved

he is holy

i repeat this

like an oUr father iN my head

synapses lighting up

in hopes of making it past the next 5 Red lights

alive

my disbelief coUld kill me

and I love my father

but he is religious

and he speaks to god

and history

has showN what kind of destRUctioN

can be wRoUght wheN man believes

he can speak only

in the language of truths

[Gladys Hidalgo is a spoken word artist deeply involved in her home community of Lynn as a teaching artist at Raw Art Works. Her poetry is rooted in her Latinx ancestry. She has performed at some amazing events such as World Aids Day Boston, The American Voice 2015, Wheaton College’s iSpeak, Femme Nouveau Women’s Empowerment, Co-hosted LTAB Crossing the Street Open Mic 2015 as well as The Massachusetts Promise Fellowship and Northeastern University’s MLK Day Event.]