beautiful words

I read this poem in my Mother’s Nature book, which I am enjoying more and more, and suggest you pick up for yourself if you also enjoy reading quotes, poems, and other inspirations from mothers and those writing about motherhood. The author is Andrea Alban Gosline, and I hope she doesn’t mind me quoting her here. (Andrea, if by some small chance you ever happen to read this and would like me to remove this, please just let me know and I’m happy to respect your wishes.)

Andrea is an author of inspirational parenting books as well as children’s books. You can read about her and her published works here. Unfortunately I can’t get her spacing and indention exactly right on this blogging platform, but I think the intention of the words is still carried out despite a slightly different form. Andrea writes:

Child’s call, fresh as sunrise,
deep as velvet dusk,
rings wild on wind’s chime.
Ten toes dig down
roots in red earth.
Bloom inside, fragile one.

I will not sleep
in this time of ten moons.
Touch me, I am native drum,
rhapsody in hollow cave

To child’s pace I slow
and build the feathered nest.
Skin pulls taut over soft, flat plains.
Steady trumpet vine,
I pose for the sun.
My dance is ripe,
your mystery fills the passage.

Exploring corners in my home,
I hear ancestral hum.
Between the wooden walls,
the web of life is spun.

Welcome to my feast.
I hold my family’s heart in mine
and toast the weaving of our souls.

Thank you, Andrea, for your beautiful words. I only hope I too can share this magical experience of pregnancy and motherhood, and write about it in a way half as beautiful as yours. Readers: is there a piece of writing that has struck you or inspired you during your journey into motherhood? If so, I’d love if you’d share!


those objects she became

Look at Whitman go.

There was a child went
forth every day,
And the first object he
looked upon, that object
he became,
And that object became
part of him for the day
or a certain part of the day,
Or for many years or
stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became
part of this child,
And grass and white
and red morning glories,
and white and red
clover; and
the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the third-month
lambs and sow’s
pink-faint litter, and
the mare’s
foal, and the cow’s calf.

-Walt Whitman

I’m a Whitman fan anyway, and when I read the imagery in the piece above I instantly fell in love with it. The imagery was just so…visceral, tactile. I love that kind of writing! Reading this prompted me to wonder what objects I became — for a day or for a season — after encountering them in my youth. I reflected, pondering on my childhood and deciding this:

The draped honeysuckle
became part of me,
And violet dew-dropped
morning glories and
baby starlings
rescued from the flue;
And earthworms plucked
from drying walks,
and bare feet on
thick green grass
and hot Georgia
pavement; and rough bark
of climbed trees
and fences.

What objects did you become, or what objects do you think or hope your child has or will become? I would love to hear, even if it’s in sentence form!

melodic monday, what?

So I was sitting at lunch today and realized I did exactly what I thought I might do last week: forgot to post some writing on Monday.

I’m sorry. But ah well, I suppose I will just start writing when I can and when inspiration truly hits me instead of on a regular day every week.

I’ve also been quieter than normal this week too, and I am sorry for that. Work has been wildly busy. We are talking about hiring a third person for our two-man marketing group, which would be amazing, because I am about completely zombified by the time I get home every day lately. This evening I just laid silently on the bed with hubby for about 20 minutes…a big change from my usual constant blabber and energy from the time I walk in the door.

I hope you are all having a good week and are retaining many more brain cells than I am lately. Talk to you more soon.


melodic monday, there you are

You know when you start a new habit, and it’s not really a habit yet so you run the distinct risk of forgetting to repeat it? That’s what I almost did today on our second Melodic Monday. But then I was cooking dinner and I remembered I owe you some creative writing, and now I can’t turn away from you guys or put it off. So…I will quickly slide in here that I am much less comfortable with poetry than short stories, but feel that for now poetry is a better format here, so…forgive my lack of poetic know-how and all that. Anyway, all nerves aside…. [clears throat]

will you be? (ruminations on baby)

will you be a rhythm soft,
branches tap tapping
on glass during sleep,
or primal, heavy feet
resonating a warrior’s
thudding beat  in dusty
Earth –

will you be a battle cry
whooping bravely
over treetops during war,
or quiet and meek,
warbling an ancient’s
haunting cry across blue
Air –

will you be a flute’s dance
lilting softly up
across heavens during peace,
or booming drums
beating a waterfall’s
crashing weight into foamy
Water –

will you be a shout joyous
bellowed to the sun
atop a grassy peak,
or a serene whisper
released to the sky,
echoing bliss to the heavens’

melodic mondays

In college I studied English and writing, but really my love affair with words began a very long time before that. I have been writing and using my imagination for just about as long as I can remember.

Some of my best and earliest memories involve writing and using my wild imagination. In fact, one of my earliest memories isn’t a memory at all, but I dreamed it so clearly within my own waking mind that I now can look back on it as something I can recall just as clearly as a true memory.

I am swinging on our swingset in the backyard, about eight or nine, kicking my legs high into the sky. The breeze is cool. Suddenly the ground begins to rumble. I jump off the swing and look behind me, over our fence and back toward the creek at the edge of our neighborhood. A Tyrannosaurus Rex is stomping across the creek, splintering trees, heading toward me.

I can see it in my mind’s eye just as much as I can picture Christmas morning when I was ten, or playing London Bridge with my mother and younger brothers around the same time. Some might say this is bordering on crazy, but I say it’s fun!

Lately I’ve been less devoted to my writing, although writing and being a mother are the two things I’ve always wanted more than anything in the world. So I’d like to give something a try — depending on whether both you and I have and/or continue to have an interest in this. On Mondays I’ll start posting a piece of impromptu writing, preferably somehow related to my latest adventure of trying to conceive.

Whatever form I’m taking off its dusty shelf and sharing with you (short story, poem, or random mumblings), I’d like to think this can be a fun outlet and just see where it takes me and us. I will say I am not a poet and I’m rusty…and prone to embarrassment. This will also be an exercise to help me overcome my (sometimes almost debilitating) perfectionism.

So…trying to be brave. To begin, I thought I’d try something small and sweet, like I imagine our future baby’s soul to be, wherever it may be passing the time right now.

where do you exist
before finding my belly
inky sky of souls