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Mother's Change by Lori Widmer

The world is a small and beautiful place when the wonders of technology allows two women, both mothers and both writers, to connect in a MOOC called ModPo13 (coursera.org) and discover a certain beauty in the words they share.  The following is a guest poet from said encounter.

Mother’s Change

Maybe it was heat
altered her, or maybe it was
life led through others, those children
Husband to whom she’d given too much. It was
Change in her, one revealed
loss of her Self heightened by
empty spent feeling flashes sweating reminding her
Age was winning, her curves now took different
Paths.

She fluffed clean sheets over
tired bed, beating back heat inside her, wondering if she’d ever
feel cool again, if young friend of her daughter, one who
flirted shamelessly with her, found her
sexy or if he thought her ridiculous for flirting
back for wanting to be wanted she having watched her husband relishing his
temper in private, channeling energy of their arguments into
bed, connecting to specter of passion inside
Intensity.

She wanted to feel alive, but she felt just loss, those
years bloated like changes she’d vowed to make, still
dormant, drowning in sameness, dragged under by
Weight of duty, she snapped hard corners of
bed sheets, rage building at invisible reasons, words
uttered to empty rooms, bouncing off dashed
hopes. She wanted to hate him, but she knew back then
Wives do this, life doesn’t
Belong to women.


© Copyright 2013 Lori Widmer. All Rights Reserved. No part of these poems, prose, thoughts, or lines may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the author, except in cases of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles.

Lori is a professional freelance writer and blogs at www.wordsonpageblog.com

Tune in this week for an interview with Lori about her poem.

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The Burden

This isn't mine anymore

What?

This.

She stretched out her hands
the parcel neatly wrapped
brown paper
with a
red bow

What is this?

Take it, it is your's.

But

No, it is not mine to carry
Anymore

What do you mean?

I mean that I am giving it back
it was never mine
anyway

I don't understand

You never did.

I don't want it.

Take it.

No.

So she
dropped
it
right
where
she stood.

And turned
and walked away.

The package was never her's to hold.
So she let it go.


Tayé Foster Bradshaw is the poet's nom de plumme. She resides in a suburb of St. Louis surrounded by her family, her books, her pens, and her lattes.

This poem is inspired by the lives and burdens of many women, particularly women of color, who are forced to carry the cares, thoughts, and expectations of others without regard to their own wants, needs, and health. This poem is a release.




Black Mama Tears

It rained this afternoon

Loud claps of thunder

Almost couldn't see the rain

For my tears falling down

Black Mama Tears

too many

dying

in their sleep

on a run

at a store

too many

stopped

just walking

just working

just breathing

It rained today

And I couldn't see

for all the weeping

of

Black

Mamas.

Bridges by Tayé Foster Bradshaw

Walking
across time
Bringing me to you
or
you to me
over a way through-
tears and fears
to bring us to
the other side of possibility
probability
reality
reality
crossing
structures
through
over
under
hold on
don't look down
look down
walk on over
dance on over
wheels on over
over over over
water and roads and
all the modes that
bring
me
to
you
or





you
to
me
collectively
connected
collaborating
across
the great
wide
way


©2016. Tayé Foster Bradshaw Group, Antona Smith. All Rights Reserved.

Bridges used to scare me as a little girl. In the town where I grew up, in order to get from my neighborhood over to the swimming pool or summer activities, we walked. I was always fine until we reached the crest of the hill and that looming structure that connect roads-to-roads, over cars zooming beneath, promising me opportunity on the other side, if I just trusted the weight of my tiny skinny nine-year-old self against the wind blowing or the sun streaming over this manmade steal structure.  My l…