Betrayal of the working mom

I have worked through pregnancy
when my fist wouldn't clench,
when the nights were left unheld
and breathing was a torment.

I did so because I loved my job,
my colleagues and my boss.
Responsibilities fueled me
with intrinsic need to weather.

Safeguarding our health
I was set to rest prematurely,
fortunately able to insure
the most urgent affairs closure.

Haunting the house aimlessly,
anticipation consuming my energy
the day came glorying my pain
and handed was a world with a ribbon.

My baby, my joy and my focus alone,
for the months to come
was a gift, a miracle
and a brilliant leach of life.

She had my undivided attention
for as long as I could master,
but life caught up with us,
my body barely mine and brain drained.

Eager to resume my functions
got a review from my sympathetic employee,
surprised that I was not my dynamic
and cunning self while making life.

Burst the amazing illusion
of being professionally cherished,
the drive to hand my precious
to another's arms for my job hanged.

Dear Santa, please save Christmas

Dear Santa,
it has been far too long,
not that I didn't want,
I've been belief vacant.

This Christmas I need of you
I fear that we all do, to
save it with a miracle!

My wish is,
as I light this candle,
lightning the feather,
to write you this letter...

"For the word carefully meant
to find its dirt path unbent
straight as only an arrow."

Let the snow,
wash down the raw red stain
of shards between blood
as we join hands for a meal.

Let the lights,
flickering from pine trees
brighten the colors
in our reserved deep eyes.

Let the choir,
guide the tortuous paths
in each others brains
that lead to steep crater.

Let the turkey,
in herbs and juices for days,
carved into silver trays,
sing of our belonging.

Let the crackle,
fire up our sleepy beat
that burned in within
on every other year.

This Christmas, white beard Santa,
heal this countries family
and bring a kind sight our way.

I'm quantic

An undefined ever evolving

combination of possibilities, 

defined by a potential in all

the thinkable parameters. 

I'm a daughter, a mother, 

I'm a lover, a fighter

shower opera singer,

a myope finger painter, 

dyslexic of a writer, 

and so much more tomorrow. 

But when you measure me

then I cease to exist

become but the number

you collect into stats.

(Inspired on "Bitch" from Meredith Brooks)

Sounding Silence

"punts tunts tunts tunts"
I turn the key
with a short "click"...
and I go "humph".

Cross my arms into a ring
over the one in leather
my forehead to land over
as I let the silence sing.

I could see her hair float
over her eyes, her nose
in his wet blue eyes boat
as an ethereal ghost.

The dancing of these strings
painted by whispered breeze
the slowing expansion
of an eternal moment.

That he held ever tight
anchored in his deep voice.
Then "punts tunts tunts"
the drawing shattered broken.

Why take simple beauty
and add and add and add
into such obscurity?
Blown this caressing woo
into a summer hit.

Sand between my toes

A massage in the Swiss Alpes,

Green hills behind cucumber slices, 

Five people plucking kneipping

Pulling, burning and painting.

I will not in golden be framed, 

Nor filter light by marble veil,

I wasn't created to be a muse

Nor to delight or amuse.

I am made of pounds of flesh

the sun burns and the sea frosts.

Give me a moon bathed beach, 

you can keep your red carpets. 

Wanted Swiss Cheesed 🤠

A red and blue patterned cloth

folded ties his muffled breath.

The wild dry dust in its swirls

tries it's way in nonetheless.

Drums echoing but he slows

their crescendo deaf beat.

Focuses in the beaming stare

for a sign of hidden unease.

People, well they think the trick

is bein' fast on the trigger.

It is not! To read their fear!

The last air that rushed in,

in a general tightening.

That is when your fingers sing

like your life they are handed.

But this kid is ran by ice,

no heat tears run down his hat.

I begin to feel as the mice

that had the short misfortune

to meat this lusty slick cat.

See fear keeps you in this ride,

now will as well make you dead.

That my cunning friend is why:

He is no longer wanted alive

swiss cheesed preferably instead

and no full wit steps to the task.

Mindless the mouse I trap inside,

won't will me out this snag. 

My mother's color

In my earlier days,

as the sleepy first ray

touched the wooden shades

in my small bedroom frame.

She would slide with no pull,

her lips drawn in a curve:

"Goood morniiing from

the lark to the blackbird"

That was one other quirk

I could not comprehend

that would bring to me glee

no matter where I'd stand.

Under echoes of thunder

I'd be the one visiting,

her square bright room,

with for furniture a

double bed 'n' a stand.

But the sun exploded

shone its nuclear a core,

and its warm a color:

embraced circular lamps,

dripped along the long drapes,

bounced on the smooth duvet,

poured down the carpet

and swallowed you mellow.

The room has since enlarged

symptoms of a good age

but the color remains

her favorite today.

I still guarantee her sight

gets wrong, blue?, signals

when yellow fills her eyes.

Yet I climb to a nest

when those touches mine.

My father had plenty advice

When you hug them by the knee,
they look so high, so sturdy.
Shades hit your sensitive eyes
givin'm waving colored capes.

When they hold you by the hand,
there's no scratch that can't be mend.
Their wise words beyond your smarts
sing reason to rocky waves.

When you part from their clean nest,
you take what straws you found best,
while doubt bends them in tempest
fill your quest the way that's best.

As you get held by the knee,
you re-hear them and you see.

Garden Of Enlightenment Virtuosos 2019

Yesterday I got some wonderful news.

The 2019th anthology from Late Night Poets contest winners at All Poetry (The web's largest poetry writing group - from beginners to experts).
An amazing production of Jean Fitzpatrick with a pretty amazing selection of poets, including yours truly. ;-)

Yesterday @ AllPoetry

On shelves Now... (Amazon)

Poem 8 contributed with can be found in: https://chris-yellow-writes.blogspot.com/2019/09/she-has-back-bone-like-none.html?m=1

The underachiever

I was told I was smart, 

overflowing with potential, 

If only I worked hard

On the reading dimension. 

I was told I was slow

wouldn't put in the care

Hence my reading blowed

While I was acing math. 

I was told my brain melt

The words into blobs

My memory then tangled

concepts into forms. 

I was told that explained

Why it was so frustrating 

The simplest task, to read

To copy or recite a poem. 

I was told I could head as far

for my awesome little mind 

Working in this tortuous way

Was just as full of shine.

I was told I was too lazy, 

That I let my mind wonder

chosing and focusing never

I wouldn't amount to greatness. 

I was told I'd been banking

All my path on these skills

Soon they wouldn't sufise

To carry me up the hills.

So I have been blamed 

For the continuous waist 

My enhanced head has been 

on my slipery hands. 

Now I find there is a cure

For these flighting thoughts

That it is chemical and dured

All through my stary strolls. 

I am told I'm too insecured,

That I clearly have what it takes, 

If only I'd put in the time

And keep my hand on my breaks. 

Well fuck you all very much, 

Your mountains I breezed by

But you can't see me hike mine

So you all told quite enough!

It is Carnaval

It is carnaval,
Been visualizing it for a month.
Drums are getting loud,
Been gathering stuff from all around.

It is carnaval,
Just some more paint and I'll be done.
Such a growing growl,
And I'll be joining the colored dance.

It is carnaval,
Masked my legs sneak from a skirt,
Wrapped in a cape
my powers won't find their end.

It is carnaval
And for three days I am too tall,
I bend to none,
Without the ruling of this earth.

It is carnaval,
My chest can barely keep up,
Music takes me on,
All year long I am a grown up.

Not today,
 it is carnaval
 and today I find my child.

We take too much for granted

Greedy over the sun
a cloud cries silent down.
Into your cup it might
overflow overboard.

Into others not quench
the deserts of their thirst,
but remind'em of such
as the caress of rain.

Bless them all with showers,
the trees and the flowers
the birds and the lovers
as they bow together.

To the maker of life
we cheaply call water.