Posts published in “Little One”

my eyes have been dry,
these past shy months,
as I sit or stand or lay
in this house, beside
these walls, unmoving
yet crushing, still.
and I try
to see through them,
these dry, now
cloudy eyes.

I haven’t cried.
I need to cry.
I need to emote
and feel something
other than plain.

I love Marge and Candi, my Babes. I love them and they’re not here for 9-10 hours each day, when i’m alone with work or conference calls. I miss Marge saying, “shoulders!,” or, “move up, daddy,” so she can share our chair.

during your sleep,
you wake in me
the need to be
a better man, a
better father,
one you can
depend on, who
you can talk to,
who you can
sit beside
and ask to
rub your back
to take your mind off
pooping.

You told me
today, after I said you’re strong:
“I’m not strong.
I’m powerful.”

she jumps on couch cushions,
tips of toes stabbing the cotton
as heels brace and spring
back
into the air, her weight-less-ness
becoming her happy place,
lasting as long as bounces do.

She kicks while arms strike air,
Calling me to gallop, showing
She’s not had enough; and I’m
Doing everything I can to keep
Her satisfied, to keep her calm
While body marks growth with
Her pain; subsiding, my bridle
Bitten to avoid tears mixing
With the drool on our arms,
She quickens my feet, turning me
Around the couch we sit on to eat;
I twist to reverse, to give her
Something new, something to
Catch the attention fighting those
Cries; and her eyes move ahead,
Guessing our path, when I buck
And find another way to do the
Same thing, to stretch our walls
And give her want to smile, to
Free her, all while fighting those
Cries.

Your mother is beautiful,
And powerful,
And willing/wanting
To do all you need of her
So you can be.

She taps the tips of fingernails
Against your room,
Calling you to answer–
And you do, surely,
And she welcomes you
As if you chose to say hello
And acknowledge she,
Your mother,
Is.

You squirm inside
Your mother’s belly,
And she resists gravity
To carry you, foot
By swinging foot.