Ode to The Bitch Who Bore Them
Oh, Holy Day, you are a mother nowdeserving to be cheered
on the most sacred Mother's Day
deserving of this special holiday,
or, so you say
as I was there poking and probing
your re-creation,
your calculated intent,
my recreation to be content
with you.
But, I refused the vows you said
were absolutely needed,
a requirement for your piece of mind
the little piece that sought YOUR peace
but no one else who mattered
mattered at all.
So, you donned your armor,
armed your armory
in the name of hallowed amor.
Your had a plan.
The first of two emerged reluctantly
amidst bombs bursting in the air
a fireworks display
Act One of your most horrid play
three years, each one a scene
replayed until one day
another later in July
popped out the second Act
like fastball to a catcher's mitt –
squeeze, squat, zoom. Pow! That was it.
Twice a mother, so you claimed,
a girlfriend, yet, not once a wife.
Oooooh, how that galled your self esteem –
eighteen months of gaining weight
a freighter USS YOU they named
no longer thinner comely life
replaced by some fat chocolate cream
female bearer of my fruit of late
now vengeful witch with vicious lies
fraternal warlocks, family spies.
Alone I live from loves estranged,
my darling ones with battle scars
the wars whose plans just you arranged,
your captured foe with prison bars
instead of time with them well-spent
you stabbed him multip'ly with pleas
to kill him more your sole intent
stripping him with greatest ease
killing him before their eyes
his children whom you so despise.
You see, once fair, my damsel dear,
a mother's not reflexive made
because with words– just words you use
to rule with fire, iron fist –
A mother reigns with love, not fear;
shows by deeds, not words she said;
does not strike out with vile abuse
nor blame the young for what she missed.
Your hatred bears too great a cost
assuaging naught for what you lost.
Too much the strain, too great the pain
to bear to be a mother.
You cannot be just empty shell
not nourishing another.
The memories throughout their lives
bear more significance
than all the children you can bear
with their magnificence.
For they are living replicas
of what we both should be
not just you The Bitch Who Bore Them
but parents, you and me.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 520 times
Written on 2007-03-31 at 04:52
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