Youth was there with baby teeth
the teeth then left and left me be
I walked into this smaller place
I was so small so little much grace
And there they were
blue, red, and brightly colored walls
they want us all to feel as tall.
We shared in circles and sang in groups
Dressed in our costumes we walked in loops
The wooden playground that once stood strong
Now a distant memory
We must move on
Yet then I grew and matched the goal
I reached the top
I jumped, I rolled
All the way past Margos bench
Until there was no where left
I really wanted to go.
I left the small rooms with fake happy trees
for there were no more lies that I could not see
I was smarter, louder, and bigger now
The trees that once clouded me were shaken down.
We were the oldest ones now leading the pack
Yet embarking on a journey in which courage we could not lack.
The song we once sang when five years of age
Now helping us turn a completely new page.
For here I stand, youth tinted but clear
and seeing the things I once had feared
Exploring the art I never knew was there
witnessing the life that hadn’t been shared.
Admiring the kids I’d one day be
A day so distant back then
A day I never thought I’d see.
For here I stand, youth growing but still
Now bigger than I have ever been
yet smaller than I will ever be.
Surrounded by love and growing compassion
I begin to grow up in a fast pace fashion.
For once again we lead the pack
Still searching for courage we know not to lack.
It took thirteen years to truly know to say
The impact these walls have had on our days.
For there I stand, youth clear through memories
I walk into this bigger place
I am so big, so tall, still so much grace
and there they are
white, black, grey dull colored walls,
that I won’t let– make me feel small.
For what I know and will stay with me forever
Is that truly we are all in this together.
“Alice?” I questioned the
petite, brown haired woman. She walked towards me, stomach
bumped an early pregnancy. I led her to the back room while she blabbed blabbed blabbed
about the usual chit-chat the baby kicked the baby made her pee the baby made her tired.
Again I wondered why she was pregnant. The radio in the corner of the exam room
whispered, “the vote for Prop 4 goes up in a week.” “What’s that?” I asked eyes tearing
away from notes. “I said I wished the father had come today,” eyes narrowed, Alice gazed at
the sun. “Minors need consent,” the radio hissed. I nodded, “How old
are you Alice?” “I’ll be 18 in two weeks,” her teeth glowed at me.
She wasn’t even an adult. “BLASPHEMY!”
I jumped eyes jumped between Radio and Alice. “What can I help you with today?”
“I need my options for abortion.” “Women can’t choose to kill, what about the baby?” I
smiled kindly and explained it depended. She wrapped shiny pink hands around biceps
and rolled a shoulder, “I’m 14 weeks.” I sighed. “Women are irresponsible, they can’t be
trusted with-” I moved my hand to turn off the radio. “Fathers are arguing that
only they can be trusted with matters of this caliber.” I flicked the switch and turned
back to little Alice. “I can do a dilatation and evacuation procedure, where we put you to sleep and
vacuum out the child.” Alice’s mouth shrunk she nodded, “how soon?”
“Today if you like.” “I can vacuum it out and choose what to do with you.” Then I gave
her an injection to put her out.
A single medical light set up the stage.
I shrug on my white coat, run a hand
through my moussed, brown hair, and shift to wash my hands in the stainless steel sink.
“You women,” I say, rolling my neck giving a sidelong glance to the wiggling woman
fighting against the ties on the surgery table. Hannah. A chooser.
“Chooser,” I chuckle and stalk over to the table.
I glide my hands from Hannah’s small ankles up to her thighs, and relish in the feel
of her, soft, supple, meat. She shakes under my hands, bleating
softly to me.
I glance back to Alice and her child propped against the
white wall, one eye open and lifeless, baby curled on the second exam table- skin marbled.
Alice had tried to choose.
I exhale; the time for choice was over.
“Today I give birth,” I proclaim.
I look the woman under my hands in the face. Her head violently shakes left to right, spittle
dragging down her chin. My eyes slide down to her ripe belly
I smile, and let her go. I turn instead to the surgical
table and the industrial bottle of Surgi-lube. I slather the stuff on
like butter, my arms gleam under the fluorescent light.
I was told he was the best prenatal doctor
DON’T TOUCHI
slide a finger into her, sighing.
And then two And then my fist I pump in ‘n out to loosen
the muscles before pushing against the cervix, the child’s prison gates.
“This,” I grunt, punching through, “is mine”. Amniotic fluid dribbles
down my arm in a steady yellow flow. The woman’s muffled screams bounce
around the operating room like a cheap bouncy ball. I feel the baby’s neck —
HA! – a hand hold that I grab tight and pull. It’s a wet,
one way tug-of-war. “This will always be mine,” I exhale loudly, sweat
oozing down my face and neck I can see the things head now peeking out
between Hannah’s Refined Ruby lips.
Tt the things free, I hold it up like a successfully killed rabbit.
Hannah has passed out, probably from relief that I took this from her.
“I choose the life,” I drop the baby to the linoleum floor with a splat, cord
still attached, and pick up the marble baby from the table.
“And I choose when the life,” Alice’s child is ripe, it had been sitting out for nights,
rising, now it was time to bake. I place the child’s head against those
red, red lips and push. Little bits burst with dark liquid
adding to the red as I pressed. The berry syrup made things very messy.
It would have been better to chop this into smaller pieces before shoving it up
the woman. I push and shove until it’s finally in. I take my pitcher
the front was bright, spic ‘n span, freshly
built, tan and white, sliding glass doorsmy
choicemy
bodyof
water from the surgical table and pour it over the lips washing them clean.
Then pick up my needle and thread to sew them up. “And I choose how the life,”
Bake for 30 minutes. The woman’s stomach bubbles and ripples.
Her horse screams alert me that it was almost done.
A faint whistling came from under the woman. The ripples spreading out,
Bloating her body. And then she popped.
“A life all my own,” I whispered, wiping the carmine stew from my face
to see the result. All that remained was the stomach, the protrusion
pealing open like a corpse flower and out came muscle slick skin yellow buttercream
covered face crawling like a silent movie. A small thin figure, naked with slit eyes
wiggled around. Its eyes eyed me as it slid to the
sticky, red floor and dragged itself, leaving a trail of slime
and cloud of lactose gas behind,
out the door.
Baking Soda By: Paris Tate Genre: Family, Life, Mothers
Like every momma, she had her own remedies,
like baking soda
on a canker sore. It doesn’t sound easy,
but it worked; besides, her own
mother (my grandmother, died before
I was born) tried this on her,
“And see? I survived.” (Shrug).
I wouldn’t budge; She needed to bend before me
at the bathroom sink, tug
at my lip to expose the ulcer, milk white
and irritated by a curious tongue
running over its crater.
“Hold still.”
It’s better to plunge into the drama,
to twist and grind a coated finger into
the open wound before my consent.
The sting doesn’t make a noise;
if it did, it would have sizzled,
hissed like meat frying on a skillet,
or the poppop…pop of grease landing on
dodging fingers.
And it was over, the pain left
to fade as I slept away anger on the jaw.
My momma
and baking soda
taught me the first life lesson:
sometimes, it must get worse, then better.
By the time I had reached my twenties
I had heard this saying so many times,
in so many ways,
that it began to sound too hopeful
for a self-styled cynic. So maybe
that’s why it’s only true when I hear
it in her voice on days it’s time
In my dreams, I am laughing, smiling, joking and walking fast and tall.
I never lose my stride, as I’m holding your hand, without fear of a fall…
You hold me tight as if you are wrapping wings around my heart
Like my own private secret secret-service angel that will never let me fall apart…
If only the dreams would never end and I could stay..
In the fantasy of you and I being wild and free as the wind blows warm as if to make our worries fade away…
Sometimes I dream of loved ones lost, as we sit together and talk like old times, no pain just conversing, laughing, and having fun…
Other times it’s my bucket list that I share with you, as we float in a warm pool with my umbrella in a tropical drink in hand soaking in the Hawaiian sun…
Not a care in the world everything is beautiful and Grand..
As I look at nature’s wonders, and bury my feet into the warm white sand…
Sometimes we take flight along the shores looking down at the water, so crystal clear and blue.
On a zip line in this beautiful place, that was made especially for two…
How do I stay in the slumber of soft, beautiful, heavenly memories both from the past, and some that may never be…
But I have to accept that when I awake there is a reason that I’m still here as I look up and I see…
The wheelchair near the bed that are basically chained to me each and every day…
I’ll deal with the hand that God dealt to me, because there is a reason I wake up again each day and can truthfully say…
When the dreams don’t stop one day and I don’t awaken from my sleep…
It will mean that my purpose was the fulfilled and I will take my final rest knowing that it’s no longer a dream, as I pray to the Lord my soul to keep..
I will be reunited with those loved and lost in my life that I really still love and miss…
And from the heavens I will take the seat being saved, as I send my loved ones a final kiss…
I sincerely send my Love to you all… For always keeping me from fear of the fall…
You could call the theme of this poem “heartache”.
What motivated you to write this poem?
‘Let Your Soul Fly Free to Heaven’ is a poem written after the breakup from a man I truly loved. I was extremely depressed at the time and writing to express my feelings turned out into a few very special poems. I love how the rhythm of this poem is very regular and I still think this is one of my best.
How long have you been writing poetry?
I started writing poetry in my teenager years, stopped in my late twenties and picked up writing poetry a few years ago.
If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
I would wish I could have dinner with Barry White. He was not only an excellent singer with a unique voice but as well a fantastic composer and songwriter. I would have loved to ask him for a few secrets on songwriting.
What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
I know how it sounds when I read my poems… I felt seeing someone else reading it and find out if I still like the way it’s written.
Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
I write novels and novellas, mostly. I’m intensely working on my pre-novel novella right now and I hope very much it won’t take too long anymore to have it published.
What is your passion in life?
I do have several passions – but my most important passion is writing. This is what I want to do.
The theme of ‘Rogue Wave’ is living with and surviving the challenges life throws at us. Everyone faces challenges that turn life over and make us wonder what’s coming next. This poem will also have additional depth for anyone living with a chronic illness or a condition, especially depression or anxiety – they can go through this kind of experience every day, sometimes more than once a day.
What motivated you to write this poem?
‘Rogue Wave’ is a poem that comes from my own experience of life as a person who lives with both depression and chronic conditions. It frequently feels like the wave of life is dumping me hard, but even when it does spit me onto the sand, I have survived.
I wrote this poem to encourage those in similar situations through knowing that they are not alone and someone else feels the same way they do, but also to enlighten those who haven’t considered what that can be like.
How long have you been writing poetry?
I’ve been writing poetry for years, and got published for the first time last year.
If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
William Shakespeare. I love his work, and have so many questions!
What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
I believe in my work, and I want to see it reach people and move them. I think that’s what any poet wants.
Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
In addition to my poetry, I have one book of short stories about encountering challenge and change called ‘New Horizons’, and a one-act play for teens called ‘The Shakespeare Omelette’.
What is your passion in life?
Obviously, poetry is one of my passions. I’m also passionate about helping my students be the best that they can be and pursue their own passions in life, too.
Home Without Walls is about love without limits, the kind so strong that oceans and time zones can’t lessen it. It’s the story of two sisters who grew up in different countries but never stopped loving one another.
Rock On was written for the Rockin’ Moms of the Down Syndrome Diagnosis Network. They support each other without question, through all the hopes and fears, joys and disappointments.
What motivated you to write this poem?
Home Without Walls – I was looking for inspiration for new material, so I posted a “Who Inspires You” contest on my Facebook site, http://www.facebook.com/cantbringmedowntlc. Amy Igama told me about her sister Cristy and the unconditional love they shared that recognized no boundaries, and the poem played in my head like a song all night. I woke up and wrote it in one draft in about 15 minutes.
Rock On – I was looking for inspiration for new material, so I posted a “Who Inspires You” contest on my Facebook site, http://www.facebook.com/cantbringmedowntlc. Janessa Gross commented that she was inspired by Jen Jacob, founder of the Down Syndrome Diagnosis Network. Having met both of these moms and followed their kids’ journeys for the past several years, and watching the DSDN grow since it’s very beginning, I knew this was a story that needed to be shared. Rock On is currently being recorded as a song by Veronica Torraca-Bragdon.
How long have you been writing poetry?
Since I was able to hold a pen and paper, back in the days when typewriters still existed!
If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
Natasha, the little girl who is the subject of my book, Natasha and the Christmas Wish. She’s living in an orphanage in Russia, while the American family that planned to adopt her continues to fight to complete the adoption process due to the Russian ban on American adoptions several years ago. I would love to let her know how very loved she is, and how hard so many people are working to try to bring her home.
What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
I have a background in music, and an interest in theater, so the connection between the written word and the spoken word is really magical to me. I like to experience the sounds of the words that play over and over in my head while I write.
Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
Yes. I’ve self-published three books so far – two poetry/short story collections and one children’s book, Natasha and the Christmas Wish. I’ve got several projects in the works with Civin Media Relations, helping people with disabilities to share their stories, and also three novels waiting to be finished. I’ve co-written songs with Veronica Torraca-Bragdon, and completed a screenplay that I would love to see on the big screen one day!
What is your passion in life?
People and connections. Seeing the magic when all the reasons why start to appear and things come together as they were meant to be all along.
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