| Mother My Mother spreads her warming feathers, over a nest of tiny eggs. My Mother transports kittens in her mouth one by one across an icy stream. My Mother wails and pants in labour for nine hours, to bring a new face into the light. My Mother scatters pollen to the wind for future blossoms. My Mother drops plumbs to the ground to ensure growth of future trees. My Mother weaves a cradle for hundreds of baby spiders. My Mother makes oatmeal with raisins and honey, just the way I like it. My Mother is your Mother our Sister, is out Daughter, is our Friend and our beautiful planet Earth, Fire, Water, Air and Light and Love. M. D. Sherod |
| A Rant It’s on the passport. It’s in my bag. I’m spilling and leaking out on everything. Think the ink from the pen. For it may come in strokes. Drench papers in purple messes. Dwindle in or upon. Dip your eyes and draw endless lines upon all you gaze upon. Apart from the gross weight it bares on the air. I still feel an effortlessness in the midst. I still feel every drop come in around and out, upon and down. My tongue runs it’s course on the roof of my mouth. Riding the ridges, dallying in the new touched skin blistering. How it moves loose fit, to where it was once a comfy home. Now not quite sure of where to rest properly. When I woke I was like unto the burn inside my mouth. The other layer of me stretched and pulled, like the skin no longer fits to the muscle and bone, yet still attached, and mostly stationary. I’m slipping round inside myself. If only I could curl up all fetal inside my self. Lay for a while. Perhaps then my skin would heal, and people might wonder what I was, or what was inside my skin. And if they cut me open. Would I be sealed, or would my tail unfurl? Would I be red and bloody, or would I be playing skin on skin? There is as I imagine, a fine layer of liquid, or powder in between. Perhaps someone squeezed me and I popped and squealed. Spattered all over the floor. M.D. Sherod |
| Memories come like pages past each one a ghoast I say good-bye to them one by one Even seconds later i try to recall. them Though they are now quite gone I do not know if they shall ever return My heart grieves an ultimate dis-pleasure Yet it seems alone And musts be done Each rememberance dances, softly plays then fades Where will I be when empty? Whoes Eyes will these be then? What lips; what fingers these? M.D. Sherod 11-2-98 |