Childhood Wishes
An early Mother's Day poem for my mama.
Once again, at this time of year,
I find myself wishing you were here,
and I feel like
a whiny child.
I'm missing me, and I'm missing you,
each one was taken much too soon
and I'd like to
wallow for a while.
This happens to me every year,
where I'm so small, and you're still here
and I do
all the things I should
I paint my handprint on a card,
create a macaroni heart.
I write to you a silly poem
that lets you know you are my home
and sometimes
I want to be a kid again
But she went away,
when you couldn't stay
I miss the you I never knew.
I miss the me I couldn't be
I don't know what it's all about
Why I can't throw these feelings out.
Maybe next year.
If you could hear, then I would say
That I figured out how to be okay
And mostly
I feel so strong
So I take the love that I think you'd give
and I use it in every way I live;
that's how
I learned to get along.
There are so many women just like me
missing this one important link
Dreaming of life if she could've stayed
And maybe
someday, they'll be ok
Just on another day...
About the Creator
Sandra Matos
I write so that people will remember me. I make art for the same reason. I had a mother that I never knew. Who she was, how she smelled, or what she valued. I don't want anyone to wonder who I was.
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More stories from Sandra Matos and writers in Poets and other communities.
Skaters in the Wind
Absurdity if you know who you’re talking to…Hails coming off the mountain peaks, bails wrapped in time-freeze wickedness, ex-patriots still a mass sliming the heaven sent as the brains swells. Fail to see the look on faces or why the importance of the alley of steel flagpoles and Great Red woods—oh, that kind of STRIKE!!!!! Every word, a lean over just another edge in the teetering, burning car. What can be said to clarify the sheer audacity of the oncoming sla—AHHHHH!!! Whelp, while the wheels are spinning, welcome to the committee. Barkers at the moon, relishers in the lunatic fit, hot heads against the road rash, Zen types of radically imbalanced. Universal shit talkers, dares you to play back the tape, puller outers of its innards, and spreaders throughout the blaze. Vanishers before the badged banishers. Commuters through The Wild Yonders of colors only expressed in the shadows. Better-luck-next-timers breaking into the private parking lots. Lesser of two evils amongst the hall of meat saints, fainters at the sentencing, leaders of the orchestral clatter somewhere out sick in the wrong cityscapes. Lovers of all, none, and ‘how the hell they do that’s?’ harbingers of hill bomb affections, Zoom!!! Lesson learners the concrete way, then rest in traffic or thinking lower than the devil’s bed. ‘Runners in a pinchers,’ punchers after the slap. Dapper of the most chaotic fields, tokken sinners in the lush decorum, gravity rule benders, ‘FUCK YOU, PUNKS’ return to senders. Redder than the blush, disgusting as perpetually expired anything skidded on the sidewalk, dire straits for kinkless rails like you’re going down on a mountain pass. Setters of the tone. Clever bosses inside the restricted zones. Violet-er sort of lusters, reading through false flags of every FUBARed gathering before street lights are nothing but shade. Faders from the commonwealth in protest of anyone’s anything. Bringers of the Death Wishers, Bakers, and Stereos to Flip pressure cracks in the side talk that gets the crowds into echoing snaps at the mosh pit. Readers in the forbidden Tibetan hills, aloud to the Yeti’s kin, goodnight, and no one needs to lose an arm. Attackers of the silence, violence witnessers from inside the cage, always by the second round of the ground and pound. Writers of the Mystical Leaks in Space-Time Fabric without the Softener. (sorry kid.) Scripters like prophecies appear on skinned knees. Kinder in the trenches, bench sitters counting seconds until the ban is up. Wrenchers for the fuck of it, completers of sections in ways that stump the Bermuda tetrahedron. Angerer of those itchy trigger fingers, danger wrapped in physics lessons, the ones with the kind of danger on our dashboards that has you counting the miles. Grippers without the tape, wolves dancing around the witch’s brew…be damn the morning plate of crepes. Wack rappers on fire on the parking level with the flailing live wires. Welcome one and all to where the Zoo meets the Streets.
By Willem Indigo5 days ago in Poets
After the Storm
After the storm of winter snow there sat a small bear by the name Ted, of course. He loves the snow and likes to roll around in it making all sorts of trails and whatever he has a mind to do. He wondered where all the people are, but in a way, he is hoping that they are all snug in the homes maybe drinking hot chocolate-one of his favorite drinks with mini-marshmallows and eating something homemade for he likes this winter wonderland all to himself to romp and play and maybe even catch some fish down by the river.
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Comments (6)
Sandra, this is just so mournful. I can feel the longing in it and the sadness. This is a wonderful way to honour your mum.
Oh no! I am emotional! If I could be with you to erase your misery!😢
This made me so emotional. Sending you lots of love and hugs 🥺❤️
Sandra, this was heartbreakingly beautiful. I can't imagine losing my mum so young. Significant birthdays and anniversaries must be so hard. Wishing you all the very best. Just take care and go easy on yourself.
Mothering ourselves is one of those things that doesn't get spoken aloud. You did it so beautifully. {{huggs}} from another motherless daughter
This poem, and your bio paragraph together just hit me hard. Sending you ❤️❤️❤️