I dream of the children of the rising seas The wildfire born, the tornado seeds Conceived in the hands of the run down clock Betrayed by their ancestor’s greed They live on the edges of forgotten towns Main Street hunters, suburban farms Raised by necessity, grief, and change Schooled by the silenced alarm At night they gather, chant freedom tales Of shining light, and hammer and bell Prostrate to surviving beasts and birds Remembering all those who fell. I pray for these wildflowers of heat and flood Find rivulets, run deep and wide Resync your heartbeats with earthsong Let your energies be sun-tied. The new world is yours Tornado seeds Disperse Alight Be
childhood
Seasons of No Pt. 1
When I tell you "no" Mind the autumn bird feeder You empty the seeds When I tell you "no" Six more weeks of harsh winter Icy, treacherous When I tell you "no" Spring rains are far more likely to drown the new blooms When I tell you "no" You spread arctic wildfires Unnatural wind
Learning to Rest
Sand colored shades hid the playful sunbeams that warmed the chapel windows. The room darkened like a forest floor at dawn, diffuse speckled light in the shadows. A silence full of breathing souls echoed faintly through the halls of worship. A reassuring hand gently caressed each supine spine, encouraging us to release the day. Heartbeats slowed leaving space for the mind to wander and sleep to seep in. One mat per child spaced evenly along Hope Lutheran's wall, we learned to rest.
Thank You Mom: A Mother’s Day Poem by Asha Lipman
This poem was a gift I received from my daughter, Asha Lipman, age 11, on Mother’s Day 2020 in the first six weeks of the Covid-19 lock down of Philadelphia. I am putting it in my blog so it is never lost to me.
Thank you mom
For deciding to try one more time
For first having a good long cry
Then working again after the two you tried
Thank you mom
Thank you mom
For trying that hard on your own
For making a boulder out of stone
For taking anywhere and making it home
Thank you mom
Thank you mom
Thank you for the late nights
The work fights
The fighting for people’s rights
Thank you mom
Thank you mom
Thank you for the midnight snacks
The double checks
The extra bed tucks
Thank you mom
Thank you mom
Thank you for the endless hugs
Thanks for the unconditional love
Even when I’m not enough
Thank you mom
Thank you mom for being you
Thank you for what you do
Thanks for being the person who
Is a shoulder to cry on
I love you mom
Root medicine 1
Undeveloped rolls of film, under my bed. Faces emerge from the liquid dark. Memories I forgot I had remember me. Jet lag pushes now into the past, the past into the now. I am here. India rising indeed.
The children are with me this time. Where did they come from? The seven years between this visit and the last are soft drinks fizzing and cutting the sweet scented jolt of whiskey I have been longing for. The India I have been keeping in my heart looks back at the real self she is the reflection of, and is pleased, “The years have been good to you.”
3am silence has begun to crumble as four year old and six year old tummies remember that it’s dinner time half a world away. As I pad quietly into foreign yet familiar kitchen to forage for pre-dawn here/evening there sustenance, memories of awakenings past prickle across my brow. I used to keep quiet, tell no one, wake no one, brain whirling, stomach howling, when it was I who was American grandchild come home. No close in age sibling to share my ravenous insomnia.
Already this is different for them, because they have each other. And because I am here. I know what this is like, the fear–love pull of roots on far flung branchlets. They are emboldened because I am here to anchor. Already they have giggled, snuggled, checkered, ribboned, and serenaded their ways into my Indian family’s loving embrace. Fed by hand, carried on tall uncle shoulders-newly anointed Prince and Princess.
Whether or not they remember, they will never forget. I never did.
He Feeds Her
He loves his babies. Always has. His hands perfect for holding small heads. His long flat chest a place to rest and hear the thump-tha- thump just like it was in mommy’s tummy.
I hated breastfeeding. Never enough milk. What did come was so often vomited back onto those bags I lugged heavily on my frame. She’d scream with acid pain and empty belly.
He’d soothe her patiently. Rocking, and shushing and swaying. Cooing, and patting, and humming. Loving her with every inch of himself. She’d sleep fitfully. Reluctantly convinced into rest.
Midnight feedings were hazy nightmares. He wanted to help. But the best milk was in me.
Breast is best. Breast is best. Breasts are beasts. Breasts are beasts.
After each feeding, I’d wake him, saying, “Take her. I can’t do this anymore.” He’d rouse himself. Sweep her up in the darkness. Pour sweet nectar into her ears.
Delirium twisted mother’s milk into mother’s bane. But the shame, the shame seemed worse than this. The shame and the failure:
A stay-at-home mom who does not breast feed.
Unspoken damnation whispered into my mind’s eye. “You’re a bad mother. Selfish. Weak. She will suffer forever. It’s all your fault.”
He said, “You don’t have to. It’s OK. Don’t listen. I love you. You’re good. You’re good.”
No. You’re good. I am bad.
He said, “I want to help. Let me help. Let me feed her. You can rest. You can sleep. No more pumping. No more soreness. Let me help.”
Every day for months, we three danced this way. And I felt myself pushing away from the child so waited for. Now, so hungry, always so hungry.
And me with nothing left to give.
So I let him help. Knowing I was bad. She would suffer. He would leave me. All good things, as they say, would come to an end.
But instead.
When the clock struck 10 I’d be fast asleep. A night-owl, he stayed up for the midnight feed. And I, the early bird, took the 4 am, happy to be with my girl.
So rested, body mine, no pumping, no resentment. Just the everyday trials of new parenthood – shared equally by two.
My burden had lifted. And his was increased? Would his baby love stay so strong in the face of the feeds?
When I asked, he said, “You don’t understand. You have given me a gift.”
“I hold her in my arms, bottle in hand, and she looks at me. I see in her eyes something different, something new, something real.”
“‘You feed me.’ she says, without words.”
“I am her father, and I feed her. Don’t you see? We men are not supposed to feed. But I want to feed her. I need to feed her.”
He feeds her. To this day, he feeds her. And she knows it.
And we are all free.
Queen’s Daughter
Your mother once saved me
from a fearsome beast.
We traveled to new lands,
and laughed in the face of danger.
We marched into battle
on fields of green grass.
She bested champions
with the pounding of her mighty hands.
And when it was time
to celebrate season’s end,
she wore a flowing gown of sky blue
Remember this always
you are the queen’s daughter
Walk tall, ride free, be Queen.
soft, and light, and filled with dreams.
He sings
Little brother can’t get a word in edgewise.
Big sister is a talker, a performer, a deep thinker, a sly joker, a tantrum thrower.
His words are still mumbled, all jumbled, and soft.
When he wants something he whispers, “I wan dat one. Please.”
But if you ask him to, he sings.
He sings about pumpkins and apples and sheep.
He sings abcd (but gets lost in lmnop).
He sings happy birthday, he sings little star.
He sings if you let him, if there’s space,
if there’s silence to fill.
He sings words he can’t say yet.
He sings
and the words matter less
than the feeling inside them,
than the message they send,
than the stories they tell.
He sings.
Rest. Rant.
Riding through Italian Market on my bike, watching vendors lay out winter squash and imported lychees, a red-lettered sign catches my eye.
REST RANT
Early morning brain prevents me from getting the joke for a solid minute and in that time I try to follow this new rule set forth by this unknown guru.
REST.
I begin to breathe deeply, clear my mind. Relax my muscles, feel the damp fall air lick my skin.
RANT.
Whatwillhappenifwedon’tgetclimatechangeundercontrol?!!!!!!!!
REST.
A wrinkled, crisp leaf circles in a wind swirl and my mind follows its delicate dance.
RANT.
Incomeinequalityisnotsustainableandwillleadinevitablytobloodyrevolution!!!
REST
I imagine my son’s third birthday candles glowing in front of his face. Maybe we should decorate it with the left over Halloween candy.
Forests of lollipops on fields of kit-kat crumbs, a three-year olds heaven.
RANT
Thiscountryissoracistanditsthechildrenwhosufferwhatcouldpossiblybewrong
withfundingfgoodpubliceducationforall?!?!
REST (AU) RANT!
Now I get it.
We went to the temple today
This place did not exist when I was a kid. The White stone crown crusted with statuettes juts out from the golden tinged fire of the midatlantic fall foliage. Heart skips. This. Is. Here.
We walk up to the entrance- four in splendid festival finery. My mom and I both have been eager to take the kids for their first visit. Diwali seemed the perfect time.
Shoes come off. Bare feet touch cool marble. Amplified sounds of temple chanting cause three- year old boy hands to clap over three-year old boy ears.
Daughter five clasps Patti’s hands. Time to meet stone deities in fine silks.
Time to press foreheads to earth in obeisance. Time to tell priests of lineage and stars. Time to eat temple fare, simple and hot and abundant.
Time to run giggling through grownups legs breathing in incense soaked air. Time for flame-warmed hand to hairline and holy water in hand.
Time to remember that stone and fruit and water and words and food and family all hold the divine.
This is what I wished I’d had. This is what I hope they feel. This is why we went. This is why, to the temple.
american incarnations 