Day 7
There in the dark
A seed in the soil
Slowly grows, inch by inch
Cell divides, no light needed
A seed, an ovum, an egg
Pushes its way into a new
Version of itself:
When the babe knows its time to
Take up space and make its way out of
Its place for the past ten moons
The quiet of the womb is
Met with the bombardment of new sounds:
Familiar voice of mother, father, maybe brother or sister
A newcomer to this realm, an ordinary miracle.
Fifty-six years ago
in midwinter, my grandmother gave
birth to my mother.
Twenty-six years ago
in midwinter, my mother gave
birth to my sister.
Five years ago
in midwinter, I gave
birth to my daughter.
Fifty-nine years ago
in midsummer, my grandmother gave
birth to my aunt.
Thirty years ago
in midsummer, my mother gave
birth to me.
Two years ago
in midsummer, I gave
birth to my son.
We are connected
by generations
by seasons
by love,
and on
we go...
Birth and death travel together hand in hand. Mutually
dependent, as two companions swirling as the dance of life.
Fertile wombs of compost. Laboring portals for new sprouts
to touch the sun’s life-giving rays. Making blossoms and fruits
possible, sustenance for the ongoing turning of life’s wheel.
Seeds for future generations, ensuring the continuity of existence.
Till the time arrives, it always does, when leaves wither and fruits rot.
Dying roots becoming the humus, fertilizing possibilities for the subsequent
sprouts to break through the soil once again. Impermanence of life is the way
of our world. Cycles of birth and death.
Sans prompt, i surf.
Stumbing across the
"Call The Midwife"
Christmas special.
EXCELLENT
my mind is instantly filled with
the mommies laboring loudly,
The doctor insistent,
the forceps snipping,
mucus extractors extracting,
as he eyes those plier-looking things that pull out
the baby's stuck head.
Snow.
And all those delightful brittish accents.
while the music
swirls and shrinks and swells.
I am fully hooked.
Ding goes the android.
(Actually its the sound of
a slide guitar, wrongly
titled "banjo")
Birth.
(i hear god laughing)
Birth
Gratitude flows for these slow, quiet days
of this in between week,
circles flowing to another ending,
gracious earth giving birth to a new year,
new dreams, new visions, new jouneys.
Pulling out photo albums as we sit by the fire,
our son and partner laughing at the images
of mom and dad on the way to
becoming what we seem to be now.
We laugh at the hopeful dreamers,
smiling at the new lives birthed into their own,
tired eyes and haphazard hair obscured
by the gracious beauty of love come to life
in the birth of a tiny babe.
Melding into the mystery of night,
we say a humble prayer of thanks
for these trips around the sun,
these moments of beauty along the way,
hope born again in broken hearts healed by love.
Rebirth
“You must be born again” I heard,
Every week.
Spiritual birth.
Rebirth.
Say these words.
Make sure you believe them enough.
Say them again just in case.
Only now years later do I realize,
The many rebirths I have chosen,
Because of love rather than fear.
Dying unto myself again and again,
To be born anew.
Another birth, another chance,
To get it right.
If only for a day.
-Karri Temple Brackett
December 26, 2023
It's hard to birth a poem
when the sky is black
and my limbs are longing
for the softness of sheets,
but that is when my babies came,
gifts
of my goddess womb
given
at the ungodliest of hours.
Birth and Rebirth
Tis why we come to this Earth
To learn and unlearn
To shrink and grow
To feel joy and sorrow
To fill this void
And the collective dearth
Yes we come again
To experience a Birth
For what it's worth, Kaitlin, no need to apologize and merry winter to you and yours! :) I caught up on this prompt with this Oregon-inspired poem:
Breathing in the Forest
Perhaps there is no start or end to birth.
The rain that fed this fir now fills my heart,
just circling atoms being breathed by earth.
Insects and mushrooms repossess its girth:
to seed such life from death’s our oldest art,
as if there never was an end to birth.
Green mosses curl and stretch for all they’re worth,
small experts of the in-between, spore-smart.
We’re conscious atoms being breathed by earth,
awake and swaying in this ancient mirth.
Each day we all remake our chosen part.
Perhaps there is no start or end to birth,
being
immersed
released
touched
held
There in the dark
A seed in the soil
Slowly grows, inch by inch
Cell divides, no light needed
A seed, an ovum, an egg
Pushes its way into a new
Version of itself:
When the babe knows its time to
Take up space and make its way out of
Its place for the past ten moons
The quiet of the womb is
Met with the bombardment of new sounds:
Familiar voice of mother, father, maybe brother or sister
A newcomer to this realm, an ordinary miracle.
Fifty-six years ago
in midwinter, my grandmother gave
birth to my mother.
Twenty-six years ago
in midwinter, my mother gave
birth to my sister.
Five years ago
in midwinter, I gave
birth to my daughter.
Fifty-nine years ago
in midsummer, my grandmother gave
birth to my aunt.
Thirty years ago
in midsummer, my mother gave
birth to me.
Two years ago
in midsummer, I gave
birth to my son.
We are connected
by generations
by seasons
by love,
and on
we go...
Birth and death travel together hand in hand. Mutually
dependent, as two companions swirling as the dance of life.
Fertile wombs of compost. Laboring portals for new sprouts
to touch the sun’s life-giving rays. Making blossoms and fruits
possible, sustenance for the ongoing turning of life’s wheel.
Seeds for future generations, ensuring the continuity of existence.
Till the time arrives, it always does, when leaves wither and fruits rot.
Dying roots becoming the humus, fertilizing possibilities for the subsequent
sprouts to break through the soil once again. Impermanence of life is the way
of our world. Cycles of birth and death.
Sans prompt, i surf.
Stumbing across the
"Call The Midwife"
Christmas special.
EXCELLENT
my mind is instantly filled with
the mommies laboring loudly,
The doctor insistent,
the forceps snipping,
mucus extractors extracting,
as he eyes those plier-looking things that pull out
the baby's stuck head.
Snow.
And all those delightful brittish accents.
while the music
swirls and shrinks and swells.
I am fully hooked.
Ding goes the android.
(Actually its the sound of
a slide guitar, wrongly
titled "banjo")
Birth.
(i hear god laughing)
Birth
Gratitude flows for these slow, quiet days
of this in between week,
circles flowing to another ending,
gracious earth giving birth to a new year,
new dreams, new visions, new jouneys.
Pulling out photo albums as we sit by the fire,
our son and partner laughing at the images
of mom and dad on the way to
becoming what we seem to be now.
We laugh at the hopeful dreamers,
smiling at the new lives birthed into their own,
tired eyes and haphazard hair obscured
by the gracious beauty of love come to life
in the birth of a tiny babe.
Melding into the mystery of night,
we say a humble prayer of thanks
for these trips around the sun,
these moments of beauty along the way,
hope born again in broken hearts healed by love.
Rebirth
“You must be born again” I heard,
Every week.
Spiritual birth.
Rebirth.
Say these words.
Make sure you believe them enough.
Say them again just in case.
Only now years later do I realize,
The many rebirths I have chosen,
Because of love rather than fear.
Dying unto myself again and again,
To be born anew.
Another birth, another chance,
To get it right.
If only for a day.
-Karri Temple Brackett
December 26, 2023
It's hard to birth a poem
when the sky is black
and my limbs are longing
for the softness of sheets,
but that is when my babies came,
gifts
of my goddess womb
given
at the ungodliest of hours.
Birth and Rebirth
Tis why we come to this Earth
To learn and unlearn
To shrink and grow
To feel joy and sorrow
To fill this void
And the collective dearth
Yes we come again
To experience a Birth
For what it's worth, Kaitlin, no need to apologize and merry winter to you and yours! :) I caught up on this prompt with this Oregon-inspired poem:
Breathing in the Forest
Perhaps there is no start or end to birth.
The rain that fed this fir now fills my heart,
just circling atoms being breathed by earth.
Insects and mushrooms repossess its girth:
to seed such life from death’s our oldest art,
as if there never was an end to birth.
Green mosses curl and stretch for all they’re worth,
small experts of the in-between, spore-smart.
We’re conscious atoms being breathed by earth,
awake and swaying in this ancient mirth.
Each day we all remake our chosen part.
Perhaps there is no start or end to birth,
just circling atoms being breathed by earth.
Birth
being
immersed
released
touched
held