Dec 27, 2023Liked by Kaitlin Curtice

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.

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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...

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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.

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Dec 27, 2023Liked by Kaitlin Curtice

Sans prompt, i surf.

Stumbing across the

"Call The Midwife"

Christmas special.


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.


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")


(i hear god laughing)

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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.

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“You must be born again” I heard,

Every week.

Spiritual birth.


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

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Dec 27, 2023Liked by Kaitlin Curtice

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,


of my goddess womb


at the ungodliest of hours.

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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

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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.

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