Ordinary Holy

i’ve been nostalgic for my babies lately.  no, i don’t want another, just remember the sleepless years with a bit of fondness since i finally have some distance.  

this is for all the young mothers, buried under a pile of onesies, tantrums, and spitup, wondering what the hell happened to their voice  and hoping they’ll someday find it again.

somewhere deep down

i am

a poet

but right now,

i’m doing the laundry.


how did this happen,

this daily, mundane takeover?

dishes, diapers, dust –

these are not the things

of which a poet speaks.

but they are the things

of my today.


how do I meld these two words –



without either

losing flavor?


a cry pleas from the crib,

the deep eyes hold mine,

pining for just




i lose, and stay

even though

my energy for any more moments

ended hours ago.

while words reach far into my soul,

the eyes touch

deeper still.


perhaps one day,

the poet deep down

will resurface

to a new world,

seasoned by the


of these ordinary days.


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