Furry? Curry? What Rhymes With Worry?

Enjoy the winning entries in the “Thirteen Ways of Looking at Motherhood” poetry contest. The contest was open to moms everywhere, in all stages of motherhood. Explore the wonder of motherhood through the magic of poetry!

Farmhouse in the Middle of Nowhere with a New Baby
By Roberta Frosty

New England.
Woods.
Snowy evenings.
Fences.
More Woods.
Baby cries.
Snowy days.
Troublesome neighbors.
Barns.
More Baby cries.
Lots of trees.
Must get out of house.
Going mad.

Feminist Conception
By dawn moonhowler lowercase

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bang bang bang
I hear the moon
screaming 
the goddess dances
with you
like so many covens
dancing under that
screaming moon
even as your
maleness
insists upon
your way,
sounding like
bedsprings squeaking

Daddy, Give Me a Break, Will You?
By Pylvia Slath

Why do the monkeys shriek in my head?
Why does agony rip every nerve fiber?
Why am I so freaking crazy?
Why are we out of Children’s Motrin again?
Again?
Again?
I am tired as the waves that break upon distant rocks
And tired as the furies spout more
Inscrutable symbolism
And baffling, personal metaphors.
And wouldn’t you know it, Daddy,
That in the middle of my self-indulgent navel gazing,
Daddy,
The child develops a fever.
I asked you
To go out to store for more
Children’s Motrin.
But will you? No, you won’t.
I guess I have to do everything around here.
You take the baby.
I’ll go to the store.
Daddy, I am through.

Vatican Roulette
By Molly O’Brannigan

And we are Irish, and we have many Irish babies,
And we love Irish poetry, and our babies love
Irish poetry, and we will walk with our babies
on the banks of the Liffey,
Where the great Irish poet Bono walked,
And we’ll dream of Yeats and Heaney and
Itchy sweaters and lots more babies.

A Drinking Life, Nine Months Later
By A. Former Hipster

I named my baby Chardonnay
Because without it, she wouldn’t be here.
I called her father Tanqueray
Because of his boozy, green cheer.

I used to party really hard
And it got me into trouble.
So now I do the pump and dump
Every time I make it a double.

This is Just to Say I’m Only Sayin’
By Minimalist Modernist

I have used
the last baggie of
breast milk
for my coffee

and which
I should have
saved
for the 2am feeding

forgive me
It looked so milky, kind of.
So whitish.
And mama needs coffee.

boxtops
By d.d. bummings

i don’t know where
theyallcomefrom
yet
i know that they must do
(some good they all say)
for the school

so i and you and i and we
collect these little squares
(on all General Mills products)
andstufftheminto
envelopes

into the backpack they go
for the little
goat-footed balloon man
(i mean the first-grade teacher)
but at the
end of
the
school
year
theytheyareatthebottom
of
the back pack

forgotten
and
unredeemed.

How About Going Gently Into Good Night,
For a Change?

By D. Lynn Thomas

Just this once, can we do without the raging
And the raving when I turn out the light?

The endless routine, the certain toothbrush, the
Striped jammies, no not those,
THOSE!

And the books, again, again, in a
Certain.
Order.

Can we stop burning, raging,
Going back to the john to pee
One.
Last.
Time.

You know the dark is right.
You know you don’t need another
Drink of water.

It’s really late now.
Do I have to chain you to the bed?

“You look tired,” my friends say.
“Why don’t you get some rest?”

Because I Could Not Stop the Game
By Mrs. Dickenson

Because I could not stop the game—
It went on endlessly—
The pitching machine died and went
To its immortality—

The coach came out to pitch and tried
To make the game progress
But no one could get a hit and
I watched under great duress—

Dinner’s unstarted, baths untaken and yet
The game goes on—
Homework undone, chores piled up,
All in the name of Fun—

To those who worry about their end
Or of life going by too quickly—
Sitting through a t-ball game
will stop the clock completely.

Howl
By Postpartum X. Haustion

Brand new eyes like the clearest marbles,
Blue as the sea,
Unfocused but still all-seeing.
You are the sum of all that’s come before you,
The beauty of ten million sunrises,
The light of a thousand supernovas,
And,
Now,
At 3am,
The hellfury of a thousand score Krakatoas,
As you,
Spawn of Death Valley’s miserable depths,
Won’t stop your ghastly cries,
Your spastic hiccups,
And you will never
Ever
Ever
Go to sleep,
Will you?

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