Friday, December 9, 2016

A Poem about Mothers to End the Year by Siobhan Farrell


They gather like a tribe of warriors with
painted faces and sharpened nails endlessly
circling the fire fanning flames with scented
boughs, searching for wood checking for signs
from the universe in bear scat , in the warm
nests of their smooth cheeked children,
sprinkling clear untroubled waters into

gardens sprouting butterflies bathed in
moonlight, chasing off virtual bullies,
telemarketers, checking ID’s of drunks
wearing Armani suits, picking up dirty
needles, shucking bullets, scaring TV zealots
or robots crashing firewalls crossing lines,
knitting merino wool socks, sharing ancient
recipes to calm oceans halting sharp
rocks tumbling down mountainsides.

Misreading the signs, they sometimes covet
their children too long needing reminders
that their work is done, to open a link in the
chain, widening the circle making it stronger,
blessed by sage, rose petals  and juniper berries,
nourishing the earth where they dance through
wind and rain, through seasons of hate and
bloodshed, clasping their fingers in love
and light, holding the world together.

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